Then, after a few whispers, a few murmurs, one by one, they all began to step forward; first Kitty, then Mrs. Winthrop and Venetia, Mrs. Gibbs, Mrs. Turner and Mrs. Poultice, then Mrs. B., and soon everyone had silently volunteered.
“The Chilbury Ladies’ Choir will bear the weight,” Mrs. B. declared, taking charge in her usual manner, which for once was useful. “We will carry Hattie, our loyal second soprano, on her final procession.”
As the Vicar led the way into the vestry, I realized I needed someone to hold baby Rose, and after looking around, I knew that I had no choice than to pass her over to the Brigadier.
“Could you hold Rose for a while, please?” I said sharply, bundling her into his arms, and he was surprised into taking the infant, looking down into the blue shawl with a frown over his face. I paused for a moment, wondering whether he registered that this beautiful girl was, if my suspicions were correct, his own child. Might he have felt a shudder of remorse?
“Lead on, Vicar,” Mrs. B. called, and we followed him into the vestry, where we caught our breath at the sorry sight of the coffin, a slim wooden box containing all that was left of our precious Hattie. What was once a vivacious, energetic young woman was now a pile of sad, dead remains without color or life, set inside a still box.
“How are we to lift it?” Mrs. Gibbs asked nervously.
“Everyone who feels strong can take a corner, and the rest of us will fill in around the edges,” Mrs. B. ordered.
The mood became somber as we hoisted our fellow choir member up, at first a little wobbly, but then we straightened up and began to walk out into the entrance hall, waiting for Mrs. Quail to begin the organ processional.
But Mrs. Quail had different ideas.
At the precise moment we stepped out down the aisle, the ponderous introduction of “Abide with Me” began to sound forthright through the old church, the simple and yet poignant tune pouring softly from the organ, urging us to sing as a united front, for Hattie, for Prim, for our small yet resilient community, for our dear, collapsing country.
Abide with me; fast falls the eventide;
The darkness deepens; Lord with me abide.
Thus it was that a shuddering chorus of twelve deeply saddened women, singing at first softly, then more resolutely, advanced slowly down the aisle. We sang as if our lives depended on it, as if our very freedom, our passions and bravery were being called forward to bear witness to the atrocities that were placed before us. We were united and strong, and I knew right there and then that nothing, nothing could ever break the spirit of the Chilbury Ladies’ Choir.
At first, I couldn’t bring myself to sing, the feeling was too immense, the extraordinary sound of our procession echoing around the empty church too tragic to eclipse the dreadful finality of death, the weight in the box making me shudder with discomfort. In front of me Kitty was struggling to hold the coffin up, her voice coming out piecemeal like fragile broken china, and behind me Venetia was inconsolable, heaving huge gulps of tears. I know that we are taught to think of death as a gentle passage of the soul from one place to the next, but the brutal bombing of a young mother seemed to contradict all of that, make it into the abominable destruction of a very real, strong spirit.
I felt Venetia’s hand on my arm from behind me, and suddenly felt less isolated in my dismal reckoning of mankind, and found my voice. At first gravelly and croaky with tears, it soon gathered strength, clarity, deliberation, until I felt the sound of our combined voices encompass us like a warm halo of protection, making us aware of the precious life we all have—what it means, and however long it may last.
As we reached the last majestic notes, we stood tightly at the front, breathlessly listening to the sounds of the closing song reverberating around us.
With some effort, we gently lowered the coffin onto the low table, Mrs. B. hoarsely whispering, “Gently, Mrs. Gibbs. Gently!”
Then we glanced around at the looming emptiness of the space. On one side were the mothers and children from the school, and on the other was only old Mr. Dawkins, the Brigadier with Rose, and now Henry, who had arrived while we were in the vestry.
Then, at the very back of the church, I noticed that the Colonel had slipped into the row on the left—my spot, the place I always like to sit. He gave me a sad, tight-lipped smile, and I nodded in the direction of the Brigadier, hoping he would get the hint and go and collect Rose from him, which he did, remaining at the front as the Chilbury Ladies’ Choir went quietly into the choir stalls.
Clearly upset, the Vicar led us through the ghastly service, a series of words that seemed all too inadequate to describe the grief I felt inside, and although I tried to hold them back, thoughts of David, and what I’d do if that telegram arrived, sprang into my mind, an ominous gleam of a possible future.