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Mrs Tilling’s Journal
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
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
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.
Prim sifted through a pile of sheet music and began to hand it around. ‘Righty-ho. We’re going to start with a new piece for the competition.’
The sheets went around, and we all shuddered.
‘“Ave Maria”,’ she began, ‘is a prayer to the Virgin Mary, calling for her divine help in a time of war. I have arranged the piece especially for our choir. Are we ready to try it?’
We gave it the best shot we could, then she took each part through, first the sopranos, then the altos. I could tell that Prim was delighted.
‘You see, you made the most glorious sound. I have no doubts now that, with some more practice, we will make it work wonderfully. We can stand together and strong and be a force to be reckoned with.’
At the end, Prim mentioned that if anyone would like to try a solo, she should step forward to audition.
‘There are two verses in the arrangement, so two different voices are required. Do we have any takers?’
Kitty was there in a trice. ‘I’ll do it!’
I couldn’t let Kitty have all the glory, so I stepped forward too. ‘I’m sure I can give it a good go.’
Prim waited a few minutes, then raised her voice over the throng. ‘How about you, Mrs Tilling? Don’t you think you have voice enough to share with the world?’
She blushed, picked up her handbag, and came over. ‘Do you really think I could?’
‘Well, that’s up to you,’ Prim said. ‘You certainly have the voice. But do you have the nerve?’
A flush went over Mrs Tilling’s gaunt cheeks.
Prim went over and had a word with Mrs Quail at the organ, then returned to us.
‘We’re going to hear you sing the first verse one at a time.’ Mrs Tilling looked like she might faint, while Kitty simply couldn’t wait.
‘Kitty, why don’t you go first?’ Prim said, and motioned to Mrs Quail to start playing.
Kitty sang like she was on stage in front of several thousand adoring opera-goers. She raised her eyes to the ceiling when hitting those tricky high notes, and even did that awful warbling sound. It was ghastly.
‘Bravo,’ Prim gushed at the end.
And I wondered if she was being tactful until Mrs Tilling joined in. ‘What a beautiful voice you have, Kitty!’
Kitty grinned in an infuriating manner.
I was considering backing out, except Prim quickly decided it was my turn, Mrs Quail already playing the introduction.
I sang as well as I could, stumbling over a few words, and not hitting the top notes quite as well as Kitty. But really, my voice is so much nicer than hers. Much more natural sounding.
At the end, Prim and Mrs Tilling gave a small round of applause and agreed that I had a lovely mellow voice. Kitty looked smugly on, thinking she’d won.
Then it was Mrs Tilling’s turn, and we know that she sings terrifically well, has done since we can remember. Without her the choir would have been in a lot of trouble. She sang perfectly in tune, all the words right, never wavering from her enchanting alto tone.
‘Wonderful, Mrs Tilling,’ Prim said. ‘The perfect voice for one of our solos.’ Then she looked at me, the inevitable coming. ‘And I’m afraid, Venetia, that I’m going to pick Kitty this time. We’ll need some extra work, and I imagine she has a lot more time than you do, with the War Office job.’
‘Yes, you’re completely right,’ I said. ‘I shouldn’t have auditioned really as I don’t have any spare time these days. Maybe next time.’
And with that, seeing Kitty delightedly jumping up and down in the corner of my eye, I got my coat and walked majestically out of the building.
Since then Kitty’s been lording it over me ad nauseam. Silvie and I had to retire to my bedroom to escape. I did her hair up beautifully while she tried on my lipstick. She’s such a sweet creature.
On that note, I must away to get my beauty sleep. I will let you know how my plan to get Mr Slater proceeds. Success will be mine.
Venetia
Kitty Winthrop’s Diary
Saturday, 27th April, 1940
The question of Venetia’s virginity
Why is it that just when you think you know how everything works, something explodes right under your nose and you have to rethink it all through? There was I, merrily going through life thinking that no one did anything except perhaps one or two kisses before they got married, and then, boom! I see the whole act unfold in front of my very eyes.
Things I would dearly like to know
Was Venetia as pure as the driven snow, as we’ve always been taught to be?
Will she have to marry Mr Slater now?
Will this mean she’ll stop playing her evil games with Henry?
Does anyone else do this before they’re married?
Will I have to?
First of all, let me state that as far as I was concerned, before I saw what I did, Venetia was still a virgin. Mama told both of us that one has to stay a virgin until one gets married, and I must say it has never crossed my mind to question this instruction. I’ve seen plenty of copulation before, so don’t think I’m naïve – bulls mounting cows in the fields, that time Mr Dawkins brought his mare over for Amadeus to get her pregnant, and the dogs in the stables are at it all the time. And I know what it leads to – babies. So why was Venetia doing it? She’s not married and, as far as I know, she doesn’t want a baby. It was disgusting.
Then I wondered if she’d done it with anyone else, and a cloud of memories flew into my head like a photograph album of every boy she’s ever toyed with. Now that I came to think about it, she could have done it with any of them: Cecil Worthing, David Tilling, even Victor Lovell or, Heaven forbid, Henry. They’d known each other since they were children, grew up as friends, spent many evenings together at parties, perhaps sneaking out into the night for a quiet kiss that may have led to more. Maybe this was her awful hold over them.
Could Venetia be a harlot?
Angela Quail is most definitely a harlot. I’m sure she did it with Edmund, as they were always touching each other in a most embarrassing way. I think she wanted to be with Henry too, because she always seemed odd around him, all fluttery. I wonder if he rejected her and chose me instead because he likes proper girls and Angela wears her depravity like a badge of honour. I suppose being the Vicar’s daughter has made her more unruly.
But with Venetia, Daddy would hit the roof.
It all started after my singing lesson with Prim this afternoon, which had gone particularly well as she told me that I had perfect pitch. I couldn’t wait to tell Silvie, and since she wasn’t at home, I trotted off to the stables to see if she was there. It was such a delicious day, all buttery and golden, and I felt as if the world made complete sense. The cherry blossom was just past its best, and pink and white petals cascaded over me as I crossed through the orchard – it was wondrous, like it was snowing tiny soft cushions.
As I passed through the whiffy stable yard, I thought I heard voices by Amadeus’s door. For a brief moment, I wondered if Venetia had taken a funny turn and decided to pay her old horse a bit of attention – she’s completely neglected him since she stopped dressage.
No such luck.
It was Venetia’s voice all right, but she wasn’t talking to Amadeus. I stood on tiptoe to look through a gap in the wooden door and had the perfect view of Mr Slater, immaculate in grey suit and tie. He looked incredibly out of place in the stable setting, which ponged of sweaty horses and saddle leather. I would have been surprised to see him there, had it not been for Venetia’s little bet with Angela.
But this didn’t seem like a little bet at all.
She was standing close to him looking up at him in the most ridiculous way, her blonde hair swept to the side and over one shoulder. Even from where I stood, the gusto of her peachy perfume overpowered the sinewy whiff of manure. She was wearing a dress I’ve never seen before. It was sunflower yellow and shone like silk, with a flowing skirt and low in the front, exposing her cleavage with startling fullness. A white cardigan was draped around her smooth shoulders, making her look young – playful kitten one minute, conniving minx the next.
‘What do you have for me?’ she said, standing before him, inches away.
‘Do you deserve anything?’ he asked with a strange half smile on his handsome lips, one eyebrow raised.
‘Maybe,’ she giggled, twirling her hips so that the gleaming skirt slunk around his legs for a moment, and then cascaded back around hers.
He slid his hand into his inside pocket and slipped out a package. She took it and stood away laughing, opening it. I wanted her to get on and rip it open, but she wavered and hesitated, opening and then closing, running her forefinger over and under the brown paper packaging in a ludicrous way.
Eventually she pulled out a pair of stockings, holding them up in the dim light. Two sheens of slender brown gauze moving gently in the still air, transparent in the dappled light of the dusty window.
With careful deliberation, she took one shoe off, standing as she was in the middle of the small stable and, casting one of the stockings at him, she slipped the other onto her foot and up over her ankle. I felt instantly uncomfortable, as did Mr Slater, who turned away, busying himself with folding the stocking he held in his hand.
‘What do you think of that?’ She prompted him to look as she drew the top over her knee and rucked up her dress to pull it up.
He glanced down, and I saw his eyes engage with her long, smooth thigh, now half-covered with the stocking, beige brown below and pearly white skin above.
‘They’ll do well enough,’ he said, looking away. But his eyes strayed back to her as she kicked off her other shoe.
‘Give me the other one,’ she breathed, and he handed her the other stocking.
She unfurled it, letting it cascade down in front of her, and then she raised her foot and slipped it over, shimmying the beige haze up her other leg. Again she rucked up her dress, this time to show a white lace garter, to which she carefully attached the top of the stocking. You could even see a glimpse of her undergarments as she brazenly displayed herself in front of him.
‘I don’t think you should be doing that,’ he said. He hadn’t turned away this time. He was just standing there watching, immersed.
‘I wanted to let you see what they look like. A kind of thank-you gift.’ She stood up straight but held the skirt of her dress up so that he could view his gift in full glory. See what I mean about her poise, as if she’s played every step before? Then she slipped her shoes back on and raised her skirt a touch higher, placing one foot in front of the other like some kind of actress or showgirl.
‘I told you. You’d better leave me be,’ he answered, his voice slipping out of his usual witty, upper-class front, his hand pushing back through his hair. Then he recollected himself and added with a half smile, ‘Or I might not be a perfect gentleman.’
She smirked, a look of determination in her eyes. This was the problem with Venetia – she could never see herself beaten. She wanted Slater, regardless of the price. She took a step towards him and took his hand. I couldn’t see what happened next as she now had her back to me, but I think she must have put his hand on her thigh.
‘Venetia,’ he whispered. ‘Do you know what you’re doing?’
‘Yes,’ she replied, velvet self-assurance in her voice. ‘I know exactly what I’m doing.’
‘I don’t think you do.’
He lowered his face and kissed her extremely forcefully indeed, his other hand coming around the back of her pale shoulders, pulling her in towards him. They stood locked, writhing like that against each other for a few minutes, and then, I have no idea how, they eased themselves onto the hay without stopping kissing. I couldn’t see them as the hole in the door was too narrow, but I knew what they were doing. Like animals in a stable.
Flinging myself out of the yard, I decided to go back home and do some thinking about what I just saw, which is where you find me now. None of my questions seem to be answered, but I now know some things for sure.
Things I know for sure
Venetia has almost certainly done this before
She might have done it more than once before too (although didn’t have a baby)
She might have done it with Henry, which is why he follows her around
Angela Quail has clearly done it, Vicar’s daughter or not
Now that I come to think of it, there is a lot more of it going on than I thought
I’m still not going to do it until I’m married
Venetia is more serious about Mr Slater than I thought (or Daddy thought, for that matter)
Daddy will be furious if he ever finds out
This piece of information might come in very useful
With that, I have decided to close the matter, although the image of her standing there is etched onto my mind. How come she’s got it into her mind she can do these things, when we’ve been told that we can’t?
Then I realised. It’s the war. No one cares any more about saving ourselves for marriage. It’s all about the here and now, letting everything go, enjoying life while we can. Virginity is old hat because we could be dead tomorrow or, worse, be occupied by the Nazis.
That said, I’m not sure I fancy the idea of doing it that much, so I think I’ll just keep mine for now. I’ll have to perfect my solos so that I can become so famous and successful that I never have to think about Venetia and her disgusting little affairs ever again.
