A Song in the Night (25 page)

Rosie glanced over at Beth. Beth grinned. “Go on, Ros, it’s not to be missed. Go for the mince pies if nothing else. Nobody makes mince pies like Nora Weldrake.” She sniggered to herself, and Rosie wasn’t sure whether to interpret her amusement as an encouragement or a warning. Beth straightened her face and tried to look serious. “Now as for Betty Flavel’s fruit cake – desperate women would kill for that recipe, wouldn’t they, Mum?” She shook her head in mock gloom. “Many a fella’s had his head turned by Betty’s fruit cake.”

Cassie raised her eyes with a wry smile. “You’re a storyteller, Beth, I’ll say that for you. Anyway, what d’you say, Rosie? Beth and Ciaran are coming.” Her grey eyes twinkled encouragingly.

Rosie felt herself relax. At least she wouldn’t be the only outsider then.

Beth winked at her. “She’d love to, wouldn’t you, Ros? She’s really into that sort of thing.”

Rosie shot her a withering look.
If we were at home, Beth Maconochie, I’d tip the rubbish bin all over your head.
She smiled at Cassie. “In that case, yes. Count me in.”

Some time later Rosie went up to her room. It was Tuesday afternoon and only two o’clock, but the sky was dark and heavy and everyone expected snow. She took Sam’s diary from a drawer and went over to sit by the window.

Erie Camp October 19th 1916

Well, Emily, another change for us. Yesterday we moved up to Belgium by train. Arrived in the town of Poperinghe and are encamped here until we move on to Ypres in the next couple of days. I hardly dare imagine what state Ypres will be in now. It was in a pretty bad way last time we were there, and it’s bound to have had a pounding since. ‘Wipers’ we call it – every soldier worth his pay should be posted over here at least once, I reckon.

Today we saw a group of men coming back from the line. They were a sobering sight, Em. I can honestly say I’ve never seen men look so dead tired. Their faces were haggard and their uniforms caked with sludge. To be truthful, none of us are particularly clean out here – that goes without saying. We all see our fair share of mud, no matter where on the front they shove us. But these men were filthy, Em, absolutely filthy. Matted hair and hollow eyes. Quite awful. I remember the last time we were here, Corporal Phinn told us that this whole area was a natural bog once. The Belgians constructed an extensive drainage system so that they could turn it into farmland. A bit of heavy rain tends to make the place waterlogged at the best of times, but because the shelling has smashed so many of the drainage ditches, the place can easily turn into a swamp. I suppose that accounts for the appearance of the poor beggars coming off the front line. Still, no doubt we’ll soon look like that too. No room for vanity here, I’m afraid.

Zillebeke October 22nd 1916

Got our first glimpse of Ypres yesterday, Em. It’s hard to imagine the beautiful city it apparently once was. The heavy guns have done one heck of a job and parts of the place are completely pulverised. The Cloth Hall and Cathedral of St Martin are looking more miserable than ever. Broken ruins, heaps of rubble, and lumps of masonry everywhere – all sense of history confined to the dust, I’m sorry to say.

A sad little thing comes to mind. Yesterday, at dusk, we left the city by the Menin Gate to begin our journey out here to Zillebeke. After about half a mile we passed an overturned provisions wagon and a horse that had been slit from end to end by shrapnel. Poor creature, its entrails were all over the road. Its driver was kneeling there with his arms around the beast’s neck and his rifle on the ground next to him. He seemed completely distraught. He’d obviously shot the animal to put it out of its suffering, and looking at him, I think he would have been only too glad for someone to do the same for him.

It’s awful for the animals, Em. They’re forced to go through all of this because of us, but how can the poor things understand what’s really going on? They’re particularly distressed by the noise. There are times you see sheer terror in a horse’s eyes as it rears up and tries to break loose. For the men that work with them it’s an upsetting business. And in a gas attack most of the animals have no protection at all. At least we can get a mask on if we’re quick enough. They just have to retch and choke. Still, in the end I don’t suppose there’s much difference between us. Suffering is suffering, and I’ve seen more than one mutilated man begging his mates to shoot him like a dumb creature.

We’re losing light now, nearly time for ‘stand to’. Wonder if we’ll have a lively time of it tonight. Oh Emily, how I wish I could see you.

____________

Rosie reached into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out a packet of M&M’s. She opened it slowly as her eyes looked out over the garden. A phrase was running through her mind.
They Shoot Horses Don’t They?
Was it a film? A book perhaps? She couldn’t be sure where she’d heard it. Nevertheless, it planted a strange notion in her head. Would Beth want someone to shoot her? It seemed a bizarre idea, but then, who could know what sort of misery lay ahead of Beth before the end? Would she suffer horribly – would she want to be put out of her agony like the dumb animal in Sam’s diary? Rosie shuddered and tried to push the disturbing thoughts away. A flurry of snowflakes swirled outside the window.

I’m dreaming of a white Christmas …

The words slid incongruously into her mind.

Just like the ones I used to know.

Ah yes –
Christmas.
It was almost upon them. She found herself remembering the conversation where she’d broken the news to Gavin that she’d be spending Christmas in Yorkshire. Her announcement certainly hadn’t filled
him
with festive cheer. Still, credit to him, he’d managed to recover pretty quickly. She wondered what he was doing now. He might have rung at least; just to keep in touch, see if she’d arrived safely. Well, one thing was sure. She certainly wasn’t going to ring him. He’d have to make the running if he was still interested. She was tired of trying to work him out.

She pressed her face against the window and looked out over the garden. In the middle of the frosted lawn was an old-fashioned, wrought iron lamppost that looked like it had come straight from C.S. Lewis’s
Narnia.
She watched mesmerised as the snowflakes danced in its light. What
was
it, she wondered, about this time of year, and snow, and lamplight? Somehow they seemed to kindle in her an aching for days long gone – some elusive golden time, somewhere way, way back. She tried to think about past Christmases, but struggled to find anything in the way of festive nostalgia to pull out of her memory. Christmas Day back home had always been like an episode from
Eastenders
. Mickey stoned out of his head, only the occasional belch reminding them all of his disgusting presence. Her mother, stressed up and teary-eyed, moaning about the lousy dinner she’d subjected them to. Ciaran and Rosie had usually spent the afternoon upstairs out of the way, playing board games or reading. It could have been any old day. Christmas had always been the biggest non-event of the year, not even worth the slight twinges of hopeful anticipation that had always managed to sneak their way into her heart. No, she certainly didn’t ache for days gone by. Yet here they were again, those strange, deep longings. They seemed to reach out to memories that weren’t even there, and the sweetness of it all made her sad with a sadness that was almost unbearable. She threw a couple of M&M’s into her mouth and breathed out slowly.
Just like the ones I used to know?
She chomped cynically on the sweets.
I don’t think so.

How ironic, she mused, that this year she should find herself here; amongst this most robust and well-adjusted of families, staying in this most cosy and welcoming of homes, about to celebrate Christmas in the most traditional and wholesome of ways, whilst all the time, Beth was dying. In almost every sense this was going to be Christmas like it ought to be. Christmas as it always was in books or schmaltzy films. Except that now, every second of every day, Beth’s cancer, like some huge Sword of Damocles, was hanging ominously over them all, ready to slice each heart asunder the moment it fell.

Rosie bit her lip till it hurt. This was so unfair. For the first time in all her years, things had been starting to come together. She was trying hard to move on; slowly, tentatively building a new world for herself. And in that world, Beth was her best friend, the first person outside of Ciaran she’d ever got close to. Life without her now was simply unimaginable.

As the horrible prospect formed in her mind, Rosie’s hands tightened into fists.
Why do things have to turn out like this? Why? Why …?

Without warning, a surge of heartbroken anger welled up inside her.
What’s wrong with me? Why does stuff just seem to follow me around?

It was a peculiarly selfish moment, but she hardly cared. As tears threatened to spill, she buried her face in her hands.
Isn’t it time I got a break? Hasn’t life been lousy enough so far?

She steeled her jaw and blinked hard, determined to hold back the wave of grief that was threatening to engulf her. She felt afraid to give in to it, afraid of where it might take her. But she was quite unable to stem the unexpected wash of guilt that suddenly broke over her head. It was the same guilt she’d felt the day Mel had brought her the cream cakes and Gavin had taken an hour out of work to visit her. Here she was again, thinking it was all about her. This thing was far bigger than that.

She forced her mind to think of Ciaran. How would
he
carry on? Beth was everything to him; his dream, his princess. Even in his beloved music he was joined to her. Their music was their backdrop, the signature tune for their intertwined lives. What had he said once?
She’s the only person I don’t mind playing second fiddle to.
He’d meant it as a joke, a playful remark, but he’d meant it all the same. From the moment he’d met Beth, his personal ambitions had taken a back seat. She’d become his whole world.

And then there was Beth’s family. So brave now, but after Christmas – what? When all the celebrations were over and the trimmings taken down, what then? Rosie remembered Cassie’s face the day they’d stood together in Beth’s bedroom. She’d seen then what Beth meant to her family. Losing her would be like having a limb ripped off.

They Shoot Horses Don’t They?
Rosie stared grimly down the garden. Suddenly the lamplight didn’t look quite so magical. As her eyes rested on the frozen trees creaking in the wind, a cold depression began to seep into her mind.

Anyone have a gun?

____________

“Ciaran and me are going down to Tom Bennett’s to pick up some logs,” Ed announced as they walked into the kitchen. “Should think we’ll be back about half five. He usually has plenty to tell me when I go down.”

Cassie nodded. “Well, dinner’ll be ready about six. Don’t worry if you get stuck there. It’s stew – it’ll keep.”

Ciaran moved round to the back of Beth’s chair. “Will you be okay?” he whispered, rubbing her cheek softly.

She squeezed his hand. “You go. I’ll be fine. It’ll give me chance to have a chat with Mum.”

“See you in a bit then, princess.” He kissed her gently and the two men left.

Cassie flicked the kettle on. “You go into the living room, love, it’ll be warmer for you in there. I’ll bring the drinks in when they’re ready.”

Beth sat in the armchair closest to the fire. She leaned back and closed her eyes. One of the logs was singing in the heat, and for a few moments she focused on the sound in an attempt to still her mind.

Lord, I’m going to die.

The thought had crept in again. Her heartbeat quickened and she instinctively clasped her hands to her stomach. But then she remembered. It wasn’t just her stomach now, was it? It was taking over the whole of her insides. Little by little, this thing was eating her alive. She tried to fix on the log song again.

Lord, I’m scared. Soon I won’t be here any more. All of this will just carry on … but I won’t be here. I won’t be part of any of it.

She stared into the fire. As she watched the familiar sight of flames flickering and playing amongst the pine, an overwhelming sensation began to fill her. She loved this fire. This room. This house. She loved being out in the open air. Getting wet in the rain. Listening to the birds. And the wind. And music. Playing her violin – wild as a storm, soft as a whisper. Losing herself in its song; mistress of it and yet under its spell. Crescendo, decrescendo … rising and cascading in the glorious sounds that had taken her years to perfect. Each melody a birth, each cadenza a droplet distilled from the sum of all she had ever known, and been, and loved. It hit her with force. She loved being alive.

Oh God, I don’t want to die. I want to stay here. I want to be with you, Lord – but does it have to be so soon? I feel I hardly know you. And there’s so much here I don’t want to leave just yet. Please … please don’t let me die.

Sudden panic gripped her. She felt her skin crawl as her mind began to wrestle with a dreadful notion. The ugliness of death. The unnatural wrenching of spirit from body. Surely God had never intended that for his precious ones? Surely death was an enemy?

She tried to harness her chaotic thoughts. Belinda had shown her some Bible verses about all this, she remembered. Fumbling in her bag, she pulled out the small Bible that Belinda had given her. Somewhere there should be a list of scriptures they’d discussed. She leafed through the pages until her trembling fingers fell upon a piece of paper inserted in the Bible. The telephone rang. Her mother’s voice sounded in the hallway.

“Oh hello, Janie. How are things with you?”

Janie Fellows – good. She always talks for ages. That should give me a bit of extra time.

She scanned through the list of Bible verses. Romans 5: 12 –

Therefore, just as sin entered the world through one man, and death through sin, and in this way death came to all men, because all sinned –

She scanned again. Hebrews 2: 14-15 –