Copyright

The Borough Press

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2017

First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2017

Copyright © Jennifer Ryan 2017

Cover design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016

Cover illustration © Neil Gower 2016

Jennifer Ryan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books

Source ISBN: 9780008163709

Ebook Edition © January 2016 ISBN: 9780008163723

Version: 2017-10-30

Dedication

To my grandmother, Mrs Eileen Beckley,

and the women of the Home Front

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Mrs Tilling’s Journal

Letter from Miss Edwina Paltry to her sister, Clara

Kitty Winthrop’s Diary

Letter from Venetia Winthrop to Angela Quail

Letter from Miss Edwina Paltry to her sister, Clara

Mrs Tilling’s Journal

Kitty Winthrop’s Diary

Letter from Miss Edwina Paltry to her sister, Clara

Silvie’s Diary

Kitty Winthrop’s Diary

Mrs Tilling’s Journal

Letter from Flt Lt Henry Brampton-Boyd to Venetia Winthrop

Letter from Venetia Winthrop to Angela Quail

Kitty Winthrop’s Diary

Letter from Miss Edwina Paltry to her sister, Clara

Letter from Venetia Winthrop to Angela Quail

Letter from Miss Edwina Paltry to her sister, Clara

Mrs Tilling’s Journal

Letter from Venetia Winthrop to Angela Quail

Mrs Tilling’s Journal

Kitty Winthrop’s Diary

Letter from Colonel Mallard to his sister, Mrs Maud Green, in Oxford

Kitty Winthrop’s Diary

Mrs Tilling’s Journal

Letter from Flt Lt Henry Brampton-Boyd to Venetia Winthrop

Kitty Winthrop’s Diary

Note from Miss Edwina Paltry to Brigadier Winthrop

Mrs Tilling’s Journal

Silvie’s Diary

Letter from Miss Edwina Paltry to her sister, Clara

Letter from Venetia Winthrop to Angela Quail

Mrs Tilling’s Journal

Kitty Winthrop’s Diary

Letter from Lt Carrington to Mrs Tilling

Letter from Venetia Winthrop to Angela Quail

Mrs Tilling’s Journal

Kitty Winthrop’s Diary

Letter from Venetia Winthrop to Angela Quail

Mrs Tilling’s Journal

Letter from Miss Edwina Paltry to her sister, Clara

Kitty Winthrop’s Diary

Silvie’s Diary

Letter from Venetia Winthrop to Angela Quail

Mrs Tilling’s Journal

Kitty Winthrop’s Diary

Mrs Tilling’s Journal

Letter from Miss Edwina Paltry to her sister, Clara

Letter from Venetia Winthrop to Angela Quail

Mrs Tilling’s Journal

Kitty Winthrop’s Diary

Letter from Venetia Winthrop to Angela Quail

Letter from Miss Edwina Paltry to her sister, Clara

Kitty Winthrop’s Diary

Letter from Venetia Winthrop to Angela Quail

Mrs Tilling’s Journal

Kitty Winthrop’s Diary

Letter from Elsie Cocker to Flt Lt Henry Brampton-Boyd

Letter from Miss Edwina Paltry to her sister, Clara

Letter from Flt Lt Henry Brampton-Boyd to Elsie Cocker

Letter from Venetia Winthrop to Angela Quail

Mrs Tilling’s Journal

Kitty Winthrop’s Diary

Mrs Tilling’s Journal

Letter from Miss Edwina Paltry to her sister, Clara

Letter from Venetia Winthrop to Angela Quail

Letter from Colonel Mallard to his sister, Mrs Maud Green, in Oxford

Mrs Tilling’s Journal

Kitty Winthrop’s Diary

Letter from Venetia Winthrop to Angela Quail

Silvie’s Diary

Mrs Tilling’s Journal

Kitty Winthrop’s Diary

Interview with Jennifer Ryan

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

Notice pinned to the Chilbury village hall noticeboard,

Sunday, 24th March, 1940

Mrs Tilling’s Journal

Tuesday, 26th March, 1940

First funeral of the war, and our little village choir simply couldn’t sing in tune. ‘Holy, holy, holy’ limped out as if we were a crump of warbling sparrows. But it wasn’t because of the war, or the young scoundrel Edmund Winthrop torpedoed in his submarine, or even the Vicar’s abysmal conducting. No, it was because this was the final performance of the Chilbury Choir. Our swan song.

‘I don’t see why we have to be closed down,’ Mrs B snapped afterwards as we congregated in the foggy graveyard. ‘It’s not as if we’re a threat to national security.’

‘All the men have gone,’ I whispered back, aware of our voices carrying uncomfortably through the funeral crowd. ‘The Vicar says we can’t have a choir without men.’

‘Just because the men have gone to war, why do we have to close the choir? And precisely when we need it most! I mean, what’ll he disband next? His beloved bell ringers? Church on Sundays? Christmas? I expect not!’ She folded her arms in annoyance. ‘First they whisk our men away to fight, then they force us women into work, then they ration food, and now they’re closing our choir. By the time the Nazis get here there’ll be nothing left except a bunch of drab women ready to surrender.’

‘But there’s a war on,’ I said, trying to placate her loud complaining. ‘We women have to take on extra work, help the cause. I don’t mind doing hospital nurse duties, although it’s busy keeping up the village clinic too.’

‘The choir has been part of the Chilbury way since time began. There’s something bolstering about singing together.’ She puffed her chest out, her large, square frame like an abundant field marshall.

The funeral party began to head to Chilbury Manor for the obligatory glass of sherry and cucumber sandwich. ‘Edmund Winthrop,’ I sighed. ‘Only twenty and blown up in the North Sea.’

‘He was a vicious bully, and well you know it,’ Mrs B barked. ‘Remember how he tried to drown your David in the village pond?’

‘Yes, but that was years ago,’ I whispered. ‘In any case, Edmund was bound to be unstable with his father forever thrashing him. I’m sure Brigadier Winthrop must be feeling more than a trace of regret now that Edmund’s dead.’

Or clearly not, I thought as we looked over to him, thwacking his cane against his military boot, the veins on his neck and forehead livid with rage.

‘He’s furious because he’s lost his heir,’ Mrs B snipped. ‘The Winthrops need a male to inherit, so the family estate is lost. He doesn’t care a jot about the daughters.’ We glanced over at young Kitty and the beautiful Venetia. ‘Status is everything. At least Mrs Winthrop’s pregnant again. Let’s hope it’s a boy this time round.’

Mrs Winthrop was cowering like a crushed sparrow under the weight of Edmund’s loss. It could be me next, I thought, as my David came over, all grown up in his new army uniform. His shoulders are broader since training, but his smile and softness are just the same. I knew he’d sign up when he turned eighteen, but why did it happen so fast? He’s being sent to France next month, and I can’t help worrying how I’ll survive if anything happens to him. He’s all I have since Harold passed away. Edmund and David often played as boys, soldiers or pirates, some kind of battle that Edmund was sure to win. I can only pray that David’s fight doesn’t end the same way.

The war has been ominously quiet so far, Hitler busy taking the rest of Europe. But I know they’re coming, and soon we’ll be surrounded by death. It’ll be like the last war, when a whole generation of men was wiped out, my own father included. I remember the day the telegram came. We were sitting down for luncheon, the sun spilling into the dining room as the gramophone played Vivaldi. I heard the front door open, then the slump of my mother’s body as she hit the floor, the sunshine streaming in, unaware.

Now our lives are going into turmoil all over again: more deaths, more work, more making do. And our lovely choir gone too. I’ve half a mind to write to the Vicar in protest. But then again, I probably won’t. I’ve never been one to make a fuss. My mother told me that women do better when they smile and agree. Yet sometimes I feel so frustrated with everything. I just want to shout it out.

I suppose that’s why I started a journal, so that I can express the things I don’t want to say out loud. A programme on the wireless said that keeping a journal can help you feel better if you have loved ones away, so I popped out yesterday and bought one. I’m sure it’ll be filled up soon, especially once David leaves and I’m on my own, thoughts surging through my head with nowhere to be let out. I’ve always dreamt of being a writer, and I suppose this is the closest I’ll get.

Taking David’s arm and following the crowd to Chilbury Manor, I looked back at the crumbling old church. ‘I’ll miss the choir.’

To which Mrs B roundly retorted, ‘I haven’t seen you instructing the Vicar to reverse his decision.’

‘But, Mrs B,’ David said with a smirk. ‘We always leave it up to you to make a stink about everything. You usually do.’

I had to hide a smile behind my hand, waiting for Mrs B’s wrath. But at that moment, the Vicar himself flew past us, trotting at speed after the Brigadier, who was striding up to the Manor.

Mrs B took one look, seized her umbrella with grim determination, and began stomping after him, calling, ‘I’ll have a word with you, Vicar,’ her usual forthright battle cry.

The Vicar turned and, seeing her gaining pace, sprinted for all he was worth.

Letter from Miss Edwina Paltry to her sister, Clara

3 Church Row

Chilbury

Kent

Tuesday, 26th March, 1940

Brace yourself, Clara, for we are about to be rich! I’ve been offered the most unscrupulous deal you’ll ever believe! I knew this ruddy war would turn up some gems – whoever would have thought that midwifery could be so lucrative! But I couldn’t have imagined such a grubby nugget of a deal coming from snooty Brigadier Winthrop, the upper-class tyrant who thinks he owns this prissy little village. I know you’ll say it’s immoral, even by my standards, but I need to get away from being a cooped-up, put-down midwife. I need to get back to the old house where I can live my own life and be free.

Don’t you see, Clara? Soon I can pay back the money I owe, like I promised, and you’ll finally realise how clever I am, how I can make up for mistakes of the past. We can put everything behind us, and never mention what happened with Bill (although I always say I saved you from him). Then I’ll buy back our childhood house in Birnham Wood, all fields and cliffs beside the sea, and we can live safe and happy just like before Mum died. I’ll be finished with births and babies and nasty rashes in people’s nether regions, people bossing me about and laughing behind my back. I’ll be back to being my own person, no one watching over me.

But let me tell you about the deal from the beginning, as I know how you are about details. It was the funeral of Edmund Winthrop, the Brigadier’s despicable son who was blown up in a submarine last week. Only twenty he was – one minute a repulsive reptile, the next a feast for the fishes.

The morning of the funeral was cold and wet as a slap round the face with a fresh-caught cod. We might have been in the North Sea ourselves for the ferocious winds and grisly clouds, a monstrous hawk circling above us looking for a victim. ‘Rather fitting,’ I heard someone murmur as we plunged headlong with our umbrellas through the bedraggled graveyard and into the dim, musty church.

Packed to the rafters, the place was buzzing with gossipy onlookers. At the front, the Winthrops and their aristocrat friends were sitting all plumed and groomed like a row of black swans. A splatter of khaki and grey-blue uniforms appeared as per usual, uniformed men thinking they’re special when they’re just plain stupid. More like uninformed, I always say.

The rest of us locals (mostly wool-coated women these days) had to crowd around behind them, listening to the thin excuse of a choir, a few off-key voices hazarding ‘Holy, holy, holy.’ The posh women of the village are upset at the choir’s closing, but after a performance like that I’d rather hear a cats’ chorus.

Throughout the dreary service, the dead soldier’s mother snivelled into her hands, quaking under her black suit. She’s pregnant again, late in life – although she’s still in her late thirties. They say her nasty father forced her to marry the Brigadier when she was barely sixteen, and she’s been terrorised by him ever since.

She was the only tearful one though. The rest of us weren’t so blind to Edmund’s brutish, arrogant ways – just like his father. I’m sure there were even a few present who felt a justified retribution at his early demise.

Hardly attempting to look sad, the two sisters, now eighteen and thirteen, sat dutifully beside their grieving mother. The older one, Venetia, with her golden hair and coquettish ways, was more interested in batting her eyelashes at that handsome new artist than in the funeral. Young Kitty, gangly as a growing fawn, glanced around like she’d seen a ghost, her pointed face like a pixie’s in the purple-blue glow of the stained-glass window towering over the altar. Beside her, that foreign evacuee girl looked petrified, like she’d seen death before and a lot more besides.

The Brigadier glared on like a domineering vulture, the burnished medals and his upper-class prestige ranking him above everyone else in the church. He was rhythmically thwacking his silver-tipped horsewhip against his boot. His violent temper is legendary, and no one was going to cross him today. You see, not only had he lost his only son, he’d also lost the family fortune. The Chilbury Manor estate must go to a male heir, and Edmund’s death has plunged the family into turmoil. The Brigadier would be branded a fool if the family fortune was lost under his watch. But I know his type. He won’t take this lying down.

After the gruelling service, we grabbed our gas mask boxes and traipsed gloomily through horizontal daggers of icy rain up to Chilbury Manor, a Georgian monstrosity that some past Winthrop brutally erected.

I puffed up the steps to the big door, hoping for a glass of something and a big comfy sofa, but the place was already crammed with damp-smelling mourners and wet umbrellas. It was noisy as King’s Cross, what with the marbled galleried hallway echoing with ladies’ heels and noisy chatter. The Winthrops are an old, wealthy family, and the locals are scavenging toads, all hanging around in case they can get their grubby hands on some of the spoils.

And me? I already have my hand in their pocket, and that makes it my business to keep track of events around here. You see, the Brigadier has already been paying me to keep my mouth shut about his affairs, including that unwanted pregnancy last year, and his nasty son spreading disease around this village faster than you can say ‘the clap’. This war means opportunity for me. Any midwife worth her salt must realise the potential such a situation can bring, especially with the likes of these smutty gentry who think they’re beyond reproach. They’re easy prey for extortion – twenty here, forty there. It all adds up.

As I entered, my eyes caught a pretty twist of a maid, standing on the stairs to avoid the rush, a tray of sherry glasses balanced on one hand, her long neck elegant but her mouth sour as curd. She came to me with gonorrhoea she’d got from Cmdr Edmund last year, just like half the bleeding village. She told me he’d promised to marry her, promised her money, freedom, love, and then he’d vanished into the Navy as soon as war broke out. I felt sorry for her, so I told her about his other women – the previous maid, the gardener’s wife, the Vicar’s daughter – all with the same condition. I treated them all, and Edmund too, the disgusting beast. Elsie was the maid’s name. I think she was a bit unsettled that I told her everyone’s secrets, worried about her own, no doubt. But I told her it was because we were friends, her and I.

I smiled at her in a conspiratorial way, and took a glass of sherry from her tray. You never know when these people could come in handy.

I joined the condolence line behind gloomy Mrs Tilling, nurse, choir member, and deplorable do-gooder. ‘He will always be remembered a hero,’ she was saying with immense feeling. She is so excruciatingly well-meaning it makes me want to plunge her long face into a barrel of ale to perk her up.

‘Never should have happened,’ snapped Mrs B, another member of the choir, all upright with traditional upper-class fervour, the insufferable next to the insupportable. Her full name is Mrs Brampton-Boyd, and it exasperates her that everyone calls her Mrs B.

As I came to the front, Mrs Tilling sucked her cheeks in with annoyance. She’s never approved of me. I’ve stepped into her nursing territory, become too close to her village community. She may also have heard about some of my less orthodox practices. Or the payoffs.

‘It’s so terribly tragic,’ I said in my best voice. ‘He was taken so young.’ Planting a closed-lipped smile on my face, I swiftly moved away to the side, standing alone, people glancing over from time to time to wonder what business I had there.

Just as I was thinking of opening a few doors and having a little nosy around, a hunched goblin of a butler directed me into the drawing room, where I was rather hoping to partake of some upper-class funeral fare but found myself alone in the big, still room.

The distant clang of someone banging out the Moonlight Sonata on a piano clunked uneasily around the ornate ceiling as I ran my fingers over the crusted gold brocade couch. Then I picked up a bronze sculpture of a naked Greek, heavy in my fist like a lethal weapon. The opulence of the room was dazzling, with the floor-length blue silk drapes, the majestic portraits of repulsive forebears, the porcelain statues, the antiquity, the inequity.

I couldn’t help thinking that if I had that sort of cash I’d do a much better job, cheery the place up a bit. It smelt like death, as old as the dead men on the walls, as fusty as the eyes of the disembodied deer watching from the oak-panelled wall, the settle of dust and ashes. I was reminded of the last war, the Great War, when all the money in the world couldn’t buy an escape from mortality. It was the one great leveller. Funny how things went back to normal again so quick – the rich in charge, us struggling below.

I pulled out my packet of fags and lit one, the sinewy smoke meandering into the drapes, making itself at home.

A gruff voice came from behind. ‘May I have a word?’ A hand grasped my elbow, and before I knew it I was being pulled to a door at the back of the room. I turned to see the Brigadier, purple veins livid on his temples – he must have been at the Scotch late last night. He shoved me into a study, thick with male undercurrent, lots of leather chairs and piles of papers and files. The tang of cigars mingled unpleasantly with the dead-dog smell of rank breath.

As he twisted the key in the lock behind him, I knew this was going to mean money.

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ I said, surveying the surroundings, trying to cover up any trepidation. The Brigadier’s a bigwig, an overpowering presence, officious and rude and unlikeable, yet powerful and ruthless. He’s one of the old types, the ones who think the upper class can still bluster their way through everything. The ones who think they can boss the rest of us around and act like they own the country.

‘I knew you’d come,’ he muttered in an irritated way, his voice slurring from drink. ‘Which is why I had Proggett put you in the back drawing room. I have a service for you to perform. Time is of the essence.’ He sat down behind his vast desk, all businesslike, leaving me standing on the other side, the servant awaiting instruction. I considered pulling over a chair, but fancied this act of rebellion might lose me a few bob, so I just plonked my black bag on the floor and waited.

‘Before I begin, I must know I have your full confidence,’ he said, narrowing his eyes as if this were an official war deal, when I knew outright it was going to be nothing of the sort.

‘Of course you have it, like you always do,’ I lied, glowering at him for even doubting my integrity. He didn’t scare me with his upper-class military ways. ‘I’m a professional, Brigadier. If that’s what you mean? I’m never surprised by what is asked of me. And I always keep my mouth shut.’

‘I need a job done,’ he said brusquely. ‘I’ve heard you’re willing to go beyond the usual services?’

‘That depends on what the service in question is,’ I said. ‘And how much I’ll be paid.’

A gleam came to his eye, and he sat up. I was speaking the language he wanted to hear – more interested in the money than the nature of the deed. ‘A lot of money could be yours.’

‘What exactly do you have in mind?’

By now I’d guessed he was about to come out with something big, something that would line my pockets well and good. My bet would have been another affair gone wrong (perhaps a high-profile woman involved, maybe someone from the village), so shocked doesn’t describe how I felt when he came out with it.

‘Our baby must be a boy.’

There was a pause as I wondered what he meant. He took in my reaction, his eyes scrutinising me, debating whether I had the requisite bravery, deceit, greed.

‘Ours is not the only birth to happen in the village this spring,’ he continued, acting like he was giving complex orders on the front line. ‘And ours must be a boy. If there were a way to ensure that this might be the case—’

The penny dropped. It was outrageous. He wanted me to swap his baby with a baby boy from the village, if his was a girl. I sucked in my lips, working hard to keep the ruddy great smile off my face. I’d take him to the bank for this! But I had to keep calm. Play it for all it was worth.

‘I think it would be a tremendous risk, as well as an immense personal compromise,’ I clipped.

He leant forward, dropping his façade for a moment, his eyeballs shooting out, bloody and globular. ‘But could it be done?’

‘Possibly,’ I said elusively. But I knew I could do it. I have a vicious herbal potion that induces babies to come forth very promptly, and the village is small, you can get from one house to another in minutes.

‘Anyone who could help that to occur would certainly be well compensated,’ he said evenly, his fingers toying with his moustache as if it were a battlefield conundrum.

‘How well?’

There was a scuffle from outside the door that made him pull back. ‘We can discuss that at another time and place.’ He stood up and went to the window. There was a French door that overlooked a muddle of fields and valleys down to the English Channel, grey and churning like dirty dishwater.

‘We’ll meet the Thursday after next at ten in the outhouse in Peasepotter Wood,’ he said in a low voice.

‘I’ll be there,’ I whispered.

‘You may leave now,’ he added. Then his head shot round and his eyes dug into me with threatening revulsion. ‘And mention this to no one.’

Only too happy to get away, I spun round and bolted for the door, fiddling with the key in the lock and then closing the door gently behind me, before sallying out into the thronging hall. My stride widened as I swooped in and out of the black-clad mourners, the uniforms, the nosy neighbours. I marched straight out of the front door without so much as bye your leave. People were still arriving in the expansive driveway, so I had to refrain from skipping for joy as I trotted briskly back to the village.

Once I was at my drab little home, I gave a well-earned cheer, throwing my arms up into the air and laughing with utter delight. This is going to work.

I’ll show you that you can forgive me for what happened with Bill, and for taking the money when we ran off. How was I to know he’d grab the cash and vanish as soon as he could?

We can be happy again, you and me, like when we were young. Funny, you never think how lucky you are until it’s all whisked away, first Mum dying, then staying with disgusting Uncle Cyril when Dad was in jail, shut in his attic like slaves. But enough of that. We’ll put the past behind us, Clara.

It’s time to gird our loins. There are two other women in the village who are expecting around the same time as Mrs Winthrop. Droopy Mrs Dawkins from the farm is on her fourth, so that should be simple. Less easy would be the goody-two-shoes school teacher Hattie Lovell, whose husband is away at sea. Hattie is chummy with that niggling nurse, Mrs Tilling, who’s done the midwifery course and sees fit to poke her nose into my birthing business. Every time I go round to Hattie’s, she’s there, hanging around like a superior matron, saying she’s going to be midwife at the birth. She doesn’t understand. This village is only big enough for one midwife.

I’ll write again after the meeting with the Brigadier. Who would have known such an upper-class gentleman could stoop so low? I’m going to tap him for the biggest money he’s ever known. I won’t let you down this time, Clara. You’ll get the money I owe you, I swear.

Edwina

Kitty Winthrop’s Diary

Saturday, 30th March, 1940

They announced on the wireless that keeping a diary in these difficult times is excellent for the stamina, so I’ve decided to write down all my thoughts and dreams in my old school notebook. Nobody is allowed to read it, except perhaps when I’m old or dead, and then it should be published in a book, I think.

Important things about me

I am thirteen years old and want to be a singer when I grow up, wearing glorious gowns and singing before adoring audiences in London and Paris, and maybe even New York too. I think I will handle the fame well and become renowned for being terribly levelheaded.

I live in an antiquated village full of old buildings that always smell of damp and mothballs. There is a green with a duck pond, a shop, a village hall, and a medieval church with an overgrown graveyard. The church is where we used to have choir until the Vicar decided we couldn’t go on without any men. I’ve been pestering him to change his mind, but he’s simply not listening. In the meantime I’ve been trying to set up a choir at the school. I used to go to a boarding school, but they evacuated it to Wales and Mama didn’t want me to go. So now our butler, Proggett, has to drive me five miles to school in Litchfield every day. It’s not a bad place, except no one wants to join my choir.

I have one vile sister, Venetia, who is eighteen, and I used to have a brother until he was bombed in the North Sea. We live in the big house of the village, Chilbury Manor, which is terribly grand but freezing in the winter. It’s not as pristine as Brampton Hall, where Henry Brampton-Boyd lived before he joined the RAF to fight Nazis in his Spitfire. When I am old enough we are to be married, and we’ll have four children, three cats, and a big dog called Mozart. We’ll live a life of luxury, although we’ll have to wait until old Mr Brampton-Boyd passes away to inherit Brampton Hall, and since he prefers to spend his time in India, who knows when that may be. Venetia jokes that he only stays there to avoid his wife, bossy Mrs B, and if I were him I’d be tempted to do the same.

About the war

This war has been going on far too long – it’s been well over six months now. Life has been insufferable. Everyone’s busy, there’s no food, no new clothes, no servants, no lights after dark, and no men around. We have to lug gas masks everywhere, and plod into air raid shelters every time the sirens go off (although they haven’t very often so far). Every evening we have to draw thick black curtains across every window to stop the light from alerting Nazi planes to our whereabouts. The crackling of the news broadcasts on the radio is interminable, with people forever shushing and banning me from playing the piano.

Daddy is a brigadier, though I have no idea why as he never does any fighting, only occasionally going to London on what he calls ‘war business’. I think he’s trying to get into the War Office meetings, but they keep making excuses to keep him out. He has been especially cross, his horsewhip always at the ready to give one of us a reminder of our place. Venetia and I try to stay away from the house as much as we can. Mama’s petrified of him and also extremely pregnant, so no one’s around to watch us apart from old Nanny Godwin, and she’s far too old and has never been able to stop us from doing anything anyway.

Some of the papers say the war’s going to end soon, since there’s no fighting and the Nazis seem happy occupying Eastern Europe. But Daddy says it’s all nonsense, and the war is just beginning.

‘The papers are written by fools.’ He’s fond of picking up the offending newspaper and slamming it down on a table or desk. ‘Hitler’s taking his time in Poland, then he’ll turn his attention on us. Mark my words, the way this war’s going, France will fall before the end of the year. And then we’ll be next.’

‘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

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

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?’

‘Women are capable of many things, Brigadier. You just haven’t noticed it until now.’ I gave a quick smile. ‘I will need the first half of the money, in cash, two weeks from today.’

He blustered around the scrub, and I suddenly realised how much this deal meant to him. I should have taken him for fifty. He would have done it. He would have done virtually anything.

‘You’ll get your money,’ he growled under his breath. ‘Come back here on that date at ten, and it’ll be ready.’ He came towards me, his eyes scrunched up like Ebenezer Scrooge. ‘And mind you keep your mouth closed, or the deal’s off. Not a word to my wife either. She is not to know. Do you hear me?’

‘I hear you, Brigadier.’ I spoke quietly. ‘Loud and clear.’

With that I turned and strode out into the wood, leaving him pacing around, cursing under his breath.

Taking a deep breath of newly fresh air, I danced out of the bracken and onto the path. This will work, Clara. As a precaution, I have decided to get chummy with the nuisance Tilling woman. Keep my ear to the ground. This is big money, and my attention to detail merciless. I’ll write closer with details, just as you said you wanted in your letter. I know you think I’ll mess it up like usual, but I won’t let you down this time. You’ll be rich before the spring is out, I swear.

Edwina

Notice pinned to the Chilbury village hall noticeboard,

Monday, 15th April, 1940

Mrs Tilling’s Journal

Wednesday, 17th April, 1940

Prim’s notice in the church hall announcing a new ‘Ladies choir’ has caused uproar in our tiny community. Last night before the Women’s Voluntary Service meeting (or the WVS as we say these days), Mrs B told me she’d gone straight to the Vicar to find out the truth.

‘“Have you allowed this woman – this newcomer – to take over the choir and debase it beyond recognition?” I demanded of him, and do you know what he said? The Vicar, who is supposed to be a Man of God, told me, “Well, she was awfully forceful and I really couldn’t object.” I didn’t know what to say!’

‘Gosh,’ I said. I was rather excited about the whole adventure. At least we’d be singing again. I’d missed it. ‘I know it’s unusual, but why don’t we go along and see what Prim has to say. There’s no harm in it, after all.’

‘No harm in it?’ she bellowed back at me. ‘No harm in ruining the reputation of our village? I can’t imagine what Lady Worthing will have to say to me about it. She’s such a stickler for doing things the way they’ve always been done.’

A few of the other WVS ladies joined in, the Sewing Ladies tutting about it over their troops’ pyjamas, the canteen ladies unsure how it would work. So you can imagine my curiosity as I peeked into the church this evening, nipping in out of the rain.

I was one of the first to arrive, and the place looked enchanted, the candles at the altar throwing dark shadows around the nave. One by one the ladies began to arrive: Mrs Gibbs from the shop, Mrs B, Mrs Quail at the organ, and even Hattie, who’s heavily pregnant now but said she wouldn’t miss it for the world. Miss Paltry made an appearance – it seems she is turning a new leaf, even speaking to me at the end about becoming involved in the WVS. Kitty and Mrs Winthrop bounded in enthusiastically, bringing their evacuee, Silvie, who for once was almost smiling. Venetia strolled in, perfectly dressed in case she bumps into Mr Slater. She’s become astoundingly unpleasant. But maybe there’s hope for her now that Angela Quail’s out of proximity.

By seven the place was packed, in spite of the downpour, and a buzz of chatter and anticipation filled the chilly air; even Our Lady of Grace seemed to look down in readiness. Meanwhile, a firm contingent of naysayers clucked like a bunch of unhappy hens in front of the altos’ pew, urged on by Mrs B.

Suddenly, the massive double doors flung open, and Prim, majestic in her black, sweeping cloak, swooshed down the aisle towards us, her footsteps cascading through the wooden awnings, scaring a few bats in the belfry. She swirled off her cloak and shook off the rain, her hair looking especially frazzled. With a look of pomp and ceremony in her eyes, she plumped a pile of music on a chair and pranced theatrically up the steps to the pulpit.

‘May I have everyone’s attention, please,’ she called, her pronunciation resounding richly through the cloisters. ‘I’m proud to announce the creation of the Chilbury Ladies’ Choir.’

From one half of the crowd, a round of applause burst forth. I felt a warm glow inside me. This might become a reality.

But on the other side, Mrs B, hands on hips, stood defiant, guarding her territory and supporters with a firm, unyielding presence.

Prim continued, her bright grey eyes bulging with purpose. ‘I know that everyone’s been feeling downcast at the choir’s demise, which is why,’ she announced jubilantly with a flourish of her baton, ‘I proposed to the Vicar that the village’s dear choir should become a women’s-only choir.’

‘And how exactly did you do that?’ Mrs B asked in her usual condescending way.

‘I explained that now that there’s a war going on, we’re far more in need of a choir than ever before. We need to be able to come together and sing, to make wonderful music and help ourselves through this dreadful time.’ She paused, turning towards a tall candle beside her so that its flickers reflected thoughtfully in her eyes. ‘Some of us remember the last war, the endless suffering and death it caused. It is time for us women to do what we can as a group to support each other and keep our spirits up. Just because there are no men, it doesn’t mean we can’t do it by ourselves.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Mrs B stepped forward, her pompous form bristling up to the pulpit. She was dressed in her usual tweed shooting jacket and skirt, puffing out her chest in what her friends and neighbours know to be her fighting stance. ‘What will we do without the basses and tenors?’

‘We will sing arrangements for female voices, or I will rearrange them for us. We don’t need the men! We are a complete choir all by ourselves!’

‘In any case,’ Mrs Quail laughed from the organ, ‘the only bass we had was old Mr Dawkins. And he hasn’t been singing in tune for at least two years.’

A few titters came from younger members, but Mrs B was not disheartened, looking around for her supporters to speak up.

‘What will God think?’ one of the Sewing Ladies piped up. ‘He couldn’t have intended women to sing on their own. Just think of the Hallelujah Chorus – where would that be without men?’

‘There are plenty of male-only choirs, aren’t there?’ Prim chuckled. ‘Think of the great choirs of Cambridge, not to mention St Paul’s Cathedral. I can’t imagine any God would dislike a spot of singing.’

‘But it goes against the natural order of things,’ Mrs B said.

I felt like clearing my throat and telling her that she was wrong, and before I knew it, I was saying out loud, ‘Maybe we’ve been told that women can’t do things so many times that we’ve actually started to believe it. In any case, the natural order of things has been temporarily changed because there are no men around.’ I glanced around for inspiration. ‘Mrs Gibbs makes her own milk deliveries now, and Mrs Quail has taken on the role of bus driver, like a lot of us taking on new jobs. The war’s mixed everything else up. Why shouldn’t it change the choir too?’

A few claps went round, as well as one or two cheers of ‘Hear, hear!’ and ‘That’s the spirit!’ I still couldn’t believe I’d stood up and spoken, and to Mrs B as well, who was watching me in a highly disapproving way.

‘Indeed, Mrs Tilling?’ Mrs B snipped. ‘I don’t know which part of that address shocks me the most! The notion of having to lower our moral standards because of the war, or the fact that you, my dear, seem to have joined the fray.’ She turned to the group, clustered on the altar between the two choir stalls. ‘We will end this once and for all with a show of hands. Whoever agrees with this preposterous notion, please raise your hand.’

Now Mrs B is not a spirited loser. Even as she counted and recounted the hands that went up, an indignant frown took form. She glowered at us as if we were somehow beyond reproach. ‘Don’t think this won’t have its consequences. I’ll be watching. Carefully.’ And with that she huffed off, making a great show of it, and then, not being able to quite leave, plonked herself down in the last pew. She obviously felt she could guilt us into changing our minds, but as the voices around me grew, I knew she had no such chance.

‘What a jolly idea,’ Hattie said. ‘I can’t think why we didn’t come up with it before.’

‘Yes, and such a splendid name too,’ Venetia declared. ‘The Chilbury Ladies’ Choir. It has a ring about it.’

I hadn’t thought of it before, but now I found myself wondering why we’d been closed down in the first place, why the Vicar had so much say over us. And, more to the point, why we’d simply let him do it.

Prim passed around some copies of ‘Be Thou My Vision’. ‘Let’s get ourselves organised. Stand in your usual places in the choir stalls, or wherever you’d like to be, and try to sing along with your part.’

We muddled around, and Mrs B huffed into the altos beside me. ‘I need to be here to see what a mess she’s going to make of the whole thing.’

‘It’ll be fine,’ I said, but I was holding my breath, praying that we’d do well. I didn’t want it to fall through right from the start, for Prim to be disheartened by our terrible voices. We needed to show her that this could work.

With a look of confidence on her face, Prim lifted her baton, looked to Mrs Quail to begin the introduction, and then brought us in. The sound of our voices filling the space, echoing through the little stone church, brought a burst of joy inside of me: the thrill of singing as a group again, the soft music of intertwining voices, for once staying in tune. I wondered if everyone was putting in a little more effort. Trying to make this work.

‘That was wonderful,’ Prim gushed when the final tapering of the last notes ebbed away into the still air. ‘We’ve got some talented singers here!’

We all smiled and hoped she was talking about us. Even Mrs B’s little group seemed to come under the spell of the music, forgetting the objections.

Mrs B, however, wasn’t ready to give up the fight. ‘I’ll have to speak to the Vicar about this,’ she announced, and flounced down the altar and out of the double doors. I’ll hear soon enough how that goes.

Afterwards, I wandered home in a trance, trapped between the euphoria of song and the pinpricks of fear reminding me that David is leaving soon. The Nazis invaded Norway last week, and we’re sending a force to try to push them out. I hope they don’t send David there.

Slowly, softly, I began to sing to myself ‘Be Thou My Vision’. Everything was black in the moonless night, the blackout rules forcing all the light out of the world. But with a cautious smile, I realised that there are no laws against singing, and I found my voice becoming louder, in defiance of this war.

In defiance of my right to be heard.

Kitty Winthrop’s Diary

Thursday, 18th April, 1940

What a breathtaking day! My first singing lesson with the superb and masterful Prim took place at her house on Church Row at five o’clock. I have never been more excited, and arrived a whole ten minutes early, waiting for her to get back from the university.

Prim arrived on her bicycle, her cloaked body balancing precariously on the narrow frame. ‘You’re here early,’ she chortled. ‘I always say that enthusiasm paves every path with a shining light.’ She climbed off and leant the bicycle against the front of the house. ‘Come in, and we’ll make some tea before we start.’

The small house was exactly the same size and shape as Hattie’s, except it was completely filled with extraordinary things and smelt as musty as an antique shop. In the corner, a gold elephant stood on his hind legs. On the wall above were paintings of distant mountain peaks, and the burnt oranges and reds of a desert sunset. A small table was crammed with decorated boxes of different shapes and sizes, covered with shells or brightly coloured silks – peacock blue, emerald green, cerise.

‘Open one,’ she said, as she watched my eyes flitting over everything.

I picked up an emerald one with gold-coloured cord. There was a small latch that opened it, and inside the black velvet interior was a tiny silver ring, a child’s, with a St Christopher motif on the front.

‘Was this yours?’ I asked hesitantly.

‘Yes,’ she laughed. ‘It was given to me when I was a child. It came from India, where I grew up. India has always been my favourite place – the colours, the noise, the vibrancy, the people.’ She pointed to a picture of a beautiful white temple on the wall beside her. ‘We lived close to this majestic edifice, the Taj Mahal. It’s a mausoleum built by an emperor for his wife, who died in childbirth. He visited here every day, it is said, to grieve.’

‘Can you imagine loving someone so much that you create such a wonderful building?’

‘Well,’ she said. ‘It depends how rich and powerful one happens to be, I expect. Most people wouldn’t be able to afford it. But that doesn’t make one’s love any less. We can show our grief in simpler ways. Is not the beauty and power of funeral song just as great as such a palace?’

I nodded, peering into the sitting room that was beaming with the brightness of antiquities. ‘Do all of these things come from India?’

‘Not at all. I travelled across Asia. There’s a mesmerising world out there, where people live in all kinds of different ways.’ She led the way into the room so that I could see. Gold gleamed from every corner: gold urns, gold statues, gold silk drapes around the windows, tiny gold miniatures as small as my thumb – an elephant, an old woman, a falcon.

‘Other cultures are rather odd, don’t you think?’ I said.

‘No, quite the contrary. Other cultures often make me think that we’re the strange ones.’ She chuckled to herself, then headed for the kitchen. ‘Let’s make some tea.’

As the kettle boiled, I looked around. A series of old decorated jugs sat on the windowsill, and bunches of dried herbs lined the far wall, giving off scents of rosemary, thyme, and lavender. A waist-high seagull watched us from the corner.

‘Oh that’s Earnest, made of papier-mâché,’ she chirped. ‘He was one of the props for a play we put on in London years ago. He’s always here in the morning, looking hungry.’

I laughed and gave him a pat on the head.

Around the sink were a number of bottles full of liquids and powders and potions, and I leapt back. Was Prim a witch?

She saw me stare, and smiled. ‘Those are my medicines,’ she said. ‘I once was very ill indeed, and I need the medicine to prevent me from getting ill again.’

I stood back, looking at her. She looked pretty normal – well, normal in a kind of witchy way. ‘It’s not catching, is it?’

‘No, I caught it from a nasty mosquito in India, but we don’t have mosquitoes here.’ She rearranged the bottles, then made the tea. ‘The disease is called malaria.’

‘Were you terribly ill?’

‘It was almost the end of me. I was about the same age as your sister, my whole life ahead of me, with plenty of music and laughter, and romance too. There was a boy whom I was to marry.’ She smiled at the distant memory of him. ‘He was the most beautiful creature, a butterfly collector, brilliantly clever.’

‘Why didn’t you marry him?’

‘He died,’ she said simply. ‘He contracted malaria at the same time as me, and didn’t make it. We’d grown up as neighbours and then fell in love. We became ill at the same time. But the malaria ran its course and passed out of me. I was alive.’

‘But brokenhearted!’

‘Exactly, and ever since then I’ve felt destined to live a double life for both me and my butterfly collector, alone yet not.’ She found a floral porcelain sugar bowl and milk jug. ‘It taught me that you have to live your own life. Don’t let anyone hold you back.’

I found myself blurting out, ‘I want to be a singer, but Daddy insists that I can’t. He wants me to make a good marriage, to be a good wife. But Mama tells me to take care when choosing a husband, or my life will be a misery.’

‘You need to make your own path,’ she said, leading the way into the back room. ‘Decide what you want to do, and then all you have to do is work out how to achieve it.’

The room was full of musical instruments. There was a huge harp, an upright piano, a harpsichord, a stand with a clarinet, and a silver piccolo lying across the table like a fairy had just flown off after doing a spot of practice.

Prim perched the tray on a tiny round table and pulled over the piano seat, gesturing for me to sit on the harpsichord chair.

‘Is that why you never married? Do you still love the butterfly collector?’

‘I don’t know.’ She smiled, pouring out the tea. ‘Sometimes we do things without fully understanding. You shouldn’t try to know everything, Kitty. Often it’s beyond our comprehension.’ She put the teapot back on the tray. ‘Now before we start, I want you to sing me a note, as clearly as you can.’

I sang a long, high ‘laaaa’.

‘Beautiful,’ she said, picking up the cup and saucer again and handing it over to me. ‘Did you think about that too much before singing?’

‘No,’ I said, sipping the hot tea.

‘Sometimes the magic of life is beyond thought. It’s the sparkle of intuition, of bringing your own personal energy into your music.’

‘But don’t I need to worry about singing the right words to the right notes?’

‘The most important part of singing is the feeling.’ She leant forward. ‘Remember, Kitty. I have faith in you.’

That afternoon we sang ‘Ave verum corpus’ by Mozart, my favourite composer. I sang better and stronger than I ever have before.

‘There is a tragic tale about Mozart,’ she told me. ‘He wrote his Requiem, one of the saddest funereal pieces ever written, as he himself was dying, telling his wife, “I fear I am writing a requiem for myself.” On the eve of his death, he and some friends sang it together, and it was at the most poignant song of his Requiem, the ‘Lacrimosa’, that he let the papers drop and began to weep for his very own death. He died in the early morning. Can you imagine writing your own death music?’

I gasped. ‘That’s dreadful. Do you think the music made him die?’

‘Perhaps it was that he knew deep down inside that he was dying, and put that fear into the music.’ She looked back at the ‘Ave verum corpus’. ‘Why don’t you try this again, just like before, only this time, think about Mozart writing for his own death. Put your heart into it.’

She began the introduction, and I felt the sound of my voice come from deep inside, and I found myself thinking of the fear you must feel before you die.

A strange elation came over me when I’d finished, like I was a pure white dove’s feather being whooshed up into the air by the lightness of the breeze. And later, as I wandered home, I drew a deep breath of the crisp spring air, and I felt suddenly jubilant to be alive.

Letter from Miss Edwina Paltry to her sister, Clara

3 Church Row

Chilbury

Kent

Friday, 19th April, 1940

Dear Clara,

A large pile of crisp hundred-pound notes is now hidden in a secret hole under my floorboards, wrapped in an old envelope and done up neatly with a piece of string knotted twice. In less than a month, the deed will be done, the money will be double, and we can away, you and I, to our new life in Birnham Wood.

Yesterday I met the Brigadier for the exchange, the bundle of money gripped firmly in his sinewy fingers, the tight old git. To say he was reluctant to hand it over would be putting it mild. But I finally wrenched it away and fled, the money safe in my hands.

That was the easy part.

Now I have to deliver the boy.

You see, much to my infuriation, Mrs Dawkins from the farm gave birth last Friday. I wanted to push its scrawny head back in, but then I saw that it was a girl, so it wouldn’t have been any good anyway.

Now my hopes are pinned on goody-two-shoes Hattie. She’s due a week after Mrs Winthrop, so at least I won’t have any issues with early births. Problem is the Tilling woman’s hovering around like a bleeding fairy godmother. Now she’s gone and promised to be midwife at the birth, even though I tried to talk Hattie out of it. I mean, who would take a misery like Mrs Tilling instead of an experienced, well equipped professional like myself? But she was adamant, whining that Mrs Tilling was the closest to family that she has in a pathetically sentimental way. God damn the girl!

Unspeakable as it was, I decided to befriend the nauseating Tilling woman. I had to persuade her out of it, or find out when she’d be out of town. If all else fails, I could give her a major injury, push her down some stairs or collide into her with my bicycle. I hadn’t wanted to go that route frankly. There’s a fine line between a broken arm and manslaughter, after all.

As a first effort, I joined the new choir to cosy up next to her, and I couldn’t believe my luck when I walked in and spotted a place right beside her.

‘I’m surprised to see you here, Miss Paltry,’ she said snootily, shuffling over. ‘It’s not often we see you in church.’

‘I always come on Sundays,’ I smiled warmly, although I bet she’s the type to count and see who’s absent.

There was a lot of kerfuffle about starting a women’s choir, which was patently ridiculous. Of course women can sing without men. I do it every week in the bath.

Then we sang some rather dreary hymns, and after practice was over, I saw my chance.

‘I feel it my duty, Mrs Tilling, to lighten your load and take over Hattie’s birth,’ I began. ‘I live next door to her, after all, and you’re so incredibly busy these days. I have all the equipment and medicines at my house should anything happen. I even have a mechanical ventilator,’ I lied.

‘What? In your own home?’ Mrs Tilling frowned with disbelief. ‘Did the hospital lend it to you?’

‘Yes, that’s it,’ I said quick as a fox, hoping she wouldn’t check. ‘You’d be surprised how often I need it to get the baby breathing proper. First-time pregnancies can be hazardous, you know.’

‘But you’re busy too, and Hattie’s made her mind up to have me there.’

‘I may be busy, but duty first!’ I bounced back. ‘I feel a responsibility, deep down inside.’ I thrust a fist up against my heart at this point, looking all patriotic. ‘And if anything should happen, I’d feel tormented for the rest of my days.’ I tried to push out a few tears at this point, but there’s only so much you can do.

‘Quite,’ Mrs Tilling said, stepping back, a look of distaste on her lips. I sensed that she smelt something fishy. I must have overdone the theatrics. So I quickly changed tack.

‘But you do so much for our little community, what with the WVS always helping people out – all this on top of your own nursing duties.’

‘Yes, the WVS is a great force. You should join. There’s a meeting in Litchfield a fortnight from today, distributing the Bundles for Britain from America. Why don’t you come along and see how it works.’

I smiled a gleeful smile, as that was precisely what I was looking for! A date when the Tilling woman would be out of town. And perfect timing too – a day before Mrs Winthrop’s due date, and a week before Hattie’s. ‘Is it an all-day event?’

‘Yes, all day Friday the third of May.’

She looked slightly bemused at my enthusiasm. So I stopped smiling and added with my usual despondency, ‘I’ll have to check my dates, but I’ll try to come.’

Fortunately, Kitty descended on her with ludicrous cheers for the new choir, so I scooped up my bag and fled, dashing home before my elation exploded.

What a stroke of luck! Now all I have to do is check that she keeps her WVS meeting and hone my plan for the births.

I have become quite the professional, you see, Clara. My herbal potion brings babies out with impressive speed. Now, to give the potion to Mrs Winthrop, who is a timid, compliant sort of woman, will be no problem. This is her fourth baby, so I expect the baby to pop out within the hour. After calling out that it’s a boy, I’ll pretend the baby’s not breathing proper, that I need to whisk it to my house for resuscitation with the mechanical ventilator. (Who’s to know I haven’t got one?)

Hattie, however, will be a more difficult matter. Not only will it be gruelling to get her to take the potion as she is so nauseatingly proper, but then it’ll take four or five hours to get the baby out, it being her first child. Meanwhile, I’ll need someone to watch the Winthrop child.

That’s why I decided to enlist the Winthrops’ maid, Elsie. Not only could she lend a sense of propriety by coming with me when I whisk off the Winthrops’ baby, but she could also help look after the mite while I’m busy with Hattie. So when I spotted her in the shop yesterday, I invited her for tea and mentioned that I may be in need of her assistance at the birth.

‘What you’re saying is you want me to help with Mrs Winthrop’s birth, and then come to your house if you have to take the baby away for emergency help?’ She screwed her eyes up with distaste, suspecting it was down-and-dirty business. But she didn’t ask questions, came from a background like that, see – ask no questions, take the money, leg it.

‘That’s right, love,’ I said, offering her another biscuit. ‘I’d just need someone to help me look after the baby for a short while.’

She took two biscuits, and I could see her thinking it through, her beautiful face pondering like a deer listening for danger. ‘I could do it,’ she said at last. ‘But how much will you give me?’

‘I’d give you ten bob for your trouble, provided you kept quiet.’

‘Ten bob?’ she uttered. ‘More like ten quid, I’d say.’

‘Five quid then,’ I said. What a pain this girl was being!

‘Oh, all right then,’ she said, getting up. ‘I’d love to get me own back on that cheating bastard, even if it’s just his family.’

‘You’re worth a thousand of him, Elsie,’ I said, leading her to the door. ‘You need to find yourself a proper gentleman.’

‘Yeah, p’rhaps I will.’ She poked her head out the door and looked up into the puffy grey clouds. ‘You just wait, I’ll find someone far better than that scoundrel.’

Then she darted out, her long slim form gracefully flitting through droplets of rain, and I settled back to my plan with relish.

This will work, sister! I wish you’d stop pestering me with your doubts. I have no time to think about whether it’s right or wrong, and who cares anyway? How can I think of all that morality nonsense when we’ve got a chance to get back to where we belong, safe and free? I shall let you know when the deed is done. Keep hush, as usual.

Edwina

Silvie’s Diary

Saturday, 20th April, 1940

Kitty told me to write a diary. It is good for my English. I have to write about our house. It is big and grand. Mrs Winthrop is quiet. Nanny Godwin is old. Kitty is nice but a bit bossy. Venetia is my friend. Brigadier Winthrop is very angry. There is a grumpy maid and a strange butler who has a hump. The new baby is nearly here. I hope they will still want me then.

There is a new choir and I am a soprano. Singing is good. Kitty helps me with the words. I like the horses too. Amadeus is my favourite. I fell off at Bullsend Brook last week. Mr Slater helped me walk home. He is the man Venetia likes. He spoke a little Czech. It was terrible. My English is much better.

Kitty Winthrop’s Diary

Tuesday, 23rd April, 1940

David Tilling’s leaving party

Tonight Mrs Tilling was throwing a party for David. He’s back from training and heading to the front in France tomorrow.

But I was much more focused on Henry, who was on forty-eight-hour leave from his aerodrome. One has to take advantage of these moments if one has eternal happiness in mind. I spent the afternoon perfecting my appearance. Floating around in Venetia’s lilac chiffon dress, I knew I would be the focus of everyone’s attention. People would say, ‘Is that Kitty? Who would have known she’d be so beautiful’, and, ‘She puts Venetia quite in the shade.’ Henry would watch from afar, unable to tear his eyes away. Then, when the music started, he would take me in his arms and express the endless depths of his love.

Maybe it wouldn’t happen exactly like that. There might not be dancing, after all. But I was determined that this was the night that would secure our future together.

‘The dress is too big,’ Silvie muttered when I asked her how I looked.

I’d already padded myself up a little on top, but decided to throw an extra stocking down each one, just to be on the safe side.

‘That’s better,’ I said, smoothing down the dress in front of the mirror. ‘He won’t be able to resist me, don’t you think?’

Silvie sighed. ‘I think he likes Venetia.’

I laughed. Silvie’s definitely coming out of her shell a bit more, but I don’t know where she gets some of her ideas. I’m far more interested in hearing about her secret, and badger her to tell me all the time. But she just goes quiet and runs off.

Venetia wanted to make a late entrance so she stayed behind, as did Daddy, who was tied up with work. Norway is going horribly wrong, he says. The Nazis are walking all over us, and it looks like we might have to back out fast. Everyone’s worried they’ll invade Belgium and France next, although apparently we have all routes covered, so we should be fine.

So it was only Mama, Silvie, and I who plunged into the cool evening air. We beamed our torches around because it’s scary walking down the lane next to Peasepotter Wood. Just as we were saying that you never know who might be lurking in there, there was a crunch of bracken and who should appear but Proggett. He shook himself off, bid us good evening, and headed back to the house. How very odd.

We pressed on. As Mama is incredibly pregnant now, Silvie and I had to take an arm on each side to help her along, which made it rather jolly.

The sky was curdled with dimples of darkening dusk, and apart from the odd hoot of a barn owl, it was silent, like we were treading into an enchanted land. Tiny threads of pollen dusted the air, the sweetly scented yellow specks plunging me into a reminder of last summer, before this beastly war, when everything was just right – as it should be.

The Tillings’ home, Ivy House, is one of my favourite places in the village. Not as imposing as Chilbury Manor, nor as ornate as Brampton Hall, it has a quiet serenity about it, a flavour of Mrs Tilling’s thoughtfulness lacing itself through the fairy-tale gardens, the tiny rosebuds growing over a series of pagodas, and a birdbath and feeder, as Mrs Tilling loves all living creatures. She now has six hens for eggs, and a healthy vegetable patch to help the war effort. Ivy House used to be the vet’s office before Dr Tilling died ten years ago, and there is still an air of purpose around the place, as if, at its very heart, it remains a haven for lost or harmed creatures.

As we opened the front door, a lively throng surged out into the garden, and we hurried in to avoid blackout fines. (Mrs B dishes them out like a strict school ma’am – even if only a smidgen of light is let out for a split second she’ll slap a fine in your hand and bellow, ‘We don’t want the Jerries to see us, do we?’)

Inside, the house was merry with flickering candles and jaunty music, which sat oddly with the dreadful fear that David might not come back. Red, white, and blue bunting was draped across the walls, probably borrowed from Mrs B after the extravaganza she threw for Henry. The crowd of chattering villagers stood around gossiping, each clutching a rationed-out glass of sherry.

Venetia made her grand entrance not long after we’d arrived, bringing the room to a standstill by loudly proclaiming, ‘I hope I’m not late!’ Standing out from the rest of us, she was wearing a dress of glistening green and gold, twirling it this way and that so that the sequins caught the light, trailing around her legs with a tempting fluidity. Within an instant, there was a crowd of men surrounding her, mostly friends of David’s on their way to war. She rewarded each with her special flirty attention, all pouty lips whispering little secrets into their ears. I wondered if I could craftily trip her up.

Before long Mrs Tilling hushed us, sending a wave of shushes around the room, and went to fetch David down from his room. We cheered as he came in, dressed in full, pressed khaki uniform, looking terribly grown up. But as I watched, I realised with a flash of both relief and worry that he was still the same David – relief that a uniform doesn’t change a person, then worry that the clumsy lad was going to the front line. He was still the same foolish nine-year-old who’d got stuck up the cherry tree on the green, the same lanky twelve-year-old who I’d punched for pulling my pigtails, the same idiot fourteen-year-old who’d crashed the Dawkinses’ tractor into a perfectly innocent hedge. His colour is yellow, although not for cowardice, but rather a kind of blindness to reality, and I couldn’t help but worry for him. Even now, the eager and dazed look in his eyes showed the way he embraced every challenge in life, with a tireless naivety, like a fox gambolling into the hunt, half expecting to be caught, not thinking about how it all might end.

‘Wow!’ he gasped as he came into the glistening sitting room. ‘You shouldn’t have gone to so much effort.’ He put his arm around Mrs Tilling in his chaotically warm way. ‘Thank you for coming, everyone!’ He stepped forward to us. ‘Lovely to see you, Mrs B, I thought you’d be far too busy giving someone what for. Have you persuaded Mr Churchill to come and give the Chilbury WVS a speech yet? Bet he doesn’t know he has his top fan club here!’

Everyone laughed, and someone called, ‘He will do soon enough!’

David then turned to Venetia, taking her hand and kissing it. ‘And the beautiful Venetia, a last sight of you to cherish on my journey.’ His eyes remained on her as his smile lurched wetly.

Venetia was all modesty, looking up at him with fluttering eyelashes and glossy red lips. ‘David, you’ll come back my hero,’ she said in a voice breaking with tears. I wanted to laugh, until I met Mrs Tilling’s sour look from across the room. We all know Venetia doesn’t care a farthing for David. I have no idea why she insists on playing stupid games with him.

Mrs Tilling asked me to offer around a plate of rather chewy cheese straws (with so many rations no one ever knows what people put into recipes these days). So I mingled around, watching Henry, who was talking to a very pregnant Hattie. He was looking terrifically handsome with his sandy hair cropped and his pristine RAF uniform. His new moustache is devilishly dashing, like all the best fighter pilots. It makes his nose look a little less beaky, I think. And he looks older too, even though he’s already nineteen – a real man, someone who’ll know how to take care of me. He didn’t seem to notice me watching, until Hattie drew me over to join them.

‘What a gorgeous dress, Kitty,’ she said, fingering the fabric. ‘Don’t you think so, Henry?’

‘Yes indeed. You look lovely, Kitty,’ he said, grinning, and I found myself dissolving into his eyes. But then he added, ‘You’ll follow in your sister’s footsteps soon and become quite the beauty.’ His eyes swept over to Venetia, who was holding forth in a crowd of men beside the piano. Why does she feel she has to get the attention of every man in the room, including Henry, when she’s not even interested in any of them?

‘I don’t want to look like her,’ I said, annoyed, making him look back to me. ‘I want to be a beauty in my own right.’ I felt Hattie let out a sigh, I have no idea why.

‘Of course you’re a beauty in your own right, Kitty!’ Henry declared jovially, putting his hand warmly on my upper arm and giving me a special smile. I felt a surge of heat where he touched me, like a flame lighting up my body. I waited for him to take me in his arms—

But suddenly I felt his attention melt away – Venetia was approaching. Her dress fluttered as she twirled from one man to the next, like a dazzling dragonfly soaring around in search of prey. Her blonde hair hung low over her pearly white shoulders, while a stream of pungent perfume oozed from her soft, white neck. Henry’s hand lost contact with my arm, which suddenly felt cold and lost, and when I looked up at him, he had turned to face her.

‘Come and sit down with me, Henry darling, and tell me all about your bombing raids,’ she chanted loudly, scrolling her fingertips under his chin and softly directing his mouth towards her carefully painted lips. ‘I hear you’ve been fighting over Norway.’

‘I thought you were busy with the other men,’ he said under his breath.

‘They don’t mean a thing to me,’ she said, pouting. Then she leant her head to one side, her thick blonde hair forming a shimmering curtain to conceal her from the rest of the room, and she whispered something into his ear, her long red fingernails barely touching the other side of his neck.

He responded by whispering something back, his hand moving her hair back as his lips hovered closely to her ear.

A man’s voice called her from the other side of the room, and she pulled away.

‘I’ll have to think it over,’ she said, a menacing gleam in her eyes, and spun off into the throng. Henry followed briskly, calling her name. ‘Venetia!’

And me? I was abandoned, alone, in the middle of the room, mutely holding the plate of cheese straws in my hand. How could she do this to me? And why did he follow her? Doesn’t he know that she’s using him, that she says he’s boring and his nose is like a giant wart? Doesn’t he know she doesn’t care a toss about anyone except herself, lining up the men to prove she’s top? But worst of all, knowing how I love him, she revels in keeping him away from me, another of her little tricks at keeping everyone else beneath her, preening over us like she’s some kind of vicious queen. It’s not fair.

She snaked her way through the throng to Mr Slater, who was looking as impeccable as ever, his dark hair smoothed, a detached manliness about him making David and his friends look like halfwit schoolboys. Venetia’s been fanatical trying to get his attention, but he seems immune to her charms – possibly the first man ever. She’s stepping up her game, or else she’ll lose her bet with Angela. And Venetia always has to win. She calls herself the empress of this little place, and she is determined to keep it that way.

I wandered over to Daddy, who had dragged himself away from his office and was looking ferociously at Venetia, with Mrs B prattling away beside him. He wants Venetia to marry Henry and inherit Brampton Hall, which is just plain ridiculous. I simply can’t imagine them together, and even more horrible is the thought of Henry being my brother-in-law. Whenever we’d see each other, the tension would be insurmountable. But we would never give way to our secret passions, holding them inside like tragic lovers. Perhaps there’d be the occasional moment when we’d meet on the veranda. ‘Oh, Kitty,’ he’d say, surprised to see me. ‘Henry, I didn’t think you’d be here—’ I’d reply, looking at the ground, then back towards the open French door, a white drape spilling out in the soft summer breeze. ‘Nor I. I just have to say—’ ‘No, don’t, Henry. Don’t make things harder.’ ‘But Kitty, darling …’ and so forth, until one of us dies.

Daddy was muttering about Mr Slater again. ‘That Slater’s a worthless coward for sitting out the war.’

‘Mr Slater is exempt from fighting as he is flat-footed,’ Mrs B told him pointedly. She’s taken a fancy to Mr Slater, imagining him a great artist ready for her to discover. Trying to prove herself frightfully cultured, she’s attempting to take him under her wing, Heaven help him. Although I have no idea whether he’s any good. I don’t think Mrs B has the ability to discern a masterpiece from a school art project.

‘Slater’s a down-and-out skiver shirking his responsibilities.’ Daddy gulped down his sherry. ‘Cowardly laziness, that’s what it’s all about. He doesn’t realise that it’s fighting that makes a real man.’

I thought of Edmund blown to bits in the North Sea, and poor David on the brink of a bullet in France, and couldn’t help wondering if it had less to do with courage and more to do with common sense. Sending people off to their deaths seems completely ludicrous. I’ve begun imagining what it’s like being blown up in a submarine, the radar blipping warning signals of one’s approaching death, everyone saluting and singing the national anthem, ‘God save our gracious King’. Then boom. Nothing. Only gnawed pieces of fingers and ears washing up on unsuspecting beaches.

As I watched Mr Slater, I couldn’t help thinking that he can’t be all bad. He helped Silvie home last week when she came off Amadeus. She should never have tried to clear Bullsend Brook. It was lucky he was there. Although I wonder what he was doing at Bullsend Brook. It’s the other side of Peasepotter Wood – the middle of the countryside.

Daddy’s eyes narrowed on Venetia, who was busy with Mr Slater, all witty replies and feigned boredom. Even though Daddy will have words with her later, he can’t control Venetia at all. Every time he tells her to leave Slater alone, she simply shrugs and smiles and says she’s ‘Daddy’s little poppet’, and then carries on as usual. It makes me sick.

Henry was standing behind Venetia’s shoulder protectively, trying to get into the conversation. He didn’t have to try hard as Mr Slater seemed pleased to include him, speaking to him directly, making jokes as they both laughed. It was as if he was avoiding Venetia’s attention. Henry put his hand on Venetia’s arm, and I saw his eyes glance at her face, her throat, her cleavage beneath the low-cut dress. She shook off his hand, but he stayed close, and I wondered why he let her play games with him. But then I remembered how clever he is – he must be playing some kind of game himself.

Then I realised I wasn’t the only one watching Venetia. David Tilling was gazing over at her from the window, leaning against the wall, engulfed by her presence. He’s been in love with Venetia since he was in breeches. I never thought it was so serious, but his eyes were like those of a big gulping fish, drinking her up. Venetia needs to watch herself there. David’s become a lot more forthright since army training.

‘Let’s get the piano out,’ Mrs Tilling called. ‘Can I dare Kitty with a song or two?’ Mrs Quail (whose colour is a cheery orange) plumped her very ample behind on the piano stool, while Mrs B grasped my elbow and marched me up beside her. Everyone knows I plan to be a singer when I grow up, so I’m always the first one called for a song or two. Prim gave me a special smile from the crowd, and I felt determined to make a good impression.

‘Come on, Kitty,’ everyone cheered, and I must confess I was touched and took the score. Mrs Quail had given me ‘Greensleeves’, that beautiful song that was supposedly written by King Henry VIII, although I bet he asked someone to help him as you can’t be king and write lovely music at the same time. Especially if you’re busy beheading wives.

Mrs Quail began the opening, and I entered with the wonderful tune. It was perfect for showing off my top notes. When I finished, Prim gave me a little nod, as if to say Well done, and I felt a surge of delight. At long last my skills have been noticed!

I glanced over and caught Henry’s eyes, and it was as if the world slowed down as our gaze met across the crowded room. He smiled, his whole face lit with joy and love, until Venetia nudged him with some remark or other. Trust her to interfere.

In the next song, Gilbert and Sullivan’s ‘I Am the Very Model of a Modern Major General’, Mrs Quail started playing faster to trip me up on purpose. It was hilarious.

‘You should be on stage as a comedian, not a singer, Kitty,’ Hattie joked. Her colour is lilac, pretty and uplifting, and I have no idea why she’s such good friends with vile Venetia and awful Angela Quail. Perhaps she’s trying to rescue them from utter loathsomeness.

The pregnancy is making her tired – I could tell from her big brown eyes sagging with the weight of the evening – and yet she’s always so lively, perking us up with her jokes and smiles. It must be difficult for her with Victor stuck on a ship in the Atlantic. I still can’t get used to them being married. They were friends for years and then, as if someone turned on a giant light, war was about to break out and they fell in love and got married within the week. It’s happening everywhere, apparently. Obviously, it’s all about death. How strange that love and death suddenly become so tightly knit in a time of war.

Why everyone’s getting married in a hurry

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

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.

Letter from Miss Edwina Paltry to her sister, Clara

3 Church Row

Chilbury

Kent

Friday, 3rd May, 1940

Dear Clara,

You have a champion for a sister! Triumphant is how I am, as it wasn’t easy – like Hercules getting through the ruddy Twelve Labours, except that it was only two screaming babies being swapped. But I wasn’t going to let that reward run away from me. Not this time, Clara. Let me tell you the whole.

After a good breakfast spent watching Mrs Tilling, smartly dressed in her ghastly green WVS uniform, arrive and then depart from Hattie’s house for her usual morning check, I gathered my black bag and moved into the first part of my plan: feeding Hattie the potion.

‘Anybody in?’ I called as I knocked at the door and pushed it ajar, putting on the most friendly voice I could muster. ‘Hattie? It’s me, Miss Paltry. Are you upstairs?’

‘In the kitchen,’ she chanted in her singsong voice.

I walked in to find her pottering around the tiny room, surrounded by soil-coated vegetables dug up from the garden, a sizable leek in one hand.

‘I’m glad I found you in,’ I smiled. ‘I saw a midwife friend in Faversham yesterday, and the most remarkable coincidence. I was telling her about your tiredness, and how there was nothing you could take for it, and she told me about a new remedy. She said she has been giving it out for months and every woman has been so happy that she’s quite run out of the stuff!’

‘Can I get it anywhere?’ Hattie turned, putting down the leek. ‘I haven’t been able to get out for days now, and I need to visit the children in Litchfield Hospital. I’ve been giving them extra lessons in my spare time, and—’

‘As it happened she received a new box while I was there, and I begged her to let me have some for you.’

‘You did? How marvellous!’ She took a few steps towards me in eagerness, fixing a thick strand of dark hair that had slipped out of its pins. ‘How much do I owe you?’

‘It was quite pricey, dear, because it’s so much in demand,’ I said, putting my head on one side to add an extra cheeriness. ‘But I’ll give you a special price of thruppence ha’penny for the dose.’

She got some change from her purse and handed me a few coins. I checked the money (it was a ha’penny short, but I decided not to press her for it) and then I took the brown bottle out of my bag, along with a teaspoon.

‘How much do I have to take?’ She took the bottle and eyed it, her rosy mouth pinched with fear.

‘A teaspoon will do the trick. Let me pour it out for you.’ I took the bottle and got her a glass of water. ‘There’s nothing like having a proper midwife to help you with these things.’

I stepped back to open the mixture, as the smell can knock you out. Breathing through my mouth, I poured the globuled liquid, and a faint green-grey effervescence lifted off as the smell of dog meat and motor oil crept up my nostrils unaware. I handed it over.

‘Are you sure?’ She dithered, grimacing at the powerful concoction.

‘I know it doesn’t look appetising, but what medicines do?’ I eased her elbow up, lifting the spoon towards her mouth, and down it jolly well went.

She turned rather green, and I worried she might throw up, or worse, faint. It wasn’t an official medication as such, and I’d heard about some of the side effects – internal bleeding, convulsions, coma – and for a moment she gasped for air and her eyes seemed to pass backward into her head. I sat her down (before she fell) and patted her heartily on the back, and at last she choked violently and seemed more herself, clutching the bottle like it was a blooming lifesaver. I stayed with her a few minutes, trying to get the bottle away. I wasn’t going to leave any evidence for that interfering Tilling woman to examine. In the end I had to grab it and run, as time was moving fast.

‘But, Miss Paltry, I feel something happening,’ she gasped, grabbing my hand.

‘Early days, early days,’ I said kindly, yanking my hand away and running for the door. You see I had to get the Winthrop baby out quick, before this one gave birth. It was all a matter of timing, and I wasn’t letting pleasantries get in my way.

I rushed out and strode up to the Winthrop house. To get to Chilbury Manor, you only need to cross the green and the square and take the lane up to the driveway. It’s ten minutes on a usual day, five if you’re in a hurry, less if you run. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that.

Elsie met me at the side door, looking alarmingly dishevelled, hair falling out from under her cap.

‘I don’t know if I can watch the baby for you. I mean, if I had to,’ she said. ‘Nanny Godwin stays in her quarters in the mornings, and there’s no one else about. I don’t know if I’d be able to get away.’

‘You must,’ I urged, taking her slim wrist and digging my grubby nails into the soft underside.

A gasp of pain escaped her. ‘I’ll do what I can.’

‘You’ll explain that it’s for the baby’s sake, your duty as a servant.’

She looked bewildered, and as I followed her upstairs, I let out a sigh, thinking, God help me if the idiot girl ruins the whole thing!

Wimpy Mrs Winthrop took the medicine without any qualms, only grateful that I should be thinking of her. Since it was her fourth child, labour began almost instantly, and the child’s head was peeking out before Elsie had got back with the hot water. There was a moment, I recall, where I wondered if luck would be with me, and it would be male. But before I could even cross my fingers, the baby was born, and as she plopped out in front of me, my eyes homed in on the ominous lack of boy parts.

‘It’s a boy!’ I announced, containing my disappointment while snipping the cord and swiftly swaddling the baby in a blanket. I tried to be fast so Elsie wouldn’t see, but as I turned, there she was, a look of anguish on her face.

‘But it’s a girl,’ she said, quiet like.

‘No, Elsie,’ I said through gritted teeth. ‘It’s a boy.’ I frowned at her and jerked my head towards the door, and I saw her eyes narrowing as the penny dropped.

Luckily the lady didn’t hear Elsie. ‘It’s a boy!’ she cried meekly, ‘Thank God it’s a boy!’

‘But he’s having trouble breathing,’ I gasped, trying not to make it sound rehearsed. ‘I have a mechanical ventilator at my house. I’ll have to rush him away quickly. This maid can come with me. Will the nanny be able to help with the afterbirth?’

Elsie ran off to get the nanny, and I was left with Mrs Winthrop begging me to see the child.

‘Please, please, I want to see my baby!’

‘No, no, no, Mrs Winthrop. I need to get him away as soon as I can.’

She just kept on and on. Lucky she wasn’t strong enough to haul herself out of bed or else I’d have been in trouble.

Elsie returned promptly with the old nanny, who looked both tired and dismayed. I told her about the afterbirth, clamped the baby to my chest, and darted down the stairs and out the door. As I strode down to the village, Elsie trotted along beside me asking pointless questions and being worried about getting found out. I wished I’d never employed the stupid girl.

Back in my kitchen, I had a nice box for the baby and a bottle of milk made up from powder. The way I saw it, I’d only be gone a few minutes and she’d be fine with Elsie for that short time. As I laid her down, the baby looked up with her big china blue eyes, just like her sister Venetia’s, and I briefly wondered what it would be like to be a mother, to have such a lamb. I might have been a mother if that stupid Ida didn’t get pregnant and force Geoffrey to marry her instead of me. He didn’t even have proof it was his, the fool that he was. He could have asked me to help. I’d have sorted her out, well and proper.

‘I know what you’re up to, and I want none of it,’ Elsie suddenly announced, lifting up the baby. ‘I’m taking her back to her mum.’

‘No, you’re ruddy well not,’ I said, snatching the baby back and returning her to the box. ‘You’ll stay here and do as you’re told, or you won’t get a penny off me.’

‘I don’t care about the money. It’s wrong, it is.’ She brought a hankie to her little nose and blew it loud as a baby elephant, her pretty eyes begging me. ‘Can’t you see that? Can’t you give it back?’

‘It’s being done for the right and proper reasons, and that’s all you need to know,’ I told her.

‘Well I’m not having any of it,’ she sniffed. ‘I’m going back to the Manor.’

‘You’ll do no such thing.’ I stood between her and the door. ‘I can’t have you ruining my plan!’

She tried to barge past me. I could hear the faint caterwauling of Hattie in labour next door and panicked that everything was about to collapse around me. ‘I’ll let you go if you promise not to tell anyone.’

She pondered for a moment. ‘I’ll not mention a word provided you give me my five quid.’

I seethed. It’s completely immoral to demand money for a service she’d failed to finish. But, like Hercules overcoming another obstacle, I reached into my black bag for the money. ‘You keep your mouth shut or it’ll be curtains.’ She snatched the money away and barged past me into the sunshine. I fretted about what she’d say to Mrs Winthrop, but then I imagined her dainty throat between my hands and focused on the task at hand, grabbing my bag and hurrying off to Hattie’s, leaving the baby girl to fend for herself in the box.

After a few knocks I let myself in to find Hattie slumped by the door, moaning loudly.

I leapt down to her, and checked her – thank God the baby was still moving around inside. I prayed it was the boy I needed. Once I’d helped her up to bed, she moaned and strained, the baby refusing to budge.

That’s when I began panicking about the baby girl in the box in my kitchen. She would need milk by now, but I couldn’t get away from Hattie, who held my hand with a vice-like grip. Would she be all right?

At last Hattie’s screams grew almost inhuman, and I felt panic rising – what would happen if she didn’t have a boy? Would the Brigadier have me disposed of in some gruesome way? I was petrified as a ferret in a snare by the time the baby eventually squirmed its way out.

But the surge of joy – it was a boy!

‘It’s a girl!’ I announced.

‘Let me see her, let me hold her!’ Hattie cried, leaning forward and trying to grasp the baby from my arms.

‘No, she’s not breathing properly. I need to take her to my house to resuscitate her with my mechanical ventilator.’

Hattie screamed, ‘My baby!’ And she was on him, dragging the blanketed little fellow out with all her might.

Scared to damage the baby, yet adamant to salvage the plan, I yanked him back with a lunging turn towards the door. ‘I have to go!’ I screamed, pushing her back on the bed with a firm shove.

Her screams of ‘No’ echoed through the house as I surged down the stairs and out the door, not knowing what I’d find when I got back to my house. The horror of finding the baby girl dead, white-blue and stiff, her big eyes glazed like a doll’s? Or maybe stupid Elsie had called the police, and I’d find the village matrons gathered to witness my downfall.

But the house was ominously quiet. My heart began to race. I am not the most saintly of people, I know, but I couldn’t bear to have caused the death of a baby. The vision of her lying dead in the box came to me, and I dashed for the kitchen.

I could hardly breathe as I looked into the box. There she was, pale and limp, her eyes closed. This couldn’t happen! My hand darted to her neck to feel her pulse. I felt a faint fluttering, and she opened her toothless mouth as wide as a baby hippo, and let out an ear-piercing screech.

I took her out of the box and thrust the bottle of milk into her gob.

‘Don’t you worry, baby girl,’ I muttered to her. ‘You’re about to have the most adoring mother this side of London.’

I placed the boy baby in the box, fitting a blanket around him as he seemed a scrawny kind of lad, the type to catch a chill. Then scooping the girl back up, I headed back to Hattie’s.

Hattie was just inside the front door, desperate for me to return, still in her bloody nightdress, her dark curls wet and matted. ‘Is she all right?’ she cried, panic on her face. ‘Is she going to be all right?’

‘Yes,’ I smiled. ‘She’s going to be fine.’ I handed the baby into her outstretched arms, and she gazed at the perfect little face with blue, blue eyes and a little pointy chin, a coating of pale blonde hair over her head. She truly was an exceptionally beautiful baby – and take it from me, most of them aren’t.

The afterbirth came promptly, with a little help, and after promising to be back as soon as I could, I wrenched myself away to deal with the boy. I could hear him bawling as soon as I opened the door, the little bugger, and had to stuff his mouth with a bottle as soon as I got to him. I took him in my arms, bottle and all, and headed for the door, but as I was nipping onto the green, I saw a group of women in the square. It was the WVS ladies just off the bus from Litchfield, Mrs B holding forth with Mrs Quail and the dreaded Tilling woman.

‘Lovely day!’ she said cheerfully as she spotted me trying to creep back inside.

‘Yes, glorious weather,’ I enthused, concealing the baby inside my coat. ‘I’ll have to get my hat!’ I disappeared in, grabbed my hat, and knew there was nothing else for it, I was going to have to stuff the baby into my black bag, and hope he didn’t jolt around too much.

I emptied the contents, and the crumbs at the bottom, put the baby inside, trying to balance the bottle against his mouth, and crept out once again. The women were thick in discussion, and I decided to make a dash for it across the green.

‘Hello there, Miss Paltry,’ Mrs Tilling called as I darted to the lane. ‘You should have been with us today for the meeting.’

‘We were just saying how uplifting it was,’ added Mrs Quail, her round face puce with pleasure.

‘Oh, how marvellous,’ I said, keeping a distance. A crowd had gathered outside the shop, all in green uniforms like pecking budgies, and I was stuck listening to their nonsense for a few minutes. It was ridiculous. How a bunch of women can honestly believe that a cake sale and some raggedy sewing can win a war, I have no idea.

‘Lady Worthing was there,’ Mrs B preened. ‘We have been so fortunate to have her as our benefactor.’

The baby boy in the black bag began snivelling, quietly at first, and then louder, and I knew I had to leave. Now.

‘Must dash,’ I said, making off.

‘What was that noise?’ Mrs Tilling said with a start, looking around the green.

‘Oh, the ducks are such a menace at this time of year,’ I said cheerily. ‘They keep me up half the night with their mating rituals,’ I added with some quick thinking.

‘Oh,’ she said primly. I’m sure she’d consider any allusions to reproduction inherently coarse.

Only then a distinct baby’s cry came from my black bag, and she glared at it, her mouth open to speak, yet unable to decide what to say.