The Songbird and the Soldier

by Wendy Lou Jones

  “Absolutely not. I’m ringing your mum and dad. You’re not going home on your own after a do like that.”

  “No, don’t. You know what they’re like. Mum’ll only worry and fuss and Dad will get all edgy. I just want to go to bed. Please, Kate.”

  Kate looked at her for a moment and then agreed to ring Spike to arrange for him to pick them both up and stay with Sam for a bit, to make sure she was all right. Everybody agreed it was for the best to get Sam home, and wrapping up the last of the birthday cake, they wished her better soon and Kate and Sam went on their way.

  Kate wasn’t happy leaving Sam on her own that night, but Sam insisted they leave, and Kate’s maternal instinct urged her to see her baby girl safely back in her cot. Sam said she would ring if she felt ill again and would call the doctors in the morning to get an appointment.

  The following morning, Sam was still not right. Kate rang her and insisted that if she was determined to go into work, then she should at least take a cab to school. Sam rang the surgery in morning break and got an appointment for the following week. The day ticked by in ever slowing minutes. Finally it was the weekend and she was free to catch up with her sleep.

  When Sam failed to show up for lunch on Sunday, her mum began to get very concerned. She tried the phone, but there was no answer on her land line and her mobile went straight to answerphone, so in the end, with the dinner smothered in foil on the dining room table, she got in the car and drove around to Sam’s house.

  As she approached the house, she felt a surge of terror rise up inside her. She knocked on the front door. There was no reply. She knocked harder, but still no answer came. Fumbling inside her bag, Mrs Litton found the spare keys and opened the door. She called out. Sam’s things were there. Her coat hung up beside the door and her keys and purse were on the table in the hallway. She rapidly searched around and then hurried upstairs.

  At the bedroom door she knocked and paused. “Sam?” she called out, and then with no reply, she crept inside. In that moment all else paled around her and her stomach wrenched. Lying there on the bed was her beautiful daughter. She rushed over and tried to rouse her. Sam stirred a little, but would not wake. Her lips were cracked and her eyes sunken. Mrs Litton reached for her phone and with trembling hands managed to type in the three digits.

  When the ambulance was on its way, Mrs Litton rang her husband. She could barely speak for the trembling in her voice. But theirs had been a long and happy marriage and little needed to be actually said. She arranged to meet him at the hospital and then she waited, unable to move from her daughter’s side until the siren blared outside the house and a knock battered hard on the front door and she was obliged to let go of her hand and step away.

  In the early hours of Monday morning, Sam came round in a hospital bed. She looked around her. Her left hand was connected to a drip and to her right sat her mother, her head nodding awkwardly to one side in a high-backed chair. She looked some more and saw her father slumped in an armchair against the wall. It was dark in there, but Sam could see well enough. Somewhere beyond her vision she could hear a single set of footsteps, walking quietly around. Sam stirred her aching body and her mother was immediately alert. She tried to speak, but the effort was too much. Heavy sheets weighed her body down. Only her hands had enough energy left to speak. Sam squeezed her mother’s hand and tried to smile. She tried to speak again and her mother leapt up and was by her side with a small plastic beaker of water. Sam took a couple of sips and rested back, exhausted. How had she got there? She could not remember.

  “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.”

  Chapter 14

  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.

  I find myself thinking back to our days together, as if in a dream. And then I wake and you’re not there and my heart aches just a little bit more.

  Think of me when you need a friend. I will always be there for you, if you need me.

  I miss your hand in mine.