The Chilbury Ladies’ Choir

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.