A Song in the Night (2 page)

Sam stared at him. “For one mad minute, mate, I thought you were trying to cheer me up.”

Boxer grinned. “Sam, over the months I’ve told you all I know. I wish we could have met in happier times. But if we had, I would have told you exactly the same things.”

From far away, the monotonous boom of heavy gunfire echoed across the plains. It was difficult to gauge the distance, but it hardly mattered. Some poor souls somewhere were getting it. Everyone got their turn in this game. Suddenly, from out of the gloom, a nightingale began to sing. Sam looked around in surprise. He knew enough about birds to know that nightingales didn’t usually sing at this time of year. Strange, misplaced creature. And yet, he found the sound oddly reassuring; a token that perhaps Nature still had some compassion for these poor, crippled sons of earth.

“Funny,” he said into the air. “Wonder why Rosie’s out tonight.” Earlier in the year, ‘Rosie’ had been their pet name for the little Flanders ‘rossignol’ which had serenaded them through the short, warm nights of May and June. The melody continued for some time, and Sam felt a more gentle sadness beginning to envelop him. A sense that, perhaps, this night would be his last.

He turned to Boxer. “Do you think she’s singing our requiem?”

Boxer stared out across the blackness as Very lights lit up the distant sky. “Maybe. For some of us.” His tone was thoughtful. “Or perhaps she’s trying to show us that it’s possible to sing in the darkness.”

The two men watched as flares rose into the night like fireworks. It was almost beautiful. Boxer turned to face his friend. “That is, Sam, it’s possible if we know the One who gives songs in the night.”

Without warning, Sam found himself trying to stifle a sob. A silent sob, one that held all the fear and grief he suddenly realised he was carrying. His voice came out in a broken stammer. “With all that I am, I wish I had your faith, Boxer.”

Boxer put a hand on his shoulder. “Then, my friend,” he smiled through tear-filled eyes, “I will pray that, before the end, you shall have it.”

London

October 14
^th
2005

And … hold.

Beth stood motionless, her breath clutched in her throat as the last plaintive note drifted high into the atmosphere.

Fly, little lark, fly …

She willed her trembling hands to be still, just a few seconds more. Her stomach lurched. That lousy nausea again.

Ignore it, Beth. Try not to think about it.
Inwardly she gripped herself.
Not much longer now, girl –

As the music faded into silence, a tingle of nervousness ran down her spine. Had she done it? The weakness in her limbs and the heady exhaustion told her that she’d certainly given it her best shot. She couldn’t have done any more. She must wait. In just a few moments she would know. Her guts churned again, but she did not move. There’d be plenty of time for throwing up later.

In the balcony, Rosie Maconochie felt a strange sense of amusement. Like the rest of the audience in those closing moments, she found herself transfixed by the figure on the stage. The violinist was standing, eyes closed, fingers fused to her instrument, her cheek resting against it as though she and it were one. Her face seemed to shine with the serenity of a sleeping angel and, with her long fair hair, specially crimped for the evening, and flowing velvet gown, she looked for all the world like some melancholy pre-Raphaelite princess. Rosie had never seen her friend like this before. She looked almost ethereal.

Rosie smiled wryly to herself. Some makeover this was. In the last few weeks, Beth had looked anything but ethereal. Baggy shirts, faded jeans, her hair a wild mess scooped on top of her head. Practise, practise, practise. Rosie was sure the violin even went with her to the loo these days. Music had always been number one with Beth, but she’d taken it to a new level this time. Rosie had hardly been able to get a coherent word out of her this past fortnight. “You’re gonna need to get that thing surgically removed,” she’d joked a couple of days before. Beth had just grinned. “You don’t know what this concert means to me, Ros,” was all the defence she’d managed. Well, the effort had paid off for sure. Ciaran had said they were in for something special and he’d been right. Tonight’s had been a top class performance and now, centre stage, Beth looked perfect. Slight as she was, her presence seemed to fill the platform.

For a few seconds, an expectant stillness hung in the air almost defying anyone to break its tension. And then it broke. It was like a reaction to some invisible spark; a roar of rapturous applause exploding from the audience as people began to stand to their feet. The violinist opened her eyes and swept the auditorium with her gaze. She gave a slow, dignified bow and, as she straightened up, her face seemed to relax into an expression of relief. That was one of the endearing things about her, thought Rosie; she really did not know just how good she was.

Beth opened her eyes in semi-bewilderment. The response was more than she could have hoped for. Three years in first violins had never felt like this. Trying to quell the excitement mounting inside her, she turned to the orchestra. As they stood to take their bows, she glimpsed across at the strings section and scanned the faces, searching for Ciaran. For the briefest moment their eyes met, and the intensity of his look said everything. Beth smiled at him knowingly and turned to face the audience again. As the clapping continued, she gave several more bows towards the different areas of the hall. Another swirl of nausea made her catch her breath.

Oh no, not now. Not tonight of all nights. Take your time, Beth. Careful. Take the bend gently – no sudden movements.

She inhaled deeply and breathed out slowly, deliberately. This thing was beginning to tick her off. She’d been taking Stugeron all week. And ginger biscuits. They were supposed to help. She tried to keep smiling as her stomach seemed to turn over. How embarrassing would it be if she suddenly had to belt off stage? At least it had had the decency to wait till the end; any earlier could have been disastrous. It was a relief to her when, a few moments later, the nausea began to subside. Sweeping her hair back from her face, Beth looked out over the applauding crowd. They had loved it, and their reaction was intoxicating. Suddenly she knew she wanted to do this for the rest of her life.

People were starting to move now, and the whole auditorium buzzed with the hum of a thousand conversations. It felt like the well-fed aftermath of a good concert; the bustle of a multitude of coats being pulled on, bags being picked up, and feet shuffling distractedly towards exits as though their owners were reluctant to leave. But up in the balcony, certain occupants of two particular rows were sitting tight. Chattering excitedly among themselves, they seemed oblivious to the movement all around them. Beth’s family had turned out in force. They had made the two hundred and fifty mile journey down from North Yorkshire; her parents, Ed and Cassie Simmons, and her two brothers, Ben and Josh, along with their wives and children.

Though Rosie was sitting amongst them, she felt decidedly separate from them. Their closeness, their humour, the combination of their eccentricities and empathies intrigued her. The banter between them all seemed to flow with the ease and rhythm of the ocean on a summer’s day. She’d been around Beth’s lot before, but tonight, for the first time, it hit her. That brother of hers had gone and got himself a real family. How on earth had he managed
that?
The irony almost made her smile; yet, for a moment, she wasn’t sure how she felt about it.

A small voice cut into her thoughts. “What was that last song called, Rosie?” Nine-year-old Meg crinkled her face. Meg was the eldest daughter of Beth’s brother, Josh.

Rosie leafed through the programme. “I’m pretty sure it was – hang on a sec while I check … .” She flicked the pages until she came to Beth’s photo. The face was young and relaxed, and the large eyes shone mischievously. She skimmed the writing.

‘Beth Maconochie has been with the Avanti Sinfonia since 2002, and tonight she will be giving her first performance as violin soloist with the orchestra.’

Rosie jumped another page. “Here it is. Yes, that’s what I thought. That piece was called
‘The Lark Ascending’
– written by a man called Ralph Vaughan Williams. I seem to think it’s your Auntie Beth’s favourite. Did you like it?”

Meg nodded, a dreamy expression on her face. Her younger sister, seven-year-old Tammy, sighed in admiration. It seemed she was equally smitten.

“Are we off then?” Ed Simmons’ voice boomed cheerily in the atmosphere of the almost empty gallery. They wended their way out of the auditorium and onto the first floor landing of the concert hall. The broad corridor was still brimming with people making their way towards the staircase which led down to the foyer, and the warm air hung heavy with the intriguing mix of scents and perfumes that emanated from the well-dressed crowd. Large, ornate chandeliers illuminated the whole scene, sparkles of light glinting from a million drops of shimmering pink glass. Tammy slipped her small hand into her sister’s. Rosie was amused to see Meg’s arm jerk as the younger child made slight, springing steps on the plush, rose-coloured carpet. It was obvious the evening had been a real treat for the young girls. Rosie found herself wondering what it must be like for them being in the capital at night, going to a classical concert in an opulent hall. A lot different from Yorkshire, she was sure. She remembered the strangeness she herself had felt when she’d first moved to London. She’d thought back then she would never get used to it. Yet here she was, almost a native. You could get used to anything given time.

Outside in the cool October night air, the group met up with Beth and Ciaran. Hugs, kisses, and congratulations overflowed as they waited for taxis to take them to the train station. The area was full of Friday night revellers; theatres and concert halls spilled out their colourful crowds who quickly mingled with ambling restaurant diners and nocturnal tourists until the streets were a sway of good-natured merrymaking. Meg and Tammy observed it all with eyes large and bright. Once inside their taxi, they pressed their small faces against the windows and watched the lights of London flash by. Tom, Ben’s teenage son, chattered amiably to the driver who nodded and mumbled as he negotiated his way towards their destination. When they arrived at Victoria, they all piled onto a train and spent the short journey making plans for their next few days together. Beth’s family were treating themselves to a break in a hotel. “Not every day you come down to London,” Ed had said. “We’ll splash out a bit. See ’ow the other ’alf live.”

As they all prepared to separate for the night, Cassie took Beth in her arms and hugged her. “I’m so proud of you, sweetheart. You were absolutely wonderful.”

Beth’s face glowed. But before she had chance to reply, Josh came up behind them and, linking his arm through his sister’s, began to spin her round on the spot. Ben struck up a tune and, together with Ed and Tom, began to clap as though at some impromptu roadside ceilidh. The children jumped up and down on the pavement with delight, and Beth punched the air jubilantly as the spinning gathered pace. Rosie exchanged glances with Ciaran. He was watching the scene, his eyes filled with quiet pride. “They’re all as mad as each other,” he whispered to her. But Rosie knew he wouldn’t have had it any other way.

“Whoa! You’ll have to stop …” Beth panted breathlessly after a couple of minutes. She was still laughing, but her voice came out in small gasps.

Josh steadied her. “You okay, sis? Getting too old for this kinda thing?”

Beth bent forward with her hands on her knees as she tried to catch her breath. She tilted her face up at him and grinned. “Some of us have been working very hard tonight – just in case you didn’t notice.”

Josh rubbed her shoulder affectionately. “We’ll let you off then. Looks like you need to get your feet up.”

It was late by the time Ciaran and Beth finally flopped onto the sofa of their Streatham home.

“Don’t you wish we could do concerts in jeans?” Ciaran loosened his collar and sighed. There was always a slight hint of Irish in his voice when he was tired.

“Or combats?” Beth ventured. “Only I guess they wouldn’t look quite so glam.”

Ciaran took her small hands in his and tenderly kissed the tips of her fingers. “You were so beautiful tonight, Bethy. You played like an angel. At one bit I wanted to stand on my seat and shout –
Listen up, you lot! That girl’s mine. My bride! Isn’t she
just gorgeous …?
”

Beth shook her head and grinned. “I’m very glad you resisted the temptation. Your Rosie would’ve thrown something at you.” She looked down at her hands for a few moments, her expression becoming serious. “D’you think I did it justice? I mean, was it as good as you thought it would be?” Suddenly, away from all the applause and adulation, she knew she needed to hear it from him. What
he
thought meant more than all the compliments in the world.

Ciaran took her gently by the shoulders. Pulling her round to face him, he looked deep into her eyes. “Bethy, you were awesome. Absolutely out of this world. I have never been so proud in all my life as I was tonight. Really.” He kissed her then for a long time until she knew. She was his treasure.

Some time after midnight, he got up to make a hot drink.

“Bring me a couple of paracetamol with mine,” Beth called out.

“You got a headache?” Ciaran’s voice could just be heard through the clinking of cups and the buzz of the kettle.

“Nah, not really.” Beth flexed her arms and hands. “Just need to loosen up a bit. They might help me sleep.” She tried not to think about the sickness, but it was there again, lingering somewhere in the pit of her stomach. She placed a hand against her belly. Was it her imagination or was it not quite so flat as it used to be? Her heart quickened as her stomach lurched again.
What kind of timing would that be? Just when things are taking off for me …