What an extraordinary evening! I am completely exhausted, dear diary, but I simply have to stay awake and write down everything, right from the very beginning.
We were on tenterhooks as our small huddle gathered on the green watching for the bus, which was late. Hardly noticing the first few bulging raindrops plunging around us, we worried whether we’d even make it on time, let alone sing well.
“We’ll be humiliated in front of the whole of Kent,” Mrs. B. kept saying, unable to get over the brass-bones fact that we’re a women’s-only choir now.
“But we’d be a women’s-only choir whether we wanted to be or not,” Mrs. Quail snapped. “There’s no men left. Or would you rather have no choir at all?”
“We are a group of upstanding ladies, Mrs. Quail. Not an unruly singing spectacle,” snapped Mrs. B., barging past her to be first in line as the bus swung dangerously around the square. “Lady Worthing will have plenty to say about it, not to mention the Archbishop.”
“Then why are you bothering to come?” Mrs. Quail climbed on the bus after her.
Mrs. B. swung around. “Someone has to witness the catastrophe.”
Mrs. Tilling looked like she was about to have her fingernails pulled out. “We simply haven’t practiced enough. I don’t know what the Litchfield Times will say about a ladies’ choir, but surely it would help if we were exceptionally good.”
“Better to give it a try, though,” I said, trying to rally everyone, but all I got was fraught faces and scoffs. Silvie sat glued to my side, whispering to me, “It will be fine,” in a very unconvincing way. She loves the choir as much as I do, and has been helping with my solo by being an appreciative, and only sporadically critical, audience. Only Venetia looked unaffected. She’s been in a world of her own since Mr. Slater came on the scene. She’s only doing the competition because the choirs have their photographs in the papers.
We finally arrived. Litchfield Cathedral is like a magical fairyland castle, with its dwindling spires and ornate buttresses, and is surrounded by roses of the palest of pinks and yellows, incredibly grand yet impossibly romantic. The architect must have been in love. It’s where Henry and I are to be married, I have decided.
Today, however, the roses hung loosely as the rain battered down on us, and we joined the throng of people rushing in for the competition. Mrs. B. battled her way through the crowded vestibule to see the list that had been pinned to a noticeboard.
“We’re going last,” she announced when she huffed back to the group.
“That’s good,” Mrs. Quail said cheerily. “We can watch the competition and see who we have to beat.”
“Nothing of the sort,” Mrs. B. snapped. “Our voices will be quite ruined by that time of night. It’s becoming more of a disaster with every turn.”
Prim’s theatrical voice rang out. “We’ll end the evening on a high note.”
We took our seats in the old stone interior. The lovely stained-glass windows had been covered with blackout material, making us feel enveloped in a massive underground burrow.
As the place became full, the gnome-like Bishop of Litchfield walked to the front and asked for quiet in strong nasal tones, making me think that his wire spectacles were too tight. He quickly presented the puffed-up Mayor, complete in full red robes, who pompously began a lengthy speech about the joys of song in the horrors of war, and the terms “uplifting the spirit,” “heralding a new tomorrow,” and “striving onward” were all trotted out. Ever since Mr. Churchill has started broadcasting wonderful speeches, everyone else is trying it out.
There were four choirs in the competition, the other three being normal men-and-women choirs. We were to sing in order, followed by brief refreshments, and then the judging panel would announce the results.
I trembled in my shoes and looked over to Prim. She was looking very pleased with herself, her hands clasped across her rounded midriff, eyes twinkling and the little V of a smile on her lips. Even though I think she’s the best choirmistress in the whole country, I couldn’t help a nagging suspicion that maybe we weren’t ready for this. Maybe the countryside wasn’t ready for a women’s-only choir. But then she caught me looking at her and gave me a flicker of a wink, and I knew then that everything would be all right. With her at the helm, we’d be fine.
Heavy rain began, spattering the roof and engulfing us, as if we were all sheltering under the same umbrella. A clap of thunder echoed around the vaulted ceilings, and we huddled together, more in fear than anything else, while the other choirs trooped up to the front to perform.
All about our competitors
1. The small Riseholme Choir—sang a very nice “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring”
2. The huge Litchfield Choir—incredibly good, and we agreed they were going to win (followed by more suggestions that we should back out)
3. The Belton Choir—not so good, which perked us up, thinking we might not be last