The Songbird and the Soldier (20 page)

“Darling, how do you feel?” her mother asked, her eyes weary with concern.

“I’ve felt better.” She nodded towards the beaker again and her mother helped her to take a few sips. “What happened?”

Her mother sat down and held onto Sam’s hand. “You didn’t show up for Sunday lunch,” she said.

Sam was confused. The last thing she could remember was her party on Thursday night. “But…?”

“I don’t know how long you’d been there, but you looked awful.” Fresh tears sprang up in Mrs Litton’s eyes and her voice began to quiver. She sniffed in a large steadying breath. A soft snort from behind her chair helped to break the tension in Mrs Litton’s voice and she smiled and then quickly whipped round. “Your dad! Pete. Peter,” she called out softly, but with urgency in her voice. Mr Litton awoke. “She’s awake.”

Mr Litton got quickly to his feet and in a moment he was by Sam’s side. “Sweetheart, we’ve been so worried about you. How are you feeling?”

Sam smiled up at him, her sense of security growing. “I’ll be all right, Dad. I just feel like I’ve been run over by a steamroller right now, that’s all.”

Her mum looked out of the room towards the corridor and saw a nurse walking by. “I’ll go and tell them you’re awake,” she said.

Sam looked at her dad. He was always the one to tell her the truth. Her mother meant well, but Sam knew she would say whatever she thought Sam wanted to hear. “What happened to me, Dad?”

Mr Litton sat in the chair beside her and held her hand tightly in his. “You were dangerously dehydrated, love. It seems you got so weary that you forgot to drink and then it just snowballed. You gave us quite a fright.”

“So I’ll be all right when I get some fluids into me?”

Mr Litton paused, his face taut with the effort. He took a breath to speak but at that moment Mrs Litton came back in with the nurse, who was pleased to see her. “You’re looking better,” she said and began to check Sam’s charts.

Sam looked around. “What time is it?”

The nurse looked at her watch. “Just after three,” she said. “How are you feeling?”

The next time Sam opened her eyes the sun was shining in around her hospital room.

“She’s awake again. Hello, Princess.” It was her father’s voice.

Sam focussed on her dad. He was hovering beside her, clutching her hand and looking older than she remembered. She made a weak smile. “Hello, Dad.” Her mother was by her side a moment later. Sam turned her head. “Mum.”

Mrs Litton smiled, but her eyes betrayed her. “Would you like some water, darling?” she asked.

Sam accepted gratefully. She looked around and then suddenly panicked. “What time is it?”

“Just gone eight thirty. Why?” her dad asked.

“School.”

Her mother patted her hand. “Don’t you worry about any of that. I’ll give them a ring in a minute. I’ve got to ring Jude from next door anyway; she’s got Humphrey.” Sam was confused. “She was an absolute star yesterday. When you were rushed in here, she drove all the way in to collect your door key and then drove off to get Humphrey and took him back to her place. I told her I’d ring and tell her as soon as there was any news. The doctors should be around soon. Are you hungry? I’m afraid you’ve missed the breakfast trolley. I could get you something, though. It shouldn’t be too difficult. One of the nurses said there was a little kitchen around here to make toast. Or I could find you a yoghurt?”

Sam stopped her mother’s nervous chattering. “I’m fine, Mum. I’m not hungry.”

Mrs Litton fidgeted.

“How are you feeling, love?” Mr Litton asked, diverting Sam’s attention for a moment. He placed a reassuring hand on his daughter’s shoulder.

Sam considered this for a second. “A bit better.”

There passed several days of blood tests and scans and finally the doctors came in to deliver the verdict. Their faces were serious and as Sam waited, in those few moments before she heard the truth, a shiver of dread washed right through her and left her paused on the brink, awaiting her fate.

The junior doctor kept his eyes averted, watching only his senior colleague and the pattern on the floor. Sam’s parents were with her for the meeting but as the news was delivered, Sam lost focus on everyone else in the room and suddenly she was all alone.

As if they knew what was coming, her ears forgot to hear and her mind began to wander. She knew it was important and that she should be listening to every word they were saying, but in that moment, Sam was riding a wave of surreal calm, watching over her world through a hazy film and only the odd word or phrase managed to find their way through her invisible shell to penetrate her bubble.

“I can see you need time to take it all in, Sam. I’ll leave you with your parents for now. I’ll come back when I’ve finished my rounds.” He looked at Sam’s mum and dad. “Mr Litton, Mrs Litton, I’m sorry I couldn’t bring you better news. Have a think, all of you. I’ll be back in an hour or so to answer any questions.” He shook their hands and saw himself out.

Over the following twenty four hours, Sam began to understand her diagnosis. She was in the advanced stages of an atypical lymphoma; the bulk of the tumour was expanding rapidly through her chest, compressing her heart and lungs. The doctors had advised immediate action with aggressive therapies, but from the looks on their faces, Sam realised that her chances weren’t good.

The next few weeks were filled with injections and treatments. Kate was there almost every day. Several times she brought up the subject of Andy, but Sam was not willing to discuss the matter further, telling Kate to let him be. Various family and friends came to see her, each time with more concern on their face, until one day, when every inch of her body was aching and all she wanted to do was close her eyes and sleep, she quietly thought to herself, ‘Is this it?’ She felt sorry for the things she would miss out on, mostly having children, but she was not unduly sorry to be going. She was tired now. Her only fear was how it would happen.

Mr and Mrs Litton tried to chivvy her along with fighting talk and when they feared Sam was not listening, in desperation, they called Kate and asked for advice. Kate arrived on the ward less than an hour later and was met by Sam’s dad. He pulled her to one side and gently told her about the precarious situation Sam was now in. Kate began to shake. Tears filled her eyes and Mr Litton reached for a tissue from his trouser pocket. “Now, now,” he said, patting her gently on the back, “we’re not ready to give up yet. We’re going to fight this thing, aren’t we? We need Sam to stay strong right now, which means we have to stay strong for her.” He looked Kate in the eyes.

Kate sniffled and dried her tears. “Absolutely.” She shook herself and took a deep breath. “Sorry, it’s just… she can’t…”

“I know. You’re a good girl, Kate. If you can think of anything we could do or say to give her something to fight for - anything at all - then you’ve got to let us know. But I’m sure seeing you will do her some good. Are you ready?”

Kate nodded and then followed him in. She tried to be jolly while she was in with Sam. She showed her pictures of Ellen and told her stories of how she was getting on, but that night, when Ellen was in bed, fast asleep, and Kate and Spike were finally alone, Kate broke down in tears and sobbed. And when she finished crying, Kate realised there was only one thing better she could do for her best friend. She was going to go round and make that stupid, stubborn man swallow his pride and make peace with her friend. If Sam was out there fighting for her life, it was the least she could do.

Kate found Andy on his way out. She walked up the short garden path and met him as he stepped out of the door. “Andy, have you got a minute? We need to talk.”

Andy was concerned by Kate’s complexion. He faltered. “Are you all right?”

“Can we go inside?”

“I was just…” he looked at his watch and then back at Kate’s blotchy face. “Okay, but I can’t be too long. I’m meant to be meeting a friend at eight.” They walked inside. Andy asked Kate to take a seat and he sat down opposite her. His attention was secured. Kate seemed to take a moment to consider how she was going to approach this. She fiddled with her fingernails.

“What is it, Kate?”

Kate took a deep breath. “It’s Sam.”

Andy immediately stood up. He had had it with the women on The Patch. Their endless digs and interfering were getting beyond a joke. “He sucked in an impatient breath. “Look, I’ve told you before–”

“Sit down, Andy!”

Andy was taken aback. He knew Kate was no shrinking violet, but this was forthright, even for her. He hesitated and then retook his seat and after a moment, he lifted his gaze to Kate’s eyes and she continued.

“She’s ill, Andy, seriously ill.”

Andy didn’t know what to make of this.

“I know the pair of you are history; this isn’t about that. I just thought if you could forgive her… go to her and just talk, maybe… it might give her a little… peace. She still feels something for you, I know she does.”

Give her peace? What was Kate talking about? It sounded as if she was nearly dead. A chill crept silently through him. “When you say ill… how ill actually is she?” His voice trailed off to barely above a whisper.

“They said they’re doing all they can, but…” Kate’s composure began to break. “For Christ’ sake, she still loves you, Andy. God knows why, after all you’ve put her through!”

“All I’ve put her through? You’re having a laugh! Anyway, you’re wrong.”

“Wrong? She writes to you for months on end with nothing in return. If that’s not love, then-”

“She stopped.”

“When?”

“About a month ago. She got another bloke.”

Kate seemed surprised. “What? No. She said so?”

Andy was still.

“Andy?”

He looked up at her; guilt shading his eyes.

“Well, what did she say?” The silence between them rang out bells of warning. “You haven’t read it, have you?”

Andy swallowed. His chin lifted slightly in defiance. “I didn’t need to. I saw her. On her birthday.”

In all the turmoil of the past few weeks, Kate had quite forgotten about that day. “That? That was nothing. That was just Mike, an old friend of Chloe’s. He has always had a bit of a thing for Sam, but she’s never been interested. Hell, he was drunk as a lord before he even got there.”

Andy looked at her for a long moment while he battled with himself over the idea of letting Sam back into his orderly life. He looked up and then walked over to the pile of letters and lifted them down from their perch high up on the bookcase. He placed them carefully on the coffee table, the dust marking where his fingers had been, and stared at them. He was afraid. Like searing a wound: you knew it was going to hurt like Hell, but without it, you were just going to rot or ebb away, and Andy needed to heal.

Kate looked at him. She picked up the pile, thumbing through them, and was shocked. “You haven’t opened any of them!” she said. She looked up and found Andy motionless, staring at the letters on the table. “You haven’t read a single word she’s written.” She shook her head in disbelief. “Not one. All those months she wrote to you and you couldn’t even tell her to go to Hell.” She checked through the pile and handed across the last letter written.

Andy took it and stared.

“You can’t, can you? Not even now.” She shook her head and stood up. “When are you going to stop blaming everyone else for the things that go wrong in your life and start facing them like a man? You’re weak, Andy. I thought you were better than this.” She shook her head in disgust. “She’s better off without you. Forget I said anything.” And with that, she strode out of the house, leaving Andy dumbstruck at the coffee table, facing a mountain of words he had fought so long not to hear.

He replaced the top letter gingerly, as if even touching them would do him harm, and straightened them up into a neat pile. He stared at them. What was she talking about, weak? That woman had no idea how strong he had had to be just to keep Sam at arm’s length. He had seen her several times around The Patch and always made a conscious effort to stay hidden in the shadows. Andy’s body remained still, trapped in the undercurrent of a turbulent mind for some time. Finally he reached out and drew the letters closer. Then he put them into chronological order and began to read, from the beginning.

The first one stung, but he was still holding strong. The second and third were read, every word seeping into his soul. Sam asked for forgiveness, for understanding, each time apologising without reservation for everything she had put him through. Not once did she try to pass the blame onto someone else. This was a journey he had started now, and he knew he had to finish. He rang his friend and claimed sudden illness, freeing his evening for the purpose in hand.

Each new letter became more like a diary. She was talking to him of her life and dreams. Her hopes and fears were his to know. She trusted him, though he had never given her any reason to believe he even cared. He knew full well where a good deal of the blame for her actions had lain. She had been weak, he could not deny, but she had herself been used. He sat back and regarded the pile of letters still unread with the sickening fear that he may have been a stubborn fool and let the love of his life pass him by. Deep down he hoped there would be some small sign within her letters that he had been right in turning his back on her all this time, but he was now increasingly afraid there was not.

Sam wrote about experiences she had enjoyed and would have liked to have shared with him and about how very much she missed him. She told him every time she heard news of how he was doing and how proud she was of him receiving his Military Cross. Each letter ended with a wish for his health or his life, or his future.

In the later letters, Sam also wrote of her fears about her health and as Andy reached the first of these he was gripped by the realisation that had he been with her, or even heard her words through the letters at the time, maybe he could have done something about it.

She had obviously been following his recovery closely and asking after him.

She had suspected. Of course she had. She had no proof that he had ever heard a word she’d said.

Andy discovered that she had begun to read poetry, as she told him of each poem she had read and what she thought of it. She wrote at length about baby Ellen and how beautiful she was and how she hoped more than anything to have her own children one day. Yes, thought Andy, she would make a wonderful mother. Andy realised that towards the end of her letters she must have been certain she was no longer being listened to, as she unburdened her worries to him, her ever silent best friend. What better friend to have than one who never judged, or criticised?

As he opened her final letter, dated the 10th of April, he finally found out why she had stopped writing.

As he finished the final letter, Andy looked over to the photograph lying on the table, no longer hidden within its papery bed. He picked it up and stared at it and as the beautiful smiling face of Samantha Litton, tenderly holding a baby, wandered into his breaking heart, his body filled with pain and long-imprisoned tears were finally released and began to flow.

Andy spent a long while wallowing in the misery caused by his foolish pride and his stubborn refusal to hear her words. He had punished her for not being the woman he had built her up to be. For years he had held her up as an example of perfection. She could have done no wrong. Each time Claire and he had argued he had reflected on how things would have been different if he had had Sam by his side - and then she had proved herself to be just as bad.

Minutes turned to hours as he sat in his living room, turning over in his mind all the events that had brought him here, and finally Andy realised where he had gone wrong. He had built Sam’s pedestal up so high that Claire hadn’t had a hope of climbing it. He had gradually learned to block her out of his life. No wonder she had sought the company and affection of other men. He had been the downfall of his own marriage. All those years of blaming Claire when it had been him all along.

Sam had come close to perfection, but in not letting her truly in, he had given her space to harbour doubt. Why hadn’t he told her about their holiday all those years ago? He could have explained to her how precious she was to him. Even when she cried on his shoulder at the thought of losing him he had kept her from knowing his heart. She had known how much more he had meant to her then, why couldn’t he have told her he understood. The pain he had felt when he’d found out she was with another man spoke all too clearly of how close they had become. He could have told her he loved her, because he had. He did. From the very first moment he had loved her. And still, she had never heard those words pass from his lips. He read through her letters again… and again.

Andy swiped the tears from his face and rubbed his damp fingers through his hair. He looked around for his mobile phone, but in the mess he had created, it wasn’t readily to hand and so he stormed out of the house and around the corner to Spike and Kate’s.

Andy hammered on the door impatiently, eventually rousing a rather disgruntled Spike. Baby Ellen was screaming in the background.

“What the fuck’s going on?” Spike asked.

Andy peered around Spike’s shoulder to look for Kate.

“It’s gone eleven!”

Andy was aware he must be disrupting their life, but this was important. “Look, I’m sorry, Spike. I just need to speak to Kate. It won’t take long.” His frame moved uneasily, as he shifted his weight to try to see past him.

“Have you been drinking?”

Andy shook his head. “Not nearly enough.” He called out. “Kate?”

“Keep your voice down, will you.”

Kate appeared at the back of the hall, a screaming baby over her shoulder. She looked at him and in that moment, he could see that she understood. “It’s okay, Spike. Take her, will you? I’ll be up in a minute.” She passed the baby over and walked inside and Spike took Ellen back upstairs. She stopped inside and turned to him.