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Part Two
A Week Later
Voices rose sweetly in song from St. Clement's church hall. Seven young women, all well bundled against the chill of the unheated room, were rehearsing "Once in Royal David's City" in a complex three-part harmony when one of the company waved the rest to silence in mid-verse.
"No, no, no. Margaret, you're going flat again!"
"Sorry, Gladys," the offending singer apologized. "I'm trying, really I am, but this arrangement is terribly tricky, especially a capella. Couldn't we simplify it? Drop the descant? My feet are dreadfully cold."
"No, we could not," their leader said firmly. Daughter of a Methodist minister, Gladys Vaughan was a brisk woman in her early thirties with snapping dark eyes and tawny hair drawn back in a bun. She had been raised in the rich Welsh choral tradition and had spent several years as choir mistress in a girls' school before the war. Now she was "doing her bit" as a typist for the ATS but, missing her old life, had organised this carolling scheme as a way to stay in touch with vocal music. The singers she had recruited found her standards alarmingly high, but there was no denying her musical gifts.
Gladys had very definite ideas about the entire venture, from the songs they would sing to how they should dress. Sam had expected only to perform simple renditions of expected carols, but under Gladys' tutelage the makeshift choir had not only mastered complicated harmonies to familiar tunes, but also learned one or two new and very challenging pieces of music. She insisted that the carols they sang be neither too sentimental nor too jolly but should be traditional English hymns chosen to bring their listeners a touch of Christmas cheer and hope without inspiring too much homesickness. Of course, no German carols could be considered.
"We need to give this our very best," she cajoled now in her rich Welsh accent. "The boys deserve no less. Tomorrow night is our first performance so we need to get this right. Just concentrate, everyone, please. Don't think about your feet; plenty of our brave Forces suffer terribly from the cold so we can certainly bear a bit of chill. Margaret, follow Harriet; she'll help you stay on pitch. And altos, please try to blend with the sopranos, not drown them out! Try it again, now. From the bridge. And -" she counted off a rhythm with her hand and they launched into the song again.
When they had finally performed to Gladys' satisfaction, she called an end to the rehearsal. "Well done, ladies. Be here tomorrow night at six-fifteen sharp. The base is sending a car for us and we don't want to keep them waiting."
"Are you sure we can't wear party frocks?" asked Penelope, a WAAF plotter, in a wistful tone. "I've got the loveliest lilac silk … "
"Certainly not," said Gladys very firmly. "We are not nightclub singers! How can we expect to be regarded seriously if we're dressed like the Andrews sisters? Moreover, we are singing religious music, Penny. By rights we ought to be in choir robes, perhaps, but barring that, uniform should do very well."
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A Fortnight Later, Late Afternoon
Foyle and his colleague Chief Superintendent Hugh Reid sat together in his office struggling over the duty roster. Available manpower was stretched thin in the best of circumstances these days; trying to arrange the rota so that each man could have a few consecutive days off for Christmas required all their concentration. They had nearly cobbled together a workable solution when there was a quiet tap at the door.
"Come," he called absently, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. He barely glanced up as his driver entered, engrossed with the task at hand. It was only when she said, "Sir?" that he gave her his full attention.
She was standing in front of the desk, hesitation on her face, a dirty teacup in each hand. "I just wanted to let you know … I'll need to leave a bit early today, if that's all right."
"Right. That's fine, Sam." She departed with a nod and a small smile, intent on finishing her washing-up before her departure. She didn't see the quizzical look Hugh Reid directed at Foyle as she closed the door softly behind her.
Ten minutes later she was spreading her tea-towel out to dry when Reid came into the kitchen. "Christopher tells me you've got some sort of group going 'round singing Christmas carols," he said without preamble.
"Yes, that's right," she replied, a little surprised by his interest. "We're carolling at all the bases near Hastings. And the hospitals. Mr Foyle didn't object, so -"
"Any chance you could give us a few songs at our Christmas party here at the station? Next week, the twenty-third. I'm organising it, and I'm afraid it's going to be a bit of a dull party, what with the short-staffing and the rationing and what-not, and we could do with something to liven things up. What do you say?"
"Oh!" Sam felt the colour rise in her cheeks. "Well, I – I suppose we could. I can ask the other girls if they're free that night, at any rate."
"Jolly good. Thanks, Sam." Reid departing, helping himself the last bit of shortbread as he left.
She thought about his request as she bundled herself into her coat and gloves. The carolling had met with unexpected success over the past fortnight. The little ensemble had been hailed enthusiastically at every performance and requests had poured in from several additional venues. They had visited at Army, RAF and Canadian Army bases, singing to mess halls and lounges packed with eager listeners. Sam had thoroughly enjoyed the whole venture, especially the night they visited Andrew's base. They had managed to snatch a few minutes together afterwards, an unexpected bonus as she had seen little of him lately. Singing at the hospitals, on the other hand, had been a distressing reminder of the horrible damage war inflicted on men's bodies. The scars, the bandages and the missing limbs were heartbreaking to behold. But she had steeled herself to focus upon the men's faces, as she had learnt to do while befriending Milner, and had quickly ceased to notice the injuries.
Yes, she thought as she pedalled her bicycle toward St. Clement's, this Christmas carolling was proving to be more rewarding than she had expected. As a vicar's daughter, Sam had grown up in church choirs and had always enjoyed singing, but this had turned out to be something else again. The challenge of the music, the camaraderie with the other girls and the delight on the men's faces were deeply satisfying. It was as if the singing was fulfilling some hitherto-unsuspected creative urge deep within her. Feeling slightly abashed by the strength of her feelings, she had spoken to no one about how much the experience had come to mean to her.
And now, she thought ruefully, Mr Reid wanted them to sing for the station Christmas party. While the notion made her rather nervous, she decided she was being silly. Didn't policemen need a bit of Christmas cheer as well as soldiers? Goodness knew the officers could use a boost in morale. Look at Mr Foyle – he hardly smiled at all anymore since Andrew had been posted to a squadron. And there was Milner, still struggling with the pain and restrictions of his amputation. That wife of his was no help, Sam knew, though Milner had yet to utter an accusing word. And most of the other men had worries, too, thanks to the war.
She alighted from her bicycle at the church hall, her mind made up. She would ask Gladys if they could squeeze in one more performance. It shouldn't take too much convincing – after all, they'd sung at everyone else's base, so why not hers? It was, she decided, the least she could do.