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.
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
