A Song in the Night (56 page)

Rosie’s heart sank. Reluctant to mention to Cassie anything about Ciaran’s vitriolic outburst, she dutifully picked up the tray and began to make her way upstairs. But with every step she took, an increasing fear gripped her. By the time she reached his room, she found herself praying he wouldn’t answer the door. Giving a couple of light, token knocks, she set the tray down on the landing. In no time at all she was back downstairs in the kitchen.

Cassie looked surprised. “Is he okay?”

Rosie tried to think quickly. “I – I think so. I just left the tray outside. Thought he might eat more if he’s left alone. Didn’t want him to feel obliged to talk to me if he’s not up to it.”

Cassie nodded understandingly. “Ed’s a bit the same at the moment. Not eating right. Spending hours in his shed. That’s how he deals with things, Ed. Throws himself into his painting. It’s as if he has to paint the pain out of himself.”

Rosie said nothing. She wished Ciaran would do the same with his music. Surely that would be healthier than sitting all day in his room wanting to die. She realised then that Cassie was looking at her.

“And what about you, Rosie? Are
you
alright? Are you managing to work through things – come to terms with all of it?”

The question caught Rosie off guard. With the memory of Ciaran’s tongue-lashing still ringing in her brain, the mere fact that Cassie had even thought to enquire was oddly reassuring. She nodded. “Yeah, guess I’m okay. As okay as I can be anyway. And you?”

A sadness passed over Cassie’s face in that moment. She slowly exhaled, then smiled bravely. “I’m finding it tough if I’m honest, love. Really quite tough. There’s a silence that never seems to go away. No matter how many people are in the house, or how much noise they make. One voice has gone. Gone forever as far as this world’s concerned. And I miss that voice, Rosie … I’d never have imagined I could miss it so much. The silence of that one little voice seems louder than all the noise in the house combined.” Tears began to trickle down Cassie’s cheeks as she spoke, but she made no attempt to hide them. “I don’t know if you feel the same way, love. I just find myself wishing a hundred times a day that she’d walk in through that door and we’d realise it had all been some horrible dream.” She shrugged her shoulders resignedly. “Ah well, Rosie. Now you know how I feel at the moment.”

Rosie gave a weak smile. Suddenly she missed Beth more than ever.

Later that night she was surprised to find an e-mail from Jonathon.

Hi Rosie –

Just letting you know I’m home. It rained torrentially most of the time I was up there, so I’m rather happy to be back in Ridderch Standen again. How are things with you? You’re settled in now I hope. And how’s everyone else – Cassie and Ed – your brother? You’ve all been on my mind recently. I guess this is the time the loss really starts to hit … now that the funeral’s over and all the well-wishers have gone on their way. You guys are the ones left to live with the situation. Please know you’re in my prayers (you gave me permission, remember!) I’ll be round to see you soon.

Luv Jonathon

Trust Jonathon to hit the nail on the head. He couldn’t have been more accurate if he’d been a fly crawling up and down the walls over these last few miserable days. Yet somehow, Rosie conceded inwardly as she sat poised to reply, just knowing he was back in the area brought a sliver of brightness into the equation.

No. 46 CCS June 16th 1917

Still here, Emily, but hoping to leave within the next twenty-four hours. I’ve had a bit of bother with my left eye for a few days. It was very bloodshot and my vision was quite blurred, so I reckon something had got in it. Some debris I think; hardly surprising if you could have seen the air after the mines went up. It’s a wonder we didn’t all choke to death.

Anyway, the MO was concerned about it and decided to keep me in until it cleared up. He said he’d had another similar case in that same day – poor chap ended up losing his eye altogether. I think the doctor was eager to avoid that with me if he could. Well, I have to say there’s been a big improvement. I’m more or less returned to full strength, I reckon. All ready to go out and be shot at some more …!

I was given something rather interesting this morning, Em. After breakfast I was having a little walk around when I came across a Welshman who’d copped for it in the aftermath of one of the Kruisstraat mines. He was in a bad way, poor fellow. He’d lost both legs and a good part of his face, and I could see he wasn’t going to be around for long. I tried to give him a cheery smile as I passed his bed, but he signalled me to come over to him. When I did, he turned his head to me and started to say something. It was hard to understand him at first, Em; his mouth was so twisted and distended with his injury. But I eventually understood that he wanted me to look inside his tunic pocket. When I did so, I found one of the brass Princess Mary tins. You know the ones – sent to all the troops who were out here for Christmas
’
14. You must have seen one, I’m sure. Well, this fellow motioned me to open it. What should I discover inside but a small New Testament. I could tell from his face that he wanted me to read something from it, so I turned to the portion called the Gospel of Saint John. I only knew what to do because I’ve seen Boxer do the same thing when we’ve had a burial. Anyway, I read quite a bit of this out to him and he seemed very settled by it (unlike me, I have to say. I felt rather fraudulent, like some bumbling, unqualified padre.) After a little while I told him I’d have to be on my way as I knew the doctor would be on his rounds at any time. Pressing the Bible into the tin, I made as if to put the thing back in his tunic pocket, but he started to wave his hand as though objecting. It was a few moments before I realised that he wanted me to keep it. I was rather touched by the gesture and thanked him, resolving in my mind to visit him later and perhaps read to him some more. This afternoon I went back to see him, but was surprised to find someone else in his bed. I asked one of the nurses if he’d been moved, and it was then that I discovered that the poor chap had died about an hour after I’d left him.

I keep taking the tin out to have a little look. I must say I feel quite honoured to have it in my possession. I’m sure none of the other lads in my platoon will have one – none of us came out here early enough. I know Albert Bandy has though. He keeps his cigarettes in his.

____________

The following day was dull and overcast. Shortly after lunch, Rosie felt an urge to get out for a walk.

“Going anywhere special?” Cassie enquired as she saw her reaching for her jacket.

“Dunno. Guess I’ll just go where my feet take me.”

Cassie nodded. “Your brother had a walk earlier. I think he’s asleep at the moment. I put my head round the door ten minutes ago to see if he wanted a sandwich, but he was fast on.”

Rosie couldn’t think of anything to reply. Ciaran felt like a stranger to her at the moment. She was embarrassed at the lack of contact between them and hoped Cassie hadn’t noticed it. She realised, however, that Cassie was looking at her sympathetically. “He’ll come round, Rosie. Time heals, love. I know it’s hard at the moment, but he will come round in the end. You just hang on in there.”

Rosie looked down at the floor. She knew she didn’t want to crack in front of Cassie. Despite Ciaran’s recent harshness towards her, she still felt a strong tie of loyalty to him. They’d always stuck together in the past. Somehow it didn’t seem right to go telling the tale just because he’d sounded off at her. Biting her lip, she mumbled something in response then headed for the door. Suddenly she knew exactly where she had to go.

A slight breeze had picked up by the time she entered the churchyard. Cutting across the grass, she stepped over the patch of ground where she’d slipped on the frozen leaves at Christmas. Her eyes moved to the war memorial a couple of yards away, and in particular to the name of Private Philip Matthew Bocking. Strange to see that name now. No longer just a bunch of letters chiselled on a stone, some long-dead hero sleeping on a roll of honour. It was as though she’d known him once.

She soon found herself standing by a small mound. It was curiously colourful, covered for the most part by flowers and messages. The blooms seemed to jostle for space on the low hump of earth, and Rosie could see that they formed a kind of floral visitors’ book, each contribution telling its own tale of personal loss. Amongst the flower heads she noticed a small, fluffy chicken – a soft toy left by Meg and Tammy – along with an Easter greeting for Auntie Beth. There was a basket of polyanthuses from Ben and his family, a beautiful arrangement of spring plants from the people of Saint Edwin’s, roses from Ciaran, carnations from Ed and Cassie, and countless bunches of flowers in varying states of health or decay. Some of the accompanying message cards were illegible, having been exposed to the inclemency of the elements for too long, but some were still readable. Rosie scanned a few before looking away. The sight of it all made her feel terribly sad. Situated a couple of yards from the plot, however, in a patch of empty ground, was perhaps the saddest sight of all. The large, white arrangement which had accompanied Beth’s coffin at her funeral; the one that read –
‘BETHY’
. Most of its flowers had turned brown, the odd white head standing out simply because of its rarity. The name could still be discerned, but now there was a pathos about the display. Though the freshness and beauty were gone, it seemed that no one could pluck up courage to dispose of the thing. Perhaps it was the last warm link to Beth. Rosie wasn’t sure, but she found it hard to look at it for very long.

“
Why,
Beth?” She spoke into the air. “Why did you have to go and die on us? We were friends, weren’t we? Couldn’t you have fought a bit harder – stayed around a bit longer? Everybody was rooting for you …”

The breeze seemed to swallow up her words. It ruffled her hair and flittered through the petals strewn on Beth’s grave. Frustrated, Rosie kicked her foot against the ground. Beth hadn’t heard a thing. She was gone. And no amount of flowers would ever bring her back.

For some time she stood there, staring down at the tributes. After a while her mind began to blank, until the flowers became a blur before her eyes and she was barely conscious of her surroundings. How long she was there she had no idea. She hardly cared.

The sudden crack of a twig snapped her back to reality. “Hi, Rosie. Cassie said I might find you here.”

Rosie spun round to see Jonathon standing there. She quickly tried to pull herself together. “Hi. Just thought I’d come and see my friend.” She forced a smile. “Judging by all the flowers, it seems like I’m the only one in the village who hasn’t been visiting.”

“Doesn’t matter, does it?” Jonathon said softly. “Everyone deals with it differently, Rosie. There are no rules to say what you should or shouldn’t do. Some people find it helps to visit a grave … some people won’t go within a mile of one. You have to do what’s right for you.”

In that moment their eyes met. To her consternation, Rosie felt her heart turn over. Fleetingly, she found herself remembering the day Jonathon had taken her in his arms just before she’d returned to London. Now, as he fixed her with his gaze, everything in her wanted him to do it again. She shuffled uncomfortably. “I’m struggling to get my head round it all. My brother’s really not handling it. It seems to be destroying him.” Just saying the words brought a lump to her throat. “He’s talking like he wants to die too.”

Jonathon nodded thoughtfully. “That’s understandable.”

He said no more, but somehow his comment bothered Rosie.
Understandable?
Was that all he could come up with? What if Ciaran went and did something stupid – would that be understandable too?

A light gust of wind swirled around them and she shivered. The momentary chill seemed to connect with a coldness that went so much deeper; that icy, black fear again, tingling through her veins, setting her whole frame on edge with its menacing taunts. Beginning to panic, she cast her eyes around the place in an attempt to distract her mind from the dark whisperings. The sky had brightened slightly, and though the sun hadn’t yet managed to pierce through the blanket of cloud, there was now the faintest hint that before the day was out, it might. But Rosie hardly noticed it.

She looked out across the churchyard, at the crosses and the monuments. Some were large and extravagant, others smaller and more humble. Whatever the size, she knew that every one of them represented a person. A person who had once lived and breathed, laughed and loved. Just like Beth. She lowered her head, gulping back a silent sob. It was all too sickening.

As if he could read her thoughts, Jonathon moved closer to her. “Sometimes there doesn’t seem much point to it all from where we’re standing, does there?”

Rosie shook her head. “I don’t think there is. Not when you look at someone like Beth. She didn’t even get a decent shot at it. Twenty-four … what age is that to die?”

“You’re right,” Jonathon agreed simply.

There he goes again,
she thought irritably.
Is he going to agree with everything today? What if I tell him I’ve decided to jump under a train? Will he just tell me to go ahead?
She dug her hands into her pockets in frustration.

Jonathon kicked at a clod of earth. “You know, Rosie, none of it makes any sense if you take eternity out of the equation. If this short life is all there is, it’s a completely futile waste of everybody’s time.”

Rosie shivered again. Why did the world seem such a frightening place all of a sudden – even with Jonathon right beside her? Up to now he’d always managed to make things feel better. Yet somehow, everything felt different today.

Jonathon bent down and picked up a flower head that had become separated from its stem. The petals were already limp and brown and a tiny insect was crawling around its inner florets. He extended his palm towards her. “Do you think this flower’s ever gonna live again, Rosie?”

Rosie stared down at his hand. Was he trying to be smart or something?