The introduction began again, this time slower, more thoughtfully, and then we came in with the first tentative notes.
As we sang, Mrs. Turner crumpled into the altos’ choir stall, her hands over her face, her hunched body shuddering with tears. Mrs. Poultice sat down beside her, putting her arm around her shoulder, beginning to cry herself. And a new dread crept into our singing, as if we were singing for them, for everyone who had lost someone, or could.
By the time we reached the powerful chords toward the end, we were almost crying with our song, louder, more raucous than before, until the final Amen, when we all stood together, firm in the power of our choir to face this war together.
“Let’s finish for tonight,” Prim said quietly.
We silently folded our music scores and went over to Mrs. Turner and Mrs. Poultice, putting our arms around them, holding their hands, whispering our condolences. People were putting their hands around Mama as well as she is still mourning Edmund, and Silvie, so far from her family, and Mrs. Tilling and the other mothers and wives, all worried about their loved ones in this horrific war.
“You always have us,” Mrs. Quail said to Mrs. Turner. “I know we can’t replace your husband, but remember we are here, all together. The Chilbury Ladies’ Choir stands with you.”
CHILBURY MANOR,
CHILBURY,
KENT.
Thursday, 1st August, 1940
My dearest Angie,
I was awake at dawn almost paralyzed with fear, as today I was resolved to follow Alastair. I knew that he was busy this morning with his so-called meetings as I’d tried to arrange something and he resolutely refused.
Of course I hardly slept a wink. I was so certain that I’d face probable death on this outing that I almost let myself off the hook, snuggling down under the counterpane for extra protection. What made me get up in the end was the thought that my pregnancy is becoming less of a possibility and more of a reality. I have to know what to do.
I got up around four, dressed quietly, and took one last look around me—would I ever see my dear bedroom again? Stealing softly down the back stairs and through the pantry, I stepped out into the still, dark air.
I slowly crept into the lane, feeling like the only person alive, although I’m sure some of the farmhands down in Dawkins Farm would have been hard at work in the fields. There was a light mist that lingered in the air, coating the village with a wordless hush.
As I reached the square, silver gray in mist, I almost collided with a small black van that was parked outside the shop, one of Ralph Gibbs’s black-market deliveries no doubt, which hopefully had nothing to do with Alastair. Had I noticed him speaking to Ralph? Not that I could recall. But did that mean anything? Did any of my recollections mean anything, or have I been living in a world that is only half complete, a dream within a dream?
I went round to my spying spot at the end of Church Row, where I could see both the front and back of Alastair’s house from behind a hedge. Then I began my wait. Sitting in the dark waiting for someone to appear is extremely tedious, especially as I was of two minds about whether this was a good plan after all, and I was just checking that my wristwatch was working properly at around six when finally he appeared on the path in the back garden, heading out of the little gate and into the pasture. Immaculate as usual, with a beige raincoat over his suit, he walked briskly away from me, pausing momentarily to smell the morning air—dawn had lifted the mist, and it had blossomed into a heavenly morning, all pale yellow and crisp with dew. How I longed for this wretched scheme to be over!
I hopped nimbly out from behind the hedge and crouched beside it as he stalked down the edge of the field away from me, going at quite a pace. After he’d gone into the next field, he headed toward the Manor, which I thought an odd route. I trotted after him, watching him take an abrupt detour through the bushes at the verge and dashing across the lane, and then making a couple of quick turns toward Peasepotter Wood. I was finding it hard to watch where he was going without being seen, and suspected his circuitous route had been created in order to avoid meeting people and lose any trailers.
He certainly wasn’t losing me, though.