A Song in the Night (6 page)

“Well, that’s that,” said Beth decisively. “Au revoir, Saint Ethelbert’s.”

They spoke very little on their way to Whitstable. Beth put on a CD of Vaughan Williams’
Fifth Symphony
, and the atmosphere in the car was almost meditative. Rosie thought about the postcard with the winter scene and found herself remembering the powerful emotion she had experienced in the church. What had all
that
been about? Yet somehow, she knew it was something she wouldn’t forget in a while. They arrived in Whitstable at just after five.

“Is it fish and chips all round?” Rosie asked as Beth switched off the ignition.

Beth shook her head. “I’ll just have a fishcake if they do them. I can still feel my lunch. We did eat pretty late, after all.”

“Just a fishcake – are you kidding?” Rosie pulled a face. “Well, pardon me for being a greedy pig, but I’m going for the full deal.”

They made their way to Harbour Street and bought some there. After they’d eaten, they decided to walk down to the harbour itself.

“I remember coming down here when I was about ten,” Beth reminisced. “We came on holiday to Whitstable. Funny, I never thought I’d end up living so nearby.”

When they got to the harbour, they walked down the South Quay. Already the sky was turning a deep red, dappled and streaked with gold, one of Whitstable’s famous sunsets. They stood on the quay and looked out to sea. There was an almost surreal calm about the water. Faint ripples glowed pink in the evening light, and the air was filled with a stillness that was almost tangible.

“Who says there’s no God?” said Beth thoughtfully as she gazed out towards the horizon. As if she had heard the seriousness in her own voice, she turned and winked at Rosie. They watched in silence as the sun dropped lower and lower into the west. Rosie found herself thinking that it was one of the most beautiful sights she had ever witnessed. As a little girl in Southern Ireland, she’d been surrounded by nature in all its magnificence, and her present situation near Streatham Common was not without its aesthetic high points. Yet there seemed something almost otherworldly about this evening in Whitstable. Standing on the simple harbour; watching as the sun, like a dying red giant, sank majestically beyond the horizon. It dropped to a thin rim on the edge of the sky as the wash of soft waves seemed to usher in the twilight. And then it was no more.

Beth looked at her watch. “Guess we should think about getting back, Ros.” They strode back up the quay, a light breeze whispering through their hair and touching their lips with salt. “I’ve really enjoyed today.” There was an air of satisfaction in Beth’s voice. “Can’t wait to look through my books. Hey, not to mention my case full of treasure!”

Rosie smiled to herself.
Old junk more like.
But she said nothing. When they got to the end of the quay, Beth suddenly stopped and looked back out to sea.

“We must remember that sunset, Rosie. It’s the end of British Summer Time – the clocks go back tonight. From now on we have to get used to the dark.” She pulled a spooky face and they both started laughing. Night was coming.

It was Monday tea-time. Beth closed the front door and wearily peeled off her coat. She’d been out doing private tuition since just after lunch. One sweet, housebound old lady with a burning desire to play an ancient violin left to her by a neighbour; that had been a double session. And an hour-long lesson with a young boy who’d been off school three weeks with a broken leg. Neither pupil had been at their musical best that afternoon, and Beth’s powers of encouragement had been stretched to the limit. Added to that, three sickly bus journeys, and suddenly she felt more exhausted than she could ever remember. She didn’t feel particularly hungry, even though she’d only managed an iced finger since breakfast time. The vague queasiness she’d felt all day had taken the edge off her appetite again. At least Ciaran wouldn’t be in to check up on her. He was going to be heavily involved in an inter-schools music marathon for the next fortnight, and she wasn’t expecting him in until at least ten that night.

She made herself a coffee and went into the bedroom to change. Five minutes later, sitting cross-legged on the floor listening to Mendelssohn’s
Violin Concerto in E
Minor
, she felt like a student again. Her mind sank back into the memory of it all. The endless round of music college life with its early mornings and taut, demanding schedule. The battle as she’d set about beating her body into subjection. The aching arms, the strained fingers, the blistering weariness of working towards assessments. Even as a child, she’d always taken practise seriously. But this had felt like practise to the point of torture. One day she’d broken down, battered by self-doubt and wondering if she’d taken leave of her senses, ever imagining she could make this her career. Her tutor, Mr Kapowski, had instructed her to put away her violin for the day. ‘Go for a walk,’ he’d said. ‘Ask yourself what you really want to do with your life. Do you
really want
to be a musician? You’ll only make it, Beth, if you want it so bad that it hurts.’

Walking through the college grounds that December day, she’d thought long and hard about things. There was no doubt about it, being a music student was tough. And she missed her family desperately. Sometimes the urge to jump on a train and go home was almost more than she could bear.
And yet …

Suddenly, her eyes had been drawn to a small sapling trembling in the cold air. Its branches were grey and skeletal, and the handful of leaves still clinging to it so brown and brittle, they looked as though the next gust of wind might rip them from their tenuous hold and send them flittering into oblivion. She’d known then. Without her music, she would simply shrivel up and die. It would be a slow death too. A lingering torment of
‘if onlys’
, a creeping paralysis of disappointment and gnawing regret. Life might be hard, but mere existence would surely be unbearable.

She’d gone back into college, her mind made up. She would do it, even if she went crazy in the effort. And later that night, sitting in the common room, her hands cradling a steaming mug of hot chocolate, she’d had her first conversation with the gentle, dark-eyed Irishman who, less than three years later, was to become her husband.

She hugged herself as she remembered. That day had been a turning point, though at the time she could not have known it. It was hard to believe how far she’d come since.

As the CD continued to play, her gaze moved towards a pile of stuff under the window. Of course … her new books.

She’d had no time to look at them since Saturday. Shuffling across the floor, she reached into the cardboard box the bookshop man had given her. Her hand pulled out a small, beige-coloured volume;
The Poetical Works of John G. Whittier.
For a moment or two, she flicked through its gilt-edged pages, her eyes lingering on a few random sentences. Poetry was a strange animal. She had to be in the mood for it. She reached into the box for another book.
‘The Little White Horse’
by Elizabeth Goudge. The title wrapped itself around her mind like a warm blanket. She’d read the book as a young girl and been totally entranced by it. Her childhood copy had long since disappeared, but seeing this old hardback version in the bookshop had been like stepping back in time. She’d known immediately she had to have it.

She spent the next hour or so sifting through the rest of the box. It was some time after eight when she straightened up and looked around. Books were spread haphazardly all over the floor, each one vying for her attention. She hardly knew which one to start reading first. Good thing Ciaran wasn’t here. He’d say she was mad buying all this old rubbish. She grinned to herself. She’d have to select one book to read and find a home for the rest before the thing turned ugly.

It was then that her eyes fell upon the old case full of sheet music. She decided she might as well look through that too; she’d soon know if there was anything worth keeping. She pressed her small fingers against the catches which, at first, stubbornly refused to budge. Then, just as had happened in the bookshop, they suddenly flew open. Beth lifted out a pile of sheets and began to leaf through them. They were piano scores; a mixture of easy-listening music – some of them forties wartime songs – and popular classical pieces. There were even a few old hymns thrown in amongst them. She took out the rest of the scores and flipped through them. Nothing outstanding at first glance. But then, she reasoned to herself, she’d got them for nothing after all. She glanced back into the case to make sure she’d gone through everything. The bottom of the case was lined with a fusty, yellowed newspaper. On its top sheet, an archaic-looking advert caught her attention. A beaming, fifties cartoon lady smiled up from the page, the patter below her extolling the virtues of some kind of wondersoap Beth had never heard of. Finding the picture rather quaint, her curiosity was aroused. Surely there had to be a date on this thing. As she reached into the case to take the newspaper out, her thumb hit on something hard. Removing the newspaper, she realised it wasn’t lining the bottom of the case at all. Rather, it was concealing a strange array of objects. An old tobacco pipe half-swaddled in a greyish-looking man’s handkerchief. A wad of cigarette cards held together by a thin elastic band. A miniature Toby jug with laughing eyes and bright, grinning mouth. A small, shallow tin, tarnished and dull. And an old, dog-eared notebook. Beth picked up the cigarette cards and flicked through them. They were mostly famous cricketers of yesteryear. Her brother Josh was into cricket; he might like these. Looking next at the Toby jug’s manic expression, she couldn’t imagine anyone liking that. The pipe was nothing special either, but holding it to her nose for a moment, she could still pick up the faint, woody scent of tobacco. It made her think of her own late grandfather. She could still see him sitting in his chair, his stained fingers meticulously pushing and compressing a carefully constructed nest of pungent brown shreds, his lips working carefully to coax the thing to smoulder. The smell of it all had hung in his very being, and as a child she’d found it intoxicating. In those days, it had been a source of secret indignation with her to realise that little girls were not encouraged to smoke pipes themselves. She replaced the pipe and picked up the tin. It was a brassy colour, but dirty and rather dinted, not quite the length of a six inch ruler and about three inches wide. It was embossed with the profile of a lady’s face, on either side of which were some rubbed inscriptions which appeared to be capital ‘M’s. Underneath the woman’s face it read,
‘Christmas 1914’
, and around the edge of the lid were the names of various countries. Beth eased the tin open. Crammed inside was a small New Testament. Bound in crazed black leather and inscribed with gold lettering, Beth could see that its dimensions marginally exceeded those of the tin which contained it. Its edges and corners had been bent and squeezed into its accommodation by someone determined to make it fit. She didn’t attempt to remove it. It seemed quite happy in there, and besides, she’d grown up in a house full of Bibles and rarely had the slightest inclination to read one. She flipped the lid down and put the tin back in the case. Her eyes moved to the old notebook.

It too was leather bound, its battered cover a shabby, mottled brown. She lifted it out of the case and opened it. As she did, a folded piece of thin, yellowed paper fell to the floor. She picked it up and unfolded it. The paper was about A3 size, and she was surprised to see that it was filled with bars of music, written carefully out in pencil. At the top of the page it bore a title,
‘Chant du Rossignol’
. Beth frowned as she hummed her way through the notes. It was just the bare bones of a tune, but whoever had written it had certainly understood the rudiments of music. After a few moments, she folded up the sheet and made a mental note to try it out sometime on the keyboard. She turned her attention back to the notebook. Flicking through it, she was amazed to see that it was almost completely full of writing. All but the last few pages at the back had been used. Though the book was obviously old – its pages browning with age and reeking of antiquity – the writing, though tiny, was in strong, dark pencil and still clearly legible. There were dates and strange place names. Beth frowned again. It appeared to be someone’s diary. She moved back to the first page. On the inside of the front cover was what seemed to be some kind of dedication. Curious, she began to read.

To my dearest Emily –

Sweetest girl,

Gentlest soul,

My inspiration,

My reason to survive.

If I should perish,

Keep these pages

And know I died thinking of you.

Beth gave a low whistle.
Wow
– what was all this about? Her eyes flicked to the first diary entry on the facing page. It was dated July 24
^th
1916. Well, at least that had made the decision easy for her. The other books would have to wait. This one was first in line now. She went and made herself another coffee, came back, and curled up on the bed.

Franvillers (billets) July 24th 1916

I wonder, Emily – do you ever think of me, your old friend, Sam? I hardly dare to hope that you might. And yet I have to tell you, though more than a year has passed since I last saw you, there’s not one hour goes by when I don’t picture your face …

Sam chewed on the end of his pencil and closed his eyes. It was true. Emily’s face was never far from his thoughts. What would she think of him if she knew? He’d never spoken his heart to her before; he’d never dared. But his time out here had taught him a lot. His teeth bit hard on the pencil. He’d made up his mind. If by some miracle he should make it through this war, he would do what he should have done ages ago. He would take his courage in both hands and ask her to be his bride.

The faint rumble of distant artillery rolled across the fields. There was no getting away from it, even behind the line. It had become an integral part of life. The dreary signature tune of their existence. Disagreeable it certainly was, but Sam had long since given up trying to remember what silence sounded like. He ran calloused fingers over the soft leather binding of his new notebook. Still so clean, unspoiled; a little touch of civilisation in this world of filth and noise. In truth, he’d had the book well over a month and had been carrying it around in his bag, still wrapped in its brown paper packaging. He hadn’t known what to do with it at first. His mother had sent it over; for his beautiful poetry, she’d said in her letter. Dear Mother. Had she any idea where her boy had come to? Hardly a place to inspire the sort of bucolic offerings he’d penned in peacetime. Maybe he’d been an idealist back then – something of a romantic perhaps. Whatever the case, those lyrical days seemed an awful long time ago, and war had a way of changing a man. His poetry had a somewhat darker tone now. Somehow Sam doubted his mother would find it quite so beautiful.