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‘But it’s so quiet and normal,’ I say. ‘My teacher is calling it the Phoney War because nothing’s really happening. Half of the children evacuated from London have gone back already. He says our troops will be home by Christmas.’
‘Your teacher is an imbecile who can’t see beyond his own four walls,’ Daddy cut in angrily. ‘Look at Poland, Czechoslovakia, Finland. Look at all the ships sunk, the submarines, and our own Edmund.’
We had to end the conversation there as Mama started crying again.
My brother Edmund’s death
The next thing I need to tell you about is Edmund, my brother who was blown up in his submarine. We’re supposed to be in mourning, and I feel dreadful for saying this, but I don’t miss him at all. He was a disgusting bully, and I loathed him. I’ve never forgiven him for shutting me in the well, the freezing water edging up to my mouth until Nanny Godwin found me. Or for the time he used me as a target in archery practice. Although he did promise to teach me to drive when I was older, which I suppose was quite nice.
Mama is beside herself and desperate for the new baby to be a boy, as is Daddy. He thinks girls are pointless, Venetia slightly less so because of her yellow hair. I am so utterly pointless I think he’s forgotten I exist, except perhaps when he needs someone to blame. Sometimes I go to Mama to see if she can stop him from being so horrid, but she can’t do anything. She only tells me to make sure I choose a decent, kind sort of man to marry. I wonder if she’s terribly unhappy.
Every evening, Mama has the maid set Edmund’s place for dinner, as if he’s about to come in any minute, sitting and stretching his legs in his usual arrogant manner, making some cruel joke at someone else’s expense, usually Venetia’s or mine. Then he’d let out a few breaths of laughter, smoothing back his hair, as if it were simply super to be him. Sometimes it’s hard to believe he’s just gone. It was his funeral last week, without a body to bury. It seems so strange. Where did he go?
Death is at the forefront of my mind again this week, as David Tilling is leaving for France and he may never come back, especially since he’s so hopeless at getting anything done. I heard Mrs B say yesterday that he was the type that a bullet would find faster than the rest, and I worry that she might be right.
I can’t believe the group of children we grew up with here in Chilbury are all suddenly scattering – Edmund killed, David on his way to war, Henry flying Spitfires over Germany, Victor Lovell on a ship somewhere, Angela Quail in London, and only Hattie and vile Venetia left. I’ll miss David especially. He was always the one waiting for me to catch up with the rest, a bit like a brother, only nicer. In a few weeks’ time he’ll be home after training, and everyone’s invited to the Tillings’ for a surprise leaving party before he heads off to the front. I know we’re supposed to be cheerful these days, even if we know someone might die, but it’s hard to forget that this could be the last time I see him.
List of things to make note of before someone leaves for war
The shape of their body – the blank cutout that will be left when they’re gone
The way they move, the gait of their walk, the speed at which they turn to look
The crush of smells and scents that linger only so long
Their colour, the radiance that veils everything they do, including their death
People’s colours
I like to see people as colours, a kind of aura or halo surrounding them, shading their outsides with the various flavours of their insides.
Me – purple, as brilliant and dark as the sky on a thundery night
Mama – a very pale pink, like a baby mouse
Daddy – soot black (Edmund was also black, but black like a starless sky)
Mrs Tilling – light green, like a shoot trying to come up through the snow
Mrs B – navy blue (correct and traditional)
Henry is a deep azure blue, to match his eyes. I’m always reminded of the flawless July day during our school holidays when he spoke of marriage, a year ago now. The sky was an endless blue, the stream beside our picnic spot trickling with late-afternoon laziness. Henry had joined Edmund, Venetia, and me, and we were tearing all over the countryside, Mama never having a clue where any of us had got to. Of course, because it was all out of the blue, Henry didn’t have a ring, and we’ve never made it official. But he remembers, deep down in his heart.
I know he remembers.
My beastly sister, Venetia
In complete contrast to the rest of us, Venetia is clearly enjoying this war immensely, and not only because no one’s around to keep an eye on her. It’s shuffled everything around, made everyone more adoring, and Edmund’s death has promoted her to top spot in the family. Venetia’s colour is a vile greenish yellow, like the sea on a tempestuous day, sucking the living daylights out of anything good around her, dragging down young men into her murky depths, spewing them out unconscious on distant shores.
I find it tremendously funny that she’s having trouble engaging the attention of the handsome newcomer, Mr Alastair Slater. He’s an artist escaping potential bombs in London, like all the writers and artists desperate to save themselves. Daddy says they’re running away, avoiding their duty. Mr Slater looks like Cary Grant – all groomed and sophisticated, unlike the boys around here. His colour is a dark grey to match his debonair suits and formal standoffishness. He seems completely uninterested in Venetia, even though she’s parading herself around him day and night. I overheard her telling Hattie that she’s made a bet with her friend Angela Quail that she’ll have him eating out of her hand before midsummer, but the way things are looking, she’ll have to work a little harder.
Angela Quail is the most flirtatious and despicable girl I know – it’s impossible to believe she’s the daughter of the Vicar. Her colour is tart red, all lips and slinky dresses and no morals whatsoever. She used to work with Venetia at the new War Command Centre in Litchfield Park, which is a gorgeous old manor house on the outskirts of Litchfield, complete with Georgian pillars and rolling gardens. It was requisitioned by the Government for the war a few months ago, and Lady Worthing is having to stay with her sister in Cheswick Castle, poor her. It’s now a terrifically important place, and since it’s only five miles from Chilbury, we’re on special alert in case the Nazis try to bomb it. Venetia has a clerical job there and thinks she plays a vital role when all she does is type notes and relay telephone messages to London.
Last month Angela was moved from there to the real War Office in London, where she is almost certainly toying with every man available. Angela is without doubt the most accomplished flirt this side of the English Channel. Venetia’s distraught that Angela’s gone to London as she’s her best friend, and who else can she share her conquests with? I was hoping that Venetia might become a bit nicer without Angela’s evil presence, but she seems worse than ever.
Our Czech evacuee, Silvie
Now I must tell you about Silvie, our ten-year-old Jewish evacuee. The Nazis have invaded her home in Czechoslovakia, but her parents managed to get her here before war broke out. Her family is supposed to follow her, when they can get away. Uncle Nicky, Mama’s youngest brother and my very favourite member of our family, was organising the children’s evacuation and got us to take Silvie last summer before the war started.
‘We had to stop the evacuation because the borders closed, which is terribly sad for the children left behind,’ he told us. ‘The Nazis run half of Eastern Europe now. It’s desperate over there. They’re thugs and arrest people if they don’t obey the rules. They can do what they want. Everyone’s petrified.’
Daddy wasn’t happy about having Silvie at all. But then a few months later war was declared and hundreds of grotty London evacuees turned up wanting homes. Suddenly he was overjoyed we had lovely, clean, quiet Silvie and no space for anyone else. The Vicar and Mrs Quail took in a dreadful woman with four squalling children who had lice and fleas and no table manners at all. The woman was forever arguing with Mrs Quail, and then upped and left back to London because the war didn’t seem to be happening. She didn’t even say thank you.
I’ve yet to decide what Silvie’s colour is. She doesn’t say much, or smile much either. We’ve been trying to make life a little jollier for her and helping her practise her English. And she told me she has a secret that she can’t tell a soul.
‘I am completely trustworthy,’ I reassured her. But she refused to budge, her little lips tightly shut to warn me away.
She arrived without even a suitcase, which had been lost on the way. There had been a difficult border crossing into Holland, and they had to hurry everyone through. It was a group of about a hundred, some of them as young as five or six – she said they cried for their mothers all the way, for three whole days. The loss of the cases was especially traumatic as they had their favourite toys, photographs from home, everything that was familiar. We gave Silvie a doll when she arrived, but she put it on a chair at the side of the room, her face to the wardrobe, as if it were a magical doorway to a better world.
The new music tutor, Prim
But I almost forgot. There’s some excellent news! A music tutor has moved into Chilbury. She came down from London to teach in Litchfield University. Her name is Miss Primrose Trent, but she told us to call her Prim, which is funny as she’s not prim at all but frightfully unkempt. With her frizz of greying hair and her sweeping black cloak, she looks more like a wizened witch with a stack of music under one arm. Her colour is dark green, like a shadowy woodland walk on a midsummer’s night.
Mrs Tilling introduced me to her yesterday in the shop, and I felt bold enough to tell her my dreams of becoming a famous singer.
‘Practise, my dear!’ she boomed, her dramatic voice causing the tins to rattle on the shelves. ‘You must have the courage of your convictions.’ She swept her arm out gracefully as if on a grand stage. ‘I can give you extra lessons if you have time.’
What an opportunity! ‘I’ll ask Mama to arrange one straight away. You see, we’ve had some disastrous news. The Vicar has disbanded the village choir, so we’re stuck without any singing.’
‘Well, that’s no good, is it! To close down a choir. Especially at a time like this!’
I’m hoping with every inch of me that she’ll persuade the Vicar to reopen the choir, although I can’t see what either of them can do. With no men around, what hope do we have? In the meantime though, I have singing lessons to look forward to as Mama agreed. That’ll propel me into the spotlight, I can tell by the way Prim’s eyes twinkled.
Letter from Venetia Winthrop to Angela Quail (#ulink_34fd6ca9-e3a6-5f1b-8c43-5c0d500532d1)
Chilbury Manor
Chilbury
Kent
Wednesday, 3rd April, 1940
Dear Angela,
The bet still stands! Mr Slater is tiresomely resisting my advances. I’ve tried my best tricks, even knocking on his door and asking if he had any spare paint as I was attempting ‘a frightfully difficult landscape’, but he simply handed some paint over and politely waved me off. I’d spent all day getting ready, wearing my green silk dress, my hair curled to perfection. Perplexing, my dear. Perplexing isn’t the word!
But you must stop proclaiming victory, as I’ll have him soon enough. He is truly captivating, Angie, and a romantic artist too. I’ve always thought of them as bohemian willowy types, but he is more athletic, with the look of a gentleman fencer – en garde and all that. Beneath those crisp suits I can make out his muscular arms, thighs even. How I long to run my fingers over him. But Angie, it’s more than that. There’s something about him that makes me feel we’re meant to be together. The way he looks at me, as if he’s looking through me to a different person inside.
I miss having you here, even though things are improving. Everyone is finally calming down after Edmund’s death, although Mama remains weepy and Daddy furious. I miss him too, in my way, the antics we’d get up to. Funny how one forgets how beastly someone can be when they’re dead. I suppose the threat of him is gone.
I’ve been rekindling my friendship with Hattie, even though she’s been as boring as boiled cabbage since she’s become pregnant. I went around for afternoon tea yesterday. She’d redecorated the baby’s room a ghastly green as that’s the only paint she could find. Her terraced house on Church Row is excruciatingly tiny. I don’t know how she can bear it.
‘But it’s next door to Miss Paltry, the midwife!’ she exclaimed, inexplicable joy on her pretty face, her long dark hair especially unruly since she’s been pregnant. ‘Don’t you see how useful that is? Although Mrs Tilling is to be my main attendant at the birth. She’s like family to me with my parents gone.’
‘And Mr Slater lives on the other side of you. That’s infinitely more exciting,’ I laughed, wondering if all this tedium was ruining my lipstick. I didn’t want to bump right into him without looking perfect.
‘How is your bet going?’ she asked.
‘Not well. I confess I don’t know what to make of him.’
‘I know what you mean. I do wonder what he’s up to. I always see him going out, in his motorcar or on foot, with not so much as a paintbrush, and he doesn’t come home for hours.’ Hattie’s always acting the sensible older one. She thinks being two years older makes her wiser. And now that she’s going to have a baby, she’s insufferable.
‘Maybe he’s really a movie star!’ I laughed. ‘He certainly has the looks.’
She didn’t laugh. ‘Maybe you’re better off chasing someone else.’
I looked at her, in her dreadful maternity dress, the lonely quietness of the pokey little house, but I knew she was tediously happy. I have to confess that a flash of envy crossed my mind. But don’t worry, I soon snapped out of it. Who wants Victor Lovell, after all? Who wants to be pregnant when there’s so much excitement with this war? All the new things a girl can do. We’d never have got our clerical jobs with the War Office, and you would never have been sent to live in London by yourself. All the parties and freedom. I heard that Constance Worthing is even ferrying planes for the war effort.
I suppose Hattie’s always been the sensible one, but she seems so annoyingly settled. I remember when we were young, the three of us in the Pixie Ring shouting, We are as strong as the snakes, as fierce as the wolves, and as free as the stars.
‘I’m still the same person as before,’ she said suddenly, as if reading my mind – funny how she does that – and I knew she hadn’t changed at all.
I thought about Hattie having a baby as I walked home. I’m not sure I’d like being a mother, but perhaps it isn’t as bad as all that.
Silvie came into my room when I was home, her quiet little feet treading carefully to the dressing table. She scoured it for treasures, asking me what various items were. Sometimes I make up stories about them: a necklace from the deep, a lipstick lost by a princess.
‘Do you like Mr Slater?’
‘How do you know about that?’
‘Kitty told me,’ she said simply. ‘I hope he is kind. Like you.’
I smiled and gave her a cuddle. I’ll have to make sure Kitty regrets telling my secrets, and doesn’t hear any more.
Do write soon, Angie, as I heartily miss your mischief making. I do wish they’d send me to London with you, although now that I have Mr Slater to tantalise me, perhaps not quite yet.
Much love,
Venetia
Letter from Miss Edwina Paltry to her sister, Clara (#ulink_681bb743-21ae-5f77-8405-a4735a46be2c)
3 Church Row
Chilbury
Kent
Thursday, 4th April, 1940
Dear Clara,
The deal is done. We’ll be wealthy beyond our wildest dreams, dear sister. I went to meet the Brigadier, as arranged, in the deserted stone outhouse in the wood.
He was already there, crossly getting out his silver pocket watch. ‘You’re late.’
‘Am I?’ I smiled politely. ‘What a shame!’
He snorted at the unmistakable irony in my voice. ‘Well? Do you think you can do it?’
‘Swap the babies, you mean?’ I kept the smile off my face, although I still found it hilarious that he was suggesting just that. ‘Nip between the births and make both women believe they gave birth to a different baby?’
‘Yes, damn it, woman,’ he shouted. ‘Or should I find someone else?’
‘I doubt you’ll find anyone as trustworthy.’ Then I added with a little laugh, ‘Although Mrs Tilling has midwife training, if you’d like to ask her?’
‘Don’t be absurd,’ he bellowed. ‘Just answer me. Will you do it?’
‘Depends how much we’re talking.’
He snorted like a disgruntled bull. ‘I’ll give you five thousand.’
I stopped breathing for a split second. Five thousand pounds is a vast sum – ten times what I earn in a year. But I wasn’t willing to leave it there. The old rascal is worth far more than that. I’ve seen the finery, the crystal chandeliers, the crown sodding jewels.
‘I wouldn’t be able to work again, and I’d need to leave the village afterwards,’ I said, looking as sorrowful as I could. ‘I’d need twenty to give it a thought.’
He was furious. ‘Eight thousand then. That should be plenty for a woman like you.’
‘A woman like me?’ My face shot up to meet his gaze, and I raised an eyebrow. ‘A woman like me can kick up a good storm, you know?’
‘Are you threatening me?’ he hissed. ‘If you are, I’ll deny it. They’ll never believe your word over mine.’
‘Don’t count on it, Brigadier,’ I said. ‘The days of you toffs being in charge are long gone.’
‘I’ll get you strung up for something, you mark my words.’
‘Ten and I’ll do it,’ I said resolutely. ‘Provided I get the money regardless if it works out or not.’
‘You’ll do exactly what I tell you, Miss Paltry, or you’ll never work here again. Do you hear me?’ He came up close. ‘You’ll get your money when I get my boy.’
‘You give me the money beforehand, and if no boys are born, there ain’t a jot I can do about it. But if there is a boy’ – I smiled with enticement – ‘I will make him yours.’
He clenched his fists. He hadn’t been bargaining for this. Since arriving here five years ago I have been careful to build a reputation of even dealings, especially following my miscalculations in that village in Somerset. (You’ll remember how they hounded me out after I gave wart patients the wrong ointment that resulted in purple-coloured nether regions. It caused three marriage breakups, a major punch-up, the disappearance of a young woman, and at least two angry men trying to hunt me down.) No, Clara. I’ve played my game carefully in Chilbury, hushed up my past, played by their rules.
Now it’s time to reap the rewards.
‘All right, you’ll get ten thousand. But it’ll be half before and half after,’ he roared. ‘And if Mrs Winthrop gives birth to a boy, you’ll settle with half.’ He looked me over scowling. ‘How am I to trust a woman capable of doing such a business?’
