“Maybe we could try Mozart’s ‘Lacrimosa’ now that the special Memorial Service Prim was planning is…canceled. I know that we need to work on it, but it is meant for a funeral,” Mrs. Quail called.
“No, that’s not right either,” Mrs. Tilling sighed. “It’s too heavy and dramatic. Hattie would have wanted something simple, like a favorite hymn.”
“Indeed, Mrs. Tilling?” Mrs. B. snapped. “Tell us, pray, what you have in mind.”
“Well, the Vicar left us all the old music from the church, and it’s a bit dusty, but I’m sure we can find something in here.”
I went up and helped her look through. Some of the copies were very tatty, and sometimes there simply weren’t enough to go around, even if we shared one copy between three or four of us. We’d never be able to get more music in time.
“What about this?” I called, holding something up. “Handel’s Messiah?”
“A touch too celebratory perhaps, Kitty,” Mrs. Tilling said kindly, flipping on through. “Ah, here we have it, ‘Amazing Grace,’ one of the most moving pieces of music ever written.”
Everyone murmured, and it was generally acknowledged to be an excellent choice.
“Its beautiful anthem brings the whole of life together,” Mrs. Tilling said wistfully, then added decisively, “It is just the thing.”
She handed out the sheets, and everyone began humming the music. We went to our places and looked up ready to begin.
“Are you going to lead us, Mrs. Tilling?” I asked. She was the obvious person as she can read music and has a very good voice, too.
“Yes, are you going to conduct?” a voice from the altos called.
“Well,” Mrs. Tilling stammered. I could see she was uncomfortable, slipping into the shoes of Prim—such a unique presence and authority—when she’d only been dead a few days.
“Go on, Mrs. Tilling,” Mrs. Quail called from the organ. “You’re the only one who can.”
Mrs. B., who had remained at the front, moved to the center and said, “Now, I don’t think we should force poor Mrs. Tilling. After all, she only stepped forward to help us find the right piece of music, and now that has been done, she is very much needed in the altos.” She smiled benevolently at Mrs. Tilling, her hand outstretched to guide her back into her place in the choir stalls.
For a moment, Mrs. Tilling looked as if she was about to head back to the altos, but then something held her back, and she stood up straight and smiled at Mrs. B.
“I can do it, I think,” she said. “It won’t be the same as Prim, but we all have to do our best. I’ll be able to lead us in and keep us in time, and make sure the crescendos and rallentandos are done just right. I’ll do it.”
“That’s the spirit, Mrs. Tilling,” Mrs. Quail called, among the other voices and nods. “You are the best we have. You’ll do a fine job!”
I watched Mrs. B. walk back to her place, head held high to conceal her annoyance. I’ve never seen her vanquished like that before, especially by her usually loyal supporter, Mrs. Tilling. The tables are turning.
Mrs. Tilling didn’t have a baton, but she raised her arms and nodded to Mrs. Quail at the organ to begin. Then she looked straight at me, as if she knew that I would lead the sopranos in, and a few tears began to form as I remembered lovely Hattie, a girl who’d always been part of my world, which was slowly but surely breaking up, dissolving in a way that can never be reversed.
Venetia is the hero of Chilbury!
The village square is in chaos. The shop is closed. But worst of all, Venetia is the hero of the hour! I can’t go anywhere without being bombarded with questions about Venetia. How did she save the baby? Did she get the cake Mrs. Quail baked for her? Was she going to receive a medal of bravery? It’s all “Poor Venetia” and “Well done, Venetia.”
She was lucky to be in the right place at the right time. Anyone would have done as she did. I most certainly would have had I been there. Then I would have been the hero.
But Venetia is pregnant!
Our maid Elsie told me this morning, making fresh scones to tempt me into the kitchen.
“Did you hear the latest news?” she said softly, lavishing butter onto another for me, proffering a dish of strawberry jam in my direction.
“What news?” I said through a full mouth.
“About Venetia having a baby.” She turned away so that I couldn’t see her face, her apron swooshing out around her narrow frame like a ballerina. She has that tall, picturesque look that looks wonderful from a distance, only close up you get to see the sullen bitterness in her eyes. It quite ruins the effect. Today she was looking happier, however, a twinkle in her great green eyes like a sorcerer’s cat on the prowl.
“I heard about her rescuing the baby,” I began. But she butted in rudely.
“No, her own baby.” She turned toward me and pushed her pointy face into mine. “Mr. Slater’s baby.”