Authors: Kate Lord Brown

Beauty Chorus, The

This edition first published in Great Britain in 2011
by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books.

The moral right of Kate Lord Brown to be identified
as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
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owner and the above publisher of this book.

‘
High Flight
’ by John Gillespie Magee, Jr is reproduced by
kind permission of This England Publishing Ltd.

I’ll Be Seeing You:
Words by Irving Kahal, Music by Sammy Fain
© Copyright 1938 Williamson Music, Inc. (50%)/Redwood Music Ltd (50%) for the
Commonwealth of Nations, Eire, South Africa and Spain. All Rights Reserved.
International Copyright Secured. Used by permission of Music Sales Limited.
Lyric reproduction by kind permission of Redwood Music Ltd.

Lili Marleen:
Music & Lyrics by Norbert Schultze & Hans Leip
© Copyright Apollo-Verlag Paul Lincke GmbH/Universal Music Publishing GmbH.
All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.
Used by permission of Music Sales Limited.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events
portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination
or are used fictitiously.

9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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the British Library.

ISBN: 978-1-84887-870-9 (hardback)
ISBN: 978-1-84887-871-6 (trade paperback)
ISBN: 978-0-85789-425-0 eBook

Printed in Great Britain.

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Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth

And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;

Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth

Of sun-split clouds – and done a hundred things

You have not dreamed of – wheeled and soared and swung

High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,

I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung

My eager craft through footless halls of air...

Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue

I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace

Where never lark nor even eagle flew –

And, while with silent lifting mind I’ve trod

The high untrespassed sanctity of space,

Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

‘High Flight’ by John Gillespie Magee, Jr,

Spitfire pilot, No 412 Fighter Squadron RCAF.

Killed 11 December 1941, aged 19.

CONTENTS

Squires Gate, 11.39 a.m., Sunday 5th January, 1941

I have four and a half hours to live. I am leaning against the wing of the yellow-bellied Airspeed Oxford, smoking contentedly while the ground crew chaps run their final
checks. The freezing rain hisses as it hits the glowing coal of my cigarette, drums softly on the tin roof of the hangar. Call me Johnnie, by the way. Everyone does.

There is no changing fate, but when I look back at my last moments on earth I want to rush through the molecules of my body and shake off my reverie: I want to yell ‘Wake up, you silly
bugger, make the most of this! This is the last time you will feel the rain on your face, the ground beneath your feet.’ But I didn’t believe in premonitions and guardian angels so I
doubt I would sense anything. Now I know better.

The flight to the RAF base at Kidlington in Oxfordshire should have been simple enough – ninety minutes at most. What I did with my last hours is a mystery. The journey is a government
secret still. Maybe I’ll tell you why I died 100 miles off course, maybe I won’t. Why don’t you make up your own mind?

WINTER

‘Ten, nine, eight …’ Swing music and laughter from the party drifted out through the open door to Evie. As she walked down the long moonlit driveway to her
father’s house, snowflakes caught on her eyelashes. Her footsteps on the frozen gravel fell into time with the big-band tune bubbling into the chill midnight air and she sang under her
breath: ‘How High the Moon …’ The Bentleys and Rolls Royces parked along the drive had a light coating of snow on them already, and in spite of her white fur coat she shivered
with cold, her feet frozen in her silver evening shoes.

‘Miss Evelyn!’ The butler stepped forward to catch her mink coat as it slipped from her shoulders. As the staff door swung closed, Evie caught sight of the grey-uniformed chauffeurs
smoking and chatting, one with the pink-cheeked housemaid on his knee sipping Guinness. ‘Your father has been asking for you,’ the butler said as she shook the snow from her glossy dark
hair.

‘Has he, Ross?’ She smoothed her pale silver satin Schiaparelli gown, and raised her chin defiantly as a cheer went up.

‘1941!’ Leo ‘Lucky’ Chase cried out, one arm raising a glass of champagne, the other clutching Virginia, his latest wife.

‘I’m amazed he even noticed I’d gone.’ Evie nodded her thanks to Ross. She touched up her red lipstick in the hall mirror then twisted her shoulder to adjust the long
rope of diamonds that fell from her throat to the deep curved back of the dress. She glanced down at the hem of her gown and noticed for the first time how wet it was from trudging through the
snow. ‘In for a penny …’ she murmured.

Instead of going in to the party, Evie walked on across the marble hall. Heads turned as she passed, the silver dress rippling over her curves like mercury. She flung open the terrace windows
and slipped off her shoes, swinging them nonchalantly in one hand. She dropped them at the edge of the steaming, heated pool. Leo liked it to be warm all year. A crowd gathered on the terrace as
Evie executed a perfect dive, her body streaking underwater like a silver fish before surfacing at the other end. A cheer greeted her as she stepped elegantly up from the pool, squeezing the water
from her hair.

‘Evie! You’re bonkers!’ A young officer in uniform planted a kiss on her cheek and draped a blanket around her shoulders. ‘Happy New Year!’

‘Hello, Peter.’ She slipped her arm through his.

‘Come on, let’s get you inside before you catch your death.’

He led her around the packed dance floor to the bar. People smiled indulgently as she passed – you could always count on Evie to make an entrance.

‘Where have you been all night?’

A drunken girl in a pale blue bias-cut gown giggled as Peter handed Evie a brandy.

‘I went to see Mary, Charles’s mother.’

Evie put the glass on the mantelpiece and warmed her toes by the fire. Somehow she managed to make even a blanket look like an elegant wrap.

‘How is she?’ The smile fell from Peter’s face as Evie pursed her lips and shrugged. ‘Jolly decent of you to go out tonight.’

‘I didn’t like to think of her alone. She looked so awfully sad on Boxing Day.’

‘Of all of us, I thought Charlie would make it through,’ Peter said quietly. ‘He was so full of life. I’ll never forget the two of you bombing down that black run in
Chamonix. You were determined to beat him.’

Evie shook her head. ‘He was like a brother to me. You never can tell which one of us is going to get bumped off next.’

‘Evie!’ Leo cut through the crowd towards her. He barely cleared five feet, but he was a dynamo of a man and whenever he bore down on her Evie pictured a missile skimming through
water. Without her heels their gazes locked, eye to eye. He eyed her wet, clinging dress with exasperation.

She held up a hand. ‘Before you start, I went to see Mary.’

Nonplussed, he thought quickly. ‘She’s only in the next village. What took so long?’

‘I ran out of petrol.’

‘Not again! How many times have I told you?’

‘Daddy, I can’t get used to this rationing … I thought I had enough left.’

‘You can’t drive on fumes! Especially not at the speed you drive. Where’s the Aston?’