The Chilbury Ladies’ Choir

Tekst
0
Recenzje
Książka nie jest dostępna w twoim regionie
Oznacz jako przeczytane
Czcionka:Mniejsze АаWiększe Aa

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.

I strode off faster than a hen escaping the pot, petrified the woman would start asking questions. But as I rushed up the lane, with the boy’s vocal cords reaching a fine volume, I knew that I could corroborate any questioning with a half-truth of sorts. I would say that the baby in my bag had been Mrs Winthrop’s son, who I had whisked to my house for resuscitation. On returning him to his mother, I felt it best to keep him hidden so that she could see him first, before the village folk. Yes, it was perfect.

No one would suspect a thing.

When I reached Chilbury Manor, I took the baby out before knocking at the side door – it wouldn’t be considered proper for a midwife to be going around with newborns in bags.

The door was promptly opened by Kitty of all people, the little evacuee brat hanging around in the background.

‘Where have you been?’ she demanded in a way that made me wonder if she knew somehow. Could she have intuitively guessed the whole thing? Did she understand her father well enough, and me sufficiently, to fathom the entire scheme? Her big eyes glanced from me to the baby to the black bag, and back again, the scowl stiff on her face like I’d ruined her life.

I shook my head briefly to remember the right storyline. ‘The baby is alive!’

‘Why did it take so long?’ she muttered, leading me through the grand entrance and up the marble staircase to the long gallery. ‘What could you possibly have been doing?’

‘It took as long as it did,’ I said crossly. I wasn’t so scared of Kitty, you see. I was in her father’s employ, after all. He would get her to shut up if need be. So perhaps I wasn’t as cautious as I could have been. I might have made a big error there. Kitty is close as clams with the Tilling woman.

Mrs Winthrop was still in bed, snivelling in her usual way, when I handed her the whimpering baby boy with his dark fluff of hair. The perfect family.

‘Dear, dear little boy,’ she crooned, bringing him to her chest. ‘How can I ever repay you for saving his life, Miss Paltry?’

‘The Brigadier will pay what’s due,’ I said with the best smile I could muster. I could hear Kitty sniff moodily beside me, the nosy evacuee girl watching with a keen interest. ‘What are you going to call him?’

‘His name will be Lawrence Edmund,’ she smiled. ‘Edmund after our dear lost son.’ That set her off weeping again.

I didn’t want to mess it up now, the end so clearly in sight, so I checked the afterbirth and waited patient like I was the Queen herself, and when it had calmed down, I promised to visit in the morning and backed out of the room.

Nipping down the back stairs and into the kitchen, I was heading for the door – for freedom! – when who should turn up but Elsie.

‘I know your game,’ she sneered.

There was no one around, so I took her by the scruff of her maid’s uniform and pulled her close. ‘You’d better not breathe a word or you’ll be found in Bullsend Brook before you know it.’

I let go, and she fell back onto the floor. Trembling she was, so I think I did a worthy job. Threatening has always been a skill of mine.

Stepping over her, giving a small kick for good measure, I headed for the door, and with a sharp tug of the handle, I was out in the open at long ruddy last. Skipping for joy down the drive, one hand carrying my now-empty black bag, the other waving around wildly like a jubilant cowboy.

I’d done it!

I’d escaped ambush, gotten over hurdles, avoided pitfalls, and arrived victorious, babies swapped, both mothers happy, and me wealthy. The hero of the day.

No one else could have done it, Clara. I swear there’s not a woman out there who could have made it through the way I did, always keeping calm, using my quick thinking. The rest of my well-earned money will be with me within the week, and I will be on my way to you, Clara, to begin our new life together.

Edwina

Letter from Venetia Winthrop to Angela Quail


Chilbury Manor

Chilbury

Kent

Friday, 3rd May, 1940

Dear Angela,

You owe me cocktails at the Ritz, my dear, as I have won our little bet! Mr Slater, who I now call darling Alastair, has joined the throng of admirers who worship the ground I walk on. I knew I could do it, given some time, although I have to confess that this one was quite resistant. It took some of my more sophisticated moves to prompt action, but now he’s mine.

And what a man he is! I never dreamt he’d be so fascinating. He’s transformed his sitting room into a studio – he has the house next to Hattie’s on Church Row – and it’s crammed with canvases and oils and piles of paintings. Every evening he lights candles and paints while we listen to the wireless. One night they played ‘All of Me’, and we danced around like we were in a tiny ballroom of our very own, spinning through a haze of flickering lights as if in a different world.

But listen, this gets scandalous! I’ve been such a naughty girl, even by your standards! Having seduced him in the stable last weekend, all raw and naked in the hay just as I had planned, I slipped out of work early yesterday and surprised him at his studio. Luckily he wasn’t busy, just trying to mend some typewriter contraption, so I began flipping through his pictures. I didn’t know what to expect, but my eyes almost popped out of my head: weird shapes plastered with clashing colours, blacks and greys and yellows, violins sliced in half and deranged, figures made monstrous with mutations and distortions.

‘What’s this supposed to be?’ I asked him, wondering if he hadn’t finished it properly.

‘It’s modern art, darling,’ he said, chuckling. ‘It’s all the rage in the continent, and London too.’

Then I came across a smaller sketched image, a single nude, an almost transient figure blurred with charcoal as she flew wisplike across the page. ‘I say,’ I said nonchalantly. ‘Who’s she?’

He pondered for a moment. ‘A girl I knew in London.’

She was well formed, agile, but there was an urgency about her, her head glancing back over her shoulder as if she were being pursued. He was staring at her, as if remembering something. Who was this girl?

You know me, Angie. I can’t bear a man to prefer someone else. So I hastily put the picture back in the collection and gave him a saucy smile. ‘Why don’t you paint me like that?’

 

The room had become stifling with warmth, sunshine bursting in through the little windows, sparkles of dust spinning endlessly through the air. ‘I want you to paint me, so you can always remember how I look right now, before I’m old. Come on.’ I twirled in front of him.

He laughed. ‘Venetia, I really don’t think – it’s not what girls like you do. You’re the Brigadier’s daughter, after all.’

‘Stuff that! If I say it’s all right, then that’s that.’ I went to the mirror above the fireplace and let down my hair. ‘That girl did it. Why can’t I?’

‘That girl was—’ He paused, searching for the right word. ‘She wasn’t at all like you, Venetia.’

‘You mean she wasn’t respectable?’ I glanced over my shoulder at him, shaking down my hair.

‘I mean she was different. She was a bohemian, mixed in different circles. She was older than you.’

‘I’m eighteen, you know?’

‘I know.’

‘We don’t need to tell anyone, or show anyone,’ I said. ‘It’ll be our little secret.’

‘There’s a wild gleam in your eye, Venetia,’ he said, coming and toying with a strand of hair on my neck.

‘There always is.’ I smirked. ‘It’s one of my greatest charms.’

You know how I get when I have my mind set, and there was something about his refusal that was goading me on, making me do and say things. I had to show him that I was just as daring, just as sophisticated as his city girls. And to be so incredibly naughty, posing nude is far more risqué than sex, don’t you think? Just imagine what my father would have to say!

I began slowly removing my clothes, first one shoulder and then the other, and before long my dress was flung to the floor. Then I began slipping off my petticoat and peeling down my stockings. I knew it was having an effect as he folded up his collection and watched me with a smile.

‘All right, my little minx. You shall have your nude.’ He attached a clean canvas onto his easel and began selecting the paints.

I draped myself on the thick crimson rug in front of the fireplace, lying on my side, my legs tucked slightly, somewhat modest and yet magnificently naked. It was such a freedom, lying there without a jot on, his eyes flickering over me every few moments, focusing on my body in a way that I’ve never encountered. Parts of my body normally clothed felt the softness of the rug, the freshness of the breeze from the window, the exposure. It was Heaven.

Yet as he painted, I felt his attention floating away, as if he were in a different world, listening to the news on the wireless, an intent frown over his face. For an artist and a pacifist, he takes an unhealthy interest in the war. His ears seem on continual alert for news, especially now that the Nazis are pushing us out of Norway.

Am I mad, Angie? Is this all too absurd of me, to go falling in love with an unknown stranger? Having my portrait painted nude? I laugh when I think of what Daddy would say if he ever found out, which of course he won’t. I wish you were here and you could see for yourself what an incredible man Alastair is. I know this started out as a little bet, but I never expected it would turn into – well, one never knows how these things end, does one? All I know is that he’s done something to me, Angie. It’s as if he’s reached deep inside me and grabbed hold of my heart.

Write again soon and give me more advice, Angie darling. Oh, I almost forgot to say! Mama has given birth to a very scrawny and highly vocal baby boy. Everyone’s ecstatic, as you would imagine, especially Daddy, who needed his male heir, and Mama, who needed to keep Daddy happy. But as a matter of fact, the little baby is a godsend for me too – keeping everyone so busy that no one knows where I am and what I’m doing. From now on, Angie, I’m free to live my life to the full.

Much love,

Venetia

To koniec darmowego fragmentu. Czy chcesz czytać dalej?