She gave Rose a little kiss, their faces together and opposite, hers slim and delicate, the baby’s heart-shaped and blond, and I suddenly questioned the value of revealing any ideas I had. After all, wasn’t Mrs. Winthrop delighted with her boy, too? Didn’t they need a boy to keep the inheritance?
That’s when it dawned on me. Perhaps this wasn’t simply the whim of an unscrupulous midwife. Perhaps there was more to it than met the eye.
I took my leave and made haste to Chilbury Manor, where Mrs. Winthrop was at home. We sat in the drawing room, and she asked Elsie to bring some tea, and it felt almost as if the war had never happened. She looked tired and harassed, which must mean the Brigadier’s being unbearable again.
“I’m doing some studies on babies born with breathing problems, so I wondered if I could ask you a few more questions about Lawrence’s birth,” I began carefully. I didn’t want her to suspect anything fishy.
“I thought I’d gone through it all with you.” She sighed. “It was so distressing. I’m not sure I’m quite up for going through it again.”
“Just a few questions. Did Miss Paltry take the baby away straightaway, or did she let you see or hold him first?”
“No, she had to leave immediately. He was in great distress.”
Her story collaborated with my theory. I quickly pressed on.
“Was she carrying baby Lawrence in her black bag when she returned with him?”
“Of course not!” Mrs. Winthrop exclaimed, and I realized I’d gone too far. In any case, even Miss Paltry would have the intelligence to take the baby out of the bag beforehand.
Elsie had come in with the tea, and I wondered if she’d overheard. She smiled a little. “Would you like sugar?”
I had to stay and talk about normal things for a while before I could get away, and then I rushed back home to sit and think it all through. It seems such a ridiculous notion, such a dramatic act for a person to do.
Unless someone was paying her.
Wednesday, 31st July, 1940
Prim had the most wonderful idea. We’re to have a Memorial Service for everyone to come together and help those grieving. I think Mrs. Tilling prompted her by mentioning Mrs. Turner, whose husband was killed in a bombing raid over Dover. And there’s poor Mrs. Poultice, too.
“It’s important for them to know that we’re grieving with them,” Prim told me in my singing lesson today, which was held in the church for extra acoustics. I sang the Lord’s Prayer, the fullness of the sound making my voice sound extremely professional. She said I could sing it as a solo for the Memorial Service, which is to be in a few weeks’ time.
I always arrive early for choir practice as it’s a wonderful moment, the excitement of singing, everyone glad to see each other, and today was no different, especially since we have the Nazis on our backs, ready to invade, so we have to make the most of everything while we can.
“I’ve been working hard all day preparing for the WVS meeting,” Mrs. B. was complaining. “Never getting a word of thanks or any rest.”
“You have to let us know how we can help,” Mrs. Tilling said.
“Unfortunately I’m the only one who can handle leadership around here.”
Mrs. Tilling began, “I could—”
“There’s no other way around it.” Mrs. B’s voice rose over Mrs. Tilling’s, like a tornado overwhelming a welcome breeze.
“And Mrs. Quail said she—” Mrs. Tilling pressed on.
“If you need something done,” Mrs. B. boomed, and we all knew what was coming, so we joined in: “You have to do it yourself.”
Prim arrived in time to hear the end of this, and to see Mrs. B. fuming as some of us giggled behind our hands.
“Let’s get organized, ladies,” Prim said, hiding a smile and handing around some new music scores. “We are to have a Memorial Service for the Chilbury community, to help us join together in our time of grief.”
Everyone quietly agreed and opened the music scores.
“I’ve chosen a piece from Mozart’s Requiem, ‘Lacrimosa,’ which means tearful, beautifully describing this heartfelt piece. It’s more complicated than our usual hymns and anthems, but I think we can give it a try. It’s one of my favorite pieces of music, a massive ocean of sorrow.”
We opened our music scores to see the complicated patterns of notes.
“Shall we try it out? Let’s all stand. Just try your best, feel the music take hold of you, and don’t worry if you sing anything wrong.”
The introduction began, and I knew exactly what she meant. The piece is like a series of waves gushing over you, becoming larger and more powerful as it goes on, until the incredible, strident Amen at the end, as if we have survived it all, stronger than ever.
“Lovely,” Prim said as she brought the finale to a close, sniffing a little with the emotion of it. “Let’s try it again, shall we? This time, let’s try to feel the sadness of it. Let yourself flow into the music. Let it speak your own grief.”