Page 81 of Sisters Under The Rising Sun
As the final notes hang in air, still washing over the women, Norah whispers, ‘Mendelssohn.’
Floating, falling, the delicate introduction to Songs Without Wordstransports the women above the filth and squalor of their camp. Now they are dressed in the finest of gowns, sitting in the most famous opera houses of Italy, Paris, London. To the heavens above, the women’s hearts soar, washing away their pain. How can simple notes of music be so sad, so beautiful, uplifting and transformative, Norah wonders to herself.
The last note is so quiet, so delicate, that it is heard by only those lucky enough to be in the front rows. Norah drops her head. Exhausted, overcome with emotion, she and her orchestra experience their own escape from this place and time. Slowly, they come back, and the noise is thunderous, the sobbing louder than the clapping and cheering. Whether their lives will be long or short, every woman present will remember the night the angels came to this desolate place, to give them hope, and beauty beyond words.
‘Ladies,’ Margaret addresses the audience, ‘what we have experienced here tonight is quite simply the most beautiful, extraordinary music I have ever heard, or will ever hear again.’
She turns around to smile broadly at the orchestra.
Norah whispers something to Margaret.
‘Ladies, we have not heard the last from our remarkable women. Before we sing our national anthems, they have one more performance for you.’
The cheering erupts again.
Ena steps out of the line and she and Norah exchange a smile. Norah nods ‘ready?’ to her sister. Ena’s eyes answer, ‘yes!’
Representing the wonderous tones of the harp, Betty launches the music, the other voices join hers and then Ena’s glorious soprano voice rings out the opening words to ‘Faery Song’fromThe Immortal Hour.
‘How beautiful they are,
the lordly ones …’
The women in the audience who were standing collectively drop to their knees, their eyes reaching for the stars, and the sobbing stops abruptly; they need to hear these words, the majesty, the gift Ena is giving them.
‘In the hollow hills …’
Ena holds the final note long after the other voices have stilled, long after Norah drops her hand.
The voice orchestra stare into the jubilant faces of the women in the audience. They have seen for themselves the effects they have had on all present. They gave it their all, and now they allow the applause, the grateful sobbing, to envelop them and provide sanctuary for a few brief moments.
June pushes her way between Norah and Ena. ‘Why are you crying, Aunties?’
She breaks the spell, and the women now laugh and hug her.
With no sign of the applause ceasing, Margaret once again holds up her hand and silence falls.
‘In four days, it will be 1944; I hope it will be a better year for all of us. I have no words, just as you have no words, to thank the women behind me for what they have given us tonight. Perhaps we can all try by singing for them our national anthems.God save our gracious king …’ Her powerful voice rings out.
The audience all stand and join in.
‘… Long live our noble king.’
Before the women return to their huts, they circle the orchestra, hugging, finding tears they thought had all been cried out, to give their personal thanks. Finally, with June skipping along behind them, Norah and Ena walk Margaret to her hut.
‘Can I ask what you’re working on next?’ Margaret asks.
‘It’s a difficult piece, but so many of the Dutch ladies have been coming to our rehearsals that I’ve been trying “Bolero” with them,’ Norah says.
‘Oh, my dear, I can’t imagine Ravel ever considered his piece being performed by voice alone. But if anyone can do it, it is you, and I can’t wait to hear it.’
‘I’m going to the well – anyone want to join me?’ Nesta asks one morning.
It is the new year and the mood amongst the campmates is altogether different to how they felt when they arrived three months earlier. Efforts are redoubled to clean out the wells; the rainy season is back, and the wells are trapping precious water.
‘I’ll come with you. Wait a minute while I grab a pot,’ Vivian says.
Nesta and Vivian join the queue of women waiting to collect water. Nesta ties the rope to her bucket and slowly lowers it into the well. Leaning over to see how much further she has to go before she hits water, all it takes is a gentle clattering of the bucket against the well wall for the rope to give. The bucket crashes into the water below, clanging against all the other pots consigned to its depths.
