“I’d get my husband’s old air rifle,” Mrs. Tilling suggested. “I don’t know how to use it, but it would look good, wouldn’t it?”
“Well, you must learn how to use it,” Mrs. B. shouted. “Everyone who has access to firearms, clean ’em, make sure you know how to use ’em, then load ’em.” She looked around menacingly. “Mrs. Quail, what about you?”
“I’m quite dapper with a kitchen knife,” she said confidently, and I exchanged a smirk with Hattie, who was rocking Rose’s pram. Imagine Mrs. Quail getting cross with the Vicar over tea and whipping out a carving knife!
Mrs. B., clearly disappointed with our lack of pluck, demonstrated how to lunge and attack using household objects, such as a fire poker, a table lamp, or a three-tiered silver cake stand. We all enjoyed it thoroughly and left feeling awfully brave.
Of course the next meeting wasn’t as straight forward as that, because the Chilbury Defense Volunteers (CDV) showed up halfway through.
The Chilbury Defense Volunteers (CDV) vs. the Chilbury Invasion Committee (CIC)
Daddy has taken it upon himself to start the Chilbury Defense Volunteers (CDV). We think he did it because Mrs. B. “stole” the CIC from under his nose, and he needed a troop of his very own.
The Chilbury Defense Volunteers consists of a motley collection of men left in the village preparing to defend us if or when the Nazis come. All a lovely idea, but in reality it’s Daddy, Proggett, old Mr. Dawkins and the two farmhands, some other old men in various stages of decay, the Vicar, Ralph Gibbs (although he has yet to put in an appearance), and would you believe it, Mr. Slater, who apparently finds the entire thing “rather amusing,” according to Venetia.
They meet twice a week and Daddy shouts a lot while they pretend to be a real army, marching up and down and trying to stab each other with pitchforks, since they don’t have any proper weapons yet.
The problem is that Mrs. B.’s Invasion Committee also meets in the church hall twice a week, and yesterday the men began arriving with their pitchforks just as Mrs. B. was perfecting her three-tiered-cake-stand lunge, surrounded by a group of women practicing the very same move. “Point, lunge, thrust.”
“We’re supposed to have the hall now,” Daddy announced pompously. “Will you clear your women out of here immediately.”
“I shall do no such thing,” Mrs. B. retaliated, swinging her cake stand in his direction.
“We have important invasion preparations.” Daddy was starting to raise his voice. “Get your blasted women out of here.”
“Brigadier, I’d like to remind you that my Invasion Committee is the most important body for invasion prevention in our village. As you can see, we are in the middle of crucial combat practice.”
“But we have booked the hall, haven’t we, Vicar?” He turned and searched for the Vicar, who was hiding behind Mr. Slater, and dragged him by the collar to the front. “Haven’t we, Vicar?”
“Well, yes, but the hall is meant for all of us to share—”
“Never mind that,” Mrs. B. said, pushing the Vicar roughly to one side. “We were here first, and you’ll have to wait until we’re finished.”
“In that case, we’ll have to come in and take over.” He turned to the group of men, who were starting to edge back toward the door, and bellowed, “Company, fall in!”
The men shuffled into the room among the women and got into line, pitchforks at attention.
The women just stood and looked at them in dismay, until Mrs. B. yelled, “Point, lunge, thrust.”
The women obediently lunged, mostly at the men who were in the way, which was clearly Mrs. B.’s intention.
Mayhem ensued. Many of the older men and women made an escape to the door, some nursing injuries. But the rest continued for a few minutes until the door slammed shut and a sharp teacherlike voice clipped, “What’s going on here?”
Everyone looked around. It was Hattie, standing at the door with her blue pram. “What on earth are you all doing?”
“The Brigadier started it,” Mrs. B. began. “It’s our rightful turn to use the hall and they barged in and tried to intimidate us.” She looked proudly around at the ladies. “But we showed them, didn’t we?”
“It was our turn and they wouldn’t leave,” Daddy said, nose in the air as if even discussing it were beneath him.
“Well, I suggest that everyone put down their weapons and shake hands,” Hattie said. “And then after that let’s put on the wireless and listen to news of a real war.”
Everyone quietly began putting things away, although Mrs. B. snapped, “That’s precisely what I’ve been telling them to do all along.”
Bad news for the choir—and my singing career