A Song in the Night (12 page)

She’d only been home about quarter of an hour when there was a knock at the front door. She went to answer it and was surprised to see Ciaran standing there.

“Hi. Thought I’d call by and see if you were back.” He looked pale. “Wondered if you fancied a walk on the Common. I’ve got sandwiches if you haven’t eaten –
chicken tikka … .
” He rattled a little bag in front of her and gave a hopeful smile. Rosie hadn’t the heart to disappoint him. Besides, maybe a walk would do her good; clear her mind a bit.

“Give me five minutes.”

There were quite a few people out walking. Though the sky was bright, there was a definite coldness in the air, as though the last ragged vestiges of mellow autumn had conceded defeat and gone home.

“Winter seems to have come all of a sudden,” Ciaran shivered, pulling up the collar of his coat. They ate the sandwiches as they walked, their bare fingers stiffening in the wind chill. “Seemed weird without Beth last night.” His voice was tinged with melancholy. “It’s the first time we’ve spent a night apart since we got married. It’s funny how you get used to someone just
being
there.”

Rosie nodded but said nothing. She wasn’t sure what she could say.

Ciaran continued. “I’ve been in touch with Ed and Cassie. They were on about coming straight down here, but I said they might as well hang fire – wait until we know a bit more. They look after Meg and Tammy some days after school. It seemed daft messing everything up till we find out what’s wrong. I mean, I’m guessing she’ll be out of there soon. Might be nice if they come and see her once she gets home again. Just seems an awful long way to come for a couple of hours’ hospital visiting.”

“Did they sound upset about her?”

“Well, it was Cassie I spoke to. Obviously she was very concerned, but she’s a steady sort of a woman. She told me to try not to worry. Said they’d be praying for us – and something about getting Beth on a prayer list. Not sure what all that was about. But it was good to talk to her.”

Rosie nodded quietly as a question began to form in her mind. “Don’t suppose you’ve spoken to Mum?” Her words sounded small, and suddenly, stupid.

Ciaran shook his head. “Not much point in that is there, Ros? Can’t imagine
her
belting down here to do her Florence Nightingale bit, can you?” With a weak smile, he threw his arm around her shoulders as if in a gesture of solidarity. “No, little sis. It’s just you and me as usual, I’m afraid. ’Cept that we’ve got Beth’s family now, eh?”

By this time they had reached the Rookery, a formal landscaped garden area adjoining Streatham Common. Ciaran spotted the café. “Cup o’ tea, Ros? I could murder one myself.” They went inside and sat down by the window. Ciaran closed his eyes as he warmed his hands on his mug. “I’m glad it’s Saturday. I couldn’t cope with any school kids today. I hardly slept a wink last night.”

“So, what’s the situation with her? Are we any nearer finding out what’s what?”

Ciaran shrugged. “Looks like it’ll be Monday before they get cracking on the tests. Unless she takes a turn for the worse. Y’know, if she starts vomiting again or anything like that. I spoke to her on the phone this morning and she said they’re gonna do a barium meal, and possibly put a camera down into her stomach. Routine procedure from what she tells me.” His face was strained. “I can’t believe it, Ros. Vomiting
blood.
I should have known there was something wrong. I should have made her get herself seen to.”

Rosie felt for him. “Don’t blame yourself, Kitch. You weren’t to know. Anyway she’s in the best place now – they’ll sort her out. What time are you going to see her?”

Ciaran looked at his watch. “Visiting’s three till eight. Guess I’d better get going soon.”

Rosie gave a knowing smile. “And wild horses wouldn’t drag you away before eight, would they?”

“You think I’m getting soppy in my old age, don’t you?” Ciaran grinned sheepishly. “But I’m missing her so bad already, Ros. I daren’t think how long they’ll keep her in there. Still, so long as they get to the bottom of things, that’s all that matters, isn’t it?”

They left the café and made their way to the Rookery’s ‘White Garden’. Everything there was white by design, from the benches to the flowers in its borders. Not that there were many flowers left in bloom, Rosie observed. Even this place seemed curiously subdued today.

Ciaran was thoughtful as they walked around. “Beth loves it here, y’know, Ros.” He kicked distractedly at a stone. “She always calls it ‘Mary’s Garden’. Something about it once being a favourite place of Queen Mary.”

Rosie suddenly found herself remembering the white butterfly in the old church at Applemarket. It wouldn’t have been out of place here. A blast of wind made them shiver. They decided it was time to leave.

“By the way, are
you
planning to visit, Ros?”

“I’ll come up now with you, if you’re alright with that. Don’t worry, I’ll just stay an hour. Give you two lovebirds plenty of time on your own.”

Ciaran smiled appreciatively. “I’m not expecting anyone else to visit at the moment. I rang Emmett to put him in the picture, so it should be all round the orchestra by now. But I asked him to pass it on that she wouldn’t be up to seeing anyone till after the weekend. To be honest, Ros, looking at her yesterday, I think it’d wear her out. I reckon she could do with a couple o’ days complete rest before she starts dealing with visitors.”

Rosie’s mind went back to the night before. She pictured the small, white face slumped against the starched hospital pillow. Beth had barely managed to open her eyes before they’d left.
Couple o’ days?
Rosie couldn’t help thinking it was going to take a bit longer than that to get Beth socialising again.

There were six beds in Room 3, Whitstable Ward. Only four of them were occupied but, unfortunately for Beth, both beds near the window had already been taken. Hers was a middle one and despite her usually easygoing disposition, she felt oddly hemmed in. The other women on the ward were nice enough – all older than her and, seemingly, hospital veterans. Listening to them chattering away like old friends, Beth found herself wondering if that was one of the strange quirks of being trapped in an institutionalised regime. You only had to be there a day or two and you were fully in the swing; comrades and fellow sufferers, knowing the ropes, ready to pass on your vast wealth of experience to the next poor rookie. These women were on first name terms with the morning news vendor, felt comfortable enough to tell the young Spanish orderly that he’d ‘missed a bit’, had nicknames for the nurses, opinions on the doctors, slated the food, and generally seemed to thoroughly enjoy being there. How long, Beth wondered, before she became a seasoned veteran herself? She glanced over at the clock. Two forty-five. Another quarter of an hour until visiting. She closed her eyes.

So, she wasn’t pregnant after all. She felt almost silly about the whole thing now. She’d mentioned it to one of the nurses on the early observations round. “When did you have your last period?” the nurse had asked matter-of-factly. Beth had had to go into explanations then. “Can’t actually remember. Probably about three months ago, but that doesn’t mean anything in my case.” Obligingly they’d tested her. Negative. Beth’s relief at the result was tempered by a new concern. If she wasn’t pregnant, what on earth
was
the problem? The conversation she’d had with Dr Stafford earlier that morning came back to her.
Any personal or family history of this kind of thing?
What kind of thing was he meaning?
Stomach problems, nausea, reflux – anything like that.
The questions sounded familiar. She was sure he’d asked her the same stuff the night before, only she’d felt too ill to respond properly.
Family history?
No, not that she was aware of.
Personal history?
Actually, yes. She’d almost forgotten. There had been something, just after she’d turned eighteen. Discomfort, a burning sensation after eating – in the end they’d detected Helicobacter Pylori infection in her stomach. The treatment had been pretty lousy, she remembered, but there’d been no recurrence. Dr Stafford had seemed interested in this disclosure. “Some people have a predisposition to such things,” was all he’d said. His face had brightened. “Well, at least you’ve had an endoscopy before. It shouldn’t be such an ordeal for you when we decide to do one.”

Beth had winced at that. He had to be joking. Knowing what was coming made it worse. She found herself thinking about the pregnancy test back home in her drawer, well hidden under a pile of underwear. She’d never got round to using it. Funny – a few days ago, getting a negative showing would have been the best news she could have imagined. Now she felt oddly detached about it all. In the last few hours, a strange exhaustion had wrapped itself around her, making the whole situation seem almost surreal. She suddenly felt terribly tired, more tired than she’d ever felt in her life. Perhaps it was the drugs they were giving her. Random snippets of conversation flitted through her head. Her mind went to the tests that had been mentioned. It was all a bit daunting. She felt too weary to do anything at the moment, least of all be brave while a bunch of total strangers did nasty things to her. Still, she tried to console herself, at least they wouldn’t be doing much before Monday. She might as well make the most of the respite.

The first visitors began to trickle onto the ward. Ciaran and Rosie came in, their faces flushed from the cold outside. Ciaran was by the bed in an instant. He cupped Beth’s face in his hands. “How’s my princess?”

“I’ve felt better,” Beth smiled, touching his cheek. She turned to Rosie. “Sorry about yesterday, Ros. Hope I didn’t scare you.”

Rosie grinned. “Nah, I’m alright. It’s Mama Bellini you should worry about. She’s sacked all the staff and boarded the shop up.”

The conversation was gentle and undemanding. Beth was glad to see them both. It was easier to feel a bit more cheerful now that the strong medication had taken the edge off her pain. Ciaran kept stroking her hair as though he hadn’t seen her in days.

“John and Cheryl rang to ask how you were.” He rubbed the back of her hand gently, then turned to Rosie with a wry smile. “That’s cello and oboe to you, Ros.”

Rosie pulled a face at him. He always did this to her, ever since the day she’d admitted she found it easier to identify the members of the orchestra by their instruments rather than their names. It was true. She could picture them quite readily dressed in their blacks and seated in their orchestral sections.

“Oh
and
Nika …” Ciaran remembered. “She wants to visit as soon as you feel up to it.”

Rosie had no difficulty recalling Nika. At the previous year’s orchestra Christmas party, the flame-haired Russian soprano had spent half the evening trying to initiate a group of them into the delights of her native language. And not quietly either. Nika’s natural effervescence, coupled with several glasses of dubious plonk, had made her an exceptionally raucous teacher. ‘
Zdravstvuite!
’ was about the only word Rosie had come away with, and she’d never dared use it since. Nika had been far too inebriated to be reliable. The word could have meant anything.

As the clock came round to four, Rosie got up to leave. “I’ll be getting off now. Let you have some time with lover boy.” She turned and gave Ciaran a wink.

Beth took her hand and squeezed it. “Thanks for coming, Ros. Look after him for me, won’t you?”

“Don’t worry, I will. By the way, enjoy your stay in sunny Whitstable.”

Beth grinned weakly. “Guess I timed it right. Reckon if I’d got here a couple of days earlier, I’d have been down the corridor – Peckham Ward.”

Rosie grabbed a takeaway on the way home. She couldn’t be bothered cooking; all she wanted to do tonight was chill. When she arrived back, Mel was straightening her hair ready to go out.

“How’s Beth?”

Rosie shrugged. “Well, she
looks
better. I mean, she couldn’t really look worse than she did yesterday. But they don’t know anything yet; they have to do a lot of tests. At the moment they’re just making her comfortable, I guess. Anyway, where are you off to – anywhere nice?”

Mel’s face lit up. “Dan’s taking me to see Miss Saigon. Birthday treat!”

“It’s not your birthday,” Rosie frowned.

“Not
mine
… it’s Dan’s. But he insists on paying,
and
he’s booked us in for a meal afterwards. What a babe, eh? I think he’s crazy about me.”

Rosie shook her head with a smile. Maybe Gavin could learn a thing or two from him.

A little while later, she was halfway through a chapter of the novel she’d been reading when the phone rang. She glanced at her watch. It was just gone nine.

“Hi Ros, it’s me.”

“Hi you. Just got back?”

Ciaran launched into a convoluted explanation of how his train had been delayed, how he’d mislaid his keys, how he’d accidentally tripped the burglar alarm …

“Honestly, Rosie, this is so not me. I don’t know what’s happening today.”

Rosie couldn’t help smiling. “Face it, Kitch, you’re hopeless without her. Like a phone without a SIM card. Absolutely useless.”

“Thanks, Ros. You sure know how to build a guy up. How did you think she looked this afternoon?”

Beth had looked a lot better, Rosie tried to reassure him. A whole lot better.

She wasn’t just
saying
that, was she?

No, Rosie insisted; Beth had looked a hundred per cent better than she had the day before. Honestly.

Ciaran drank in her comments gratefully, repeating them back several times during the course of their conversation. He seemed like a man dying of thirst trying to eke out a teaspoon of water. By the time she came off the phone, Rosie’s head was buzzing. This was unfamiliar territory. Ciaran had always been so strong, self-assured. Now she’d found the chink in his armour. Beth.

____________

It was Wednesday morning and Beth was feeling woozy. Remembering the experience of her first endoscopy, she’d opted for a sedative. Now here she was lying on her side, a tube wedged down her throat, with the room swimming and swaying like a cork on the high seas. She was aware of a vague choking sensation, but it felt strangely like it was happening to someone else. Every time the pipe moved, she burped, but the medication had taken care of her dignity. She closed her eyes and tried to think about something else. There were low voices all around but she couldn’t pick up what they were saying. Their words were a jumble of hushed syllables, occasionally punctuated by a direct address to her.
“You okay, Beth?” “Not be too long now, Beth.” “Not hurting you, is it, Beth?”
Trying to respond, she gurgled and spluttered. It was more trouble than it was worth. At one point, she became aware of Dr Stafford’s presence in the room. He hadn’t been there at the beginning, had he? It was too much effort to think about it. All she wanted to do was get this lousy tube out and go to sleep.