The Chilbury Ladies’ Choir. Jennifer Ryan

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