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If you’re in love, why wait for a tomorrow that never comes?
People are being moved around, so if you want to stay with someone, you’d better marry them
Do you want to have children before it’s all too late?
Do you want to be notified when your someone special is killed?
Do you want to get some money if they’re killed in action?
Do you want someone special to pray for, live for? Who will be left at the end, after all?
As we left, I gave David a peck on the cheek. ‘Don’t let Venetia get you down,’ I whispered, feeling the need to give him a word or two of support. ‘You need to forget about her, find someone who’ll treat you right.’
He frowned at me. ‘What are you saying, Kitty?’ he said, a cocky smirk coming over his mouth. ‘Just because you’re labouring after a lost cause, don’t think we all are.’
I was shocked. The old David – the David before training – would never have said something like that. I wasn’t entirely sure I understood what he meant. Who exactly is the lost cause around here?
Henry was leaving, so I had to forget about all that and rush off to steal a last moment with him. He was in the hall fetching his jacket – the special bomber pilot’s one with leather and fur lining.
‘When will I see you again?’ I asked, standing in front of him on my toes, my eyes level with his lips, soft and beckoning beneath his neat moustache.
‘You’ll see me, young lady, when we’ve fought off those Nazis,’ he said, taking my chin between his fingers. I tilted my face upward, closing my eyes, waiting for our lips to meet—
But then Mama came through and said we had to go, so we were forced apart. There was a smile on his face as I pushed my arms through the sleeves of my coat and followed Mama and Silvie out into the cold blackness outside. But as I turned to take one last look at him, he gave me a wink, and my heart exploded with joy, knowing only one truth. He loves me, and soon we will be together.
Mrs Tilling’s Journal (#ulink_d57ba836-4caa-5b6b-b69f-db4cf0549caf)
Wednesday, 24th April, 1940
Today my son left for war, and I have adopted a brittle façade, a limp smile that wavers in and out like a broken tune on a worn-out wireless. I keep trembling as I remember the last war, all those soldiers who never returned, the neighbour’s lad gone only a month before the telegram arrived.
They say this war is different, but a horror overcomes me if I dare to think of David out there, trying to stay sane through the gore. They say we have bombers and tanks and there won’t be trenches like last time. But when I close my eyes, all I hear is the unbearable yells of men in pain, crushed by the colossal theatre of war.
You see, I saw them come home after the last war, the cripples, the amputees, the ones so disturbed they’d never sleep soundly again, haunted by their dead friends, guilt-stricken that they were somehow allowed to live. They were never the same again.
This morning was filled with much running up and down the stairs, the fresh scents of shampoo, hair cream, and clean laundry cutting the fraught air. I watched out of the hall window for the van, as slow, grey clouds mottled the outside world. Ralph Gibbs from the shop was leaving too, and Mrs Gibbs was driving them both to Litchfield in her grocery van.
‘Look at you,’ I said as David came downstairs for the last time. He was wearing his uniform and looking all tidy and grown up. I straightened his already straight collar; I just wanted to touch him, to feel his mass under my fingertips. He looked down at me and grinned in his cheery way.
‘Well, best be off then, Mum,’ he said. ‘Or I’ll be in trouble before I’ve even started.’ He laughed a little, and I clenched my mouth into a tight smile so that I didn’t cry.
As he opened the front door, the clouds broke apart, and the sun came out, making the wet trees and grass glisten silently for a brief moment. Then a fine rain began, sprinkling the air with a dewy sparkle that made it feel almost unreal, like a slip in time.
We said goodbye at the gate in the ethereal drizzle. With a glance back at the house, his home for all these years, he put his arms around me.
I gripped him tight.
‘You know you don’t have to go,’ I whimpered, praying for one insane moment that he’d change his mind.
He smiled and wiped away a tear. ‘Chin up, Mum! Someone’s got to teach those Jerries a lesson, eh?’
Pulling away, he ambled off to the van, and I studied his broad back, his lazy lilting walk, his state of being that would no longer be mine to watch, mine to grasp. A vision came back to me of him as a boy, scampering down this very path, late for school, turning and grinning, lopsided by his heavy satchel.
And just as I remembered, he turned back to me then with that same look, as if the world were a great adventure for him to behold and relish, and I felt the rain washing the tears down my face for all our precious years together.
He got into the van and opened the window to wave, and then, as it revved up and pulled away, his lips touched the palm of his hand and he blew me a kiss, something he hasn’t done since he was a child. It was as if on the edge of manhood he too remembered everything we had shared, that he was the man who was still, in his heart, my little boy, late for school.
And then he was gone.
I went into the house and moped around the kitchen, my head throbbing as it does so readily these days. I looked out of the window into the rain that still fell, the grass that still grew, the birds that still sung.
But now I was alone.
After a few dreadful minutes, I got up, unable to help creeping into his small, sparse room, still warm from his presence. Running my hand down his soft blue bedcover, I remembered how many times I’d pulled it over his small frame at bedtime, and kneeling down next to the bed, I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with his essence, that unmistakable smell he’s had since he was a baby. I’d recognise it anywhere, all salt and warm honey.
That evening, when I’d stopped crying, I realised that this was a feeling I was going to have to get used to. Keeping busy, stopping my head from thinking the most abysmal things, never knowing where he is or whether he’s still alive.
David is all that I have. I know he must go and do his duty, even though I wish with every ounce of me that he might have been given a desk job or kept home to refuel planes. I can only pray that God is watching over him. I suppose I am just one of the millions of mothers around the world standing by a door, watching our children walk down the road away from us, kit bag on backs, unsure if they’ll ever return. We have prayer enough to light up the whole universe, like a thousand stars breathing life into our deepest fears.
I had to pull myself together for tonight’s choir practice, at once looking forward to expelling some pent-up feelings into the air, and also fearful that I’d collapse, breaking our silent vows to keep it tucked inside, keep spirits up.
I went to the church early, wandering up to the altar and thinking about the finality of death. Then a hand on my arm made me turn around, and there was Prim nodding her understanding. As if she knew, she saw straight inside me at the emptiness and fear.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Loneliness seems to follow me,’ I said with a sad smile.
‘It’s never the end,’ she said softly. ‘Love is always there. You just need to embrace it.’
‘But—’ I wasn’t sure what she meant. Where is the love when my family have gone?
‘You need to cherish your memories of people. You can’t ask anything more from them now.’
The door squeaked open and Kitty and Silvie dashed in, breaking up our talk with their chatter.
‘Did David leave today?’ Kitty asked, breathless from running.
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘He left this morning.’
‘Did he remember everything?’
‘I suppose so,’ I replied stiffly, not wanting to talk about it.
Silvie’s little hand tucked into mine, and when I looked down, I saw her eyes large and fraught. The poor child’s seen far too much of this war. I can only pray it never comes here.
Soon the choir stalls were packed, people clamouring to hear news of the war from anyone who knew anything. A few of us remained quiet, listening in a half-tuned-in way as our thoughts were drawn away. Some of the women who also had loved ones away came to give me their sympathy, their scared eyes welcoming me into their haunted world.
Prim turned to the choir, requesting that we sing ‘Love Divine’ for Sunday. Gathering up the sleeves of her dramatic damask cloak, she held her baton high in readiness, and we plunged into it, bathing in the glow of song. At the end, Mrs Quail tottered to the front and had a word with Prim, to which she nodded and directed Mrs Quail back to the organ.
‘By special request, we’ll have a good old sing of “The Lord’s My Shepherd”.’ We gathered up our song sheets and looked towards her to begin. I knew Mrs Quail had done it for me. She knew it was one of my favourite hymns. I caught her eye to say thank you, and as the slow, methodical introduction began, I felt the blood pumping faster through my veins.
The most beautiful sound, the choir in full voice was singing softly, hesitantly to begin with, and then opening our voices straight from our very hearts.
The Lord’s my Shepherd, I’ll not want;
He makes me down to lie
In pastures green; He leadeth me
The quiet waters by.
The volume swelled with passion and deliberation as we poured our emotions into every darkened corner of the church. Every dusty cloister and crevice reverberated, reaching a crescendo in the final chorus, a vocal unison of thirteen villagers that cold, still night, pouring out our longings, our anxieties, our deepest fears.
Letter from Flt Lt Henry Brampton-Boyd to Venetia Winthrop (#ulink_5d6c74a1-511d-5c55-bcc0-1e47833626c6)
Air base 9463
Daws Hill
Buckinghamshire
Thursday, 25th April, 1940
My darling Venetia,
I have felt little except the wild beats of my heart since we parted last Tuesday. The way you looked, the way you moved in that dress, I feel mesmerised, put under an enchanted spell by your elegance and beauty. When you told me that you would consider my offer of marriage, I could only rejoice in the knowledge that you might one day be mine. I only hope that I may survive this war long enough to know you properly as my wife.
I am not due back to Chilbury until July, and when I arrive, I hope you might have had time to consider my proposal. I have plenty to offer, after all, my darling. Brampton Hall will be yours, as will our illustrious family name, and my everlasting passion and devotion. Timely weddings are usual these days, and I am anxious to be wed as soon as you give the word. They give the newly wedded an extra few days’ leave. I have a good notion of the perfect place for our honeymoon, where we shall get to know each other in a wonderfully whole way. I truly cannot wait!
Wishing you all my love, my darling, and hoping that while I am away you remain mine, in the same way that I will remain completely and undeniably yours,
Henry
Letter from Venetia Winthrop to Angela Quail (#ulink_4f97b86c-d51d-5768-97c3-1d0e1135b2d0)
Chilbury Manor
Chilbury
Kent
Friday, 26th April, 1940
Dear Angela,
So much to tell! First of all, you missed David Tilling’s spectacular leaving party on Tuesday evening. Well, maybe more predictably pleasant than spectacular. You know how these Chilbury events are. Everyone was there, including Hattie and Mama, who are both taking pregnancy in such different ways, Hattie all excitement and joy, and Mama with a weepy hope that she’ll get a boy for Daddy.
Mr Slater stubbornly refuses to be tempted by me. He skilfully redirects any questions and provokingly ignores any flirtation. Your idea of showing him some suitable landscapes might hold some opportunities. I am formulating a plan that cannot fail.
Henry asked me to marry him again. Obviously I was vague. I can’t bear to let the poor man down every six months. When will he get the message? Meanwhile, Kitty pathetically hangs on his every word. He politely fobs her off, which is rather cruel, don’t you think?
Hattie is preparing the school children for her departure when the baby arrives. In typical Hattie fashion, she’s enormously guilty about the whole thing, and feels that it’s frightfully selfish to be having a baby.
‘Don’t be silly, Hattie. You’re a born mother. You can’t pass that up just to teach a few school children,’ I tell her.
But she only says, ‘You don’t know how much they depend on me, Venetia. You don’t understand.’
Clearly I don’t.
The new choir mistress, Prim, made an extraordinary announcement at choir practice on Wednesday, and everyone’s up in arms once again. She surged in with her usual melodrama, but instead of handing out music scores, she quickly climbed the pulpit, and we knew something special was afoot.
‘I have entered the Chilbury Ladies’ Choir into a public choir competition in Litchfield three weeks from Saturday.’
‘What in Heaven’s name are you thinking?’ Mrs B stood up and strode over with the determination of a tank. ‘We’re not parading any nonsensical women’s choir in a public competition. We’d be a laughingstock!’
‘The competition is in aid of weapon production and is considered a tremendous boost for Home Front morale,’ Prim said, jubilantly. ‘It’ll be in all the papers, cheering spirits across the country. I can’t imagine anyone will be thinking badly of us.’
‘All over the country?’ Mrs B thundered, the stained-glass windows jittering. ‘Our respectable, historic village will be dragged into the national press?’ She took out her ticking-off finger and began wagging it fiercely. ‘Are we to find ourselves shut out of polite society?’
‘Now don’t be a spoilsport, Mrs B.’ I stepped forward, smiling sweetly. ‘Everyone will think us wonderfully modern.’
‘And it would be so much fun to perform on a stage, wouldn’t it?’ Kitty added.
‘What complete and utter tosh,’ Mrs B snapped. ‘We’ll look absurd. A bunch of women muddling along without any men! Where’s your sense of pride?’
Then a strange thing happened. Hattie came forward.
‘I know you want everything to stay the same, Mrs B, but there’s a war on and we’re trying to get on as best as we can. There are no rules about singing without men. In fact, there are no rules about anything any more. So let’s be amongst the first to herald this new opportunity. It’s part of the Home Front effort to keep spirits up, after all,’ she went on. ‘So we’re doing our bit for the war simply by entering.’
‘Count me in,’ Mrs Quail called over from the organ.
‘I’m in,’ said Mrs Gibbs, and another voice spoke out, ‘Let’s give it a go!’
‘Yes, let’s give it all we’ve got!’ Mrs Tilling said cautiously. ‘Just because we’ve never done something before, it doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.’
Mrs B, pouting like a restrained child, wasn’t ready to step down. ‘Has everyone lost their minds around here?’
‘Not at all!’ Prim spread her arms wide with pride. ‘We may be a late entry, but I know that we have what it takes. We have some great voices – Kitty and Venetia are already first-class sopranos, and Mrs Tilling is the mainstay in the altos. Everyone has a fine voice, but to compete against the big choirs we have to use our finest asset, the one that will mark us out as truly exceptional.’
She looked from person to person. ‘Music is about passion. It’s about humanity. We need to bring our own passions to our voices.’ She wound her baton thoughtfully through the air. ‘We have to imbue every note, every word, with our own stories. Think of what our members can bring: Kitty’s exuberance, Silvie’s courage, Mrs Quail’s joviality, Hattie’s gentleness, Mrs Tilling’s diligence. Even you, Mrs B, bring a gusto and verve to our singing. Every joy, every pain we are feeling from this war will be put to use in our music.’ She paused momentarily. ‘That plus an extra practice on Fridays.’
Mrs B looked annoyed. ‘Where is the competition to be held?’
Prim leant forward dramatically, speaking in a theatrical whisper. ‘Litchfield Cathedral, probably the most spiritual and inspiring edifice of them all. The acoustics are amongst the finest in the country. And if we win, we’ll be in the finals in none other than St Paul’s Cathedral in London.’
‘That sounds jolly grand.’ Kitty beamed. ‘Let’s try and win, shall we?’ She went over to Mrs B. ‘Go on, Mrs B, you’ll help us, won’t you?’
‘I suppose I may as well give you my support,’ she sniffed petulantly. ‘Only because it’s for the war, mind you.’ I knew she wouldn’t be able to stay away, although she stepped haughtily back to the choir stalls like they smelt of horse manure, shooting Mrs Tilling a look of disgust.
