A Song in the Night

by Julie Maria Peace

  Cassie left her chair and came over to embrace her daughter. There were no words to express the joy she felt in that moment. But her heart overflowed with gratitude as tears spilled down her cheeks.

  My God, I’ve prayed all these years for her. Thank you, thank you for your faithfulness.

  ____________

  Rosie was in slightly better humour as she went up to bed that night. The evening meal had been convivial enough and afterwards, as the wind rattled the rafters and the fire sang in the hearth, the family had played board games together. Beth had joined in with such gusto, it had been easy to pretend that everything was okay.

  “Typed up any more entries for me?” she’d asked in a low voice as they were in the middle of a bout of Scrabble.

  “Slave driver,” Rosie had hissed.

  Beth had pulled a face then. “If it’s all the same to you,” she’d teased with a growl, “I would like to get it finished before I’m obliged to make my exit.”

  Later, as they’d made their way upstairs for bed, Rosie had turned to Beth. “Do you want the diary back? I mean, is there any point me hanging on to it now you’re out of hospital?”

  Beth had looked thoughtful. “Hold on to it for now, Ros. I really appreciate what you’re doing with it. It helps a lot.” Leaning against the banister she’d sighed, and Rosie had seen the weariness in her eyes. “To be honest, I don’t know if I’d have patience deciphering the writing now. It’s so tiny, and I get so tired, Ros. Your typed up A4’s are just right for me. That is, if you don’t mind doing it.”

  Rosie had grinned then. “Frankly I’d rather eat my own toenails. But for you, dear sister-in-law, I’m prepared to suffer.”

  Now in the quiet of her room, Rosie picked up the diary and opened it again.

  Zillebeke October 24th 1916

  We had an unexpected visitor earlier today, Em. A certain Reverend Nathanael Bocking – Boxer’s brother! His battalion is currently stationed at Hooge not far from here. Apparently he got wind of the news that we were in the area and decided to pay us a call. He’s very like Boxer to look at, except that he’s not so ruggedly built and he wears spectacles. Seems a jolly nice fellow; talked with several of the men and spent a good quarter of an hour or so chatting with Jimmy. I suspect Boxer had something to do with that. He’s still concerned about him. His decision to watch out for him is something he takes very seriously. Anyway, Jimmy seemed much brighter after the conversation so the good Reverend must have said something to buck him up.

  I have a lot of respect for the padres, Emily. They really put themselves out to help us men. You’ll see them assisting with the wounded or giving out hot drinks, always as cheerful as you like. Often they’re right there in the thick of things, even when it’s lively, offering to say a prayer with you or just talking in that special, calming way they have. Somehow I think everybody feels comforted when there’s a chaplain around, even if they won’t admit to it. I know I do. Some of the chaps are a bit cheeky and pretend they’ve no time for all that religious stuff. But I tell you, Em, when we’ve got a big one coming up, they’re usually the first at the church services. As for me, I’m still struggling to know what I think about it all. The more I listen to Boxer, the more I wonder if he might be right. I never gave any of it much thought when I was younger, but since I’ve been out here, I find myself half-hoping that there’s more to things than I’d previously imagined. Sometimes I look at the lads around me, especially the really young, fresh-faced ones. I think of their mothers back home; feeding them, clothing them, watching over them with pride for all those years, only to have them ordered out here to get blown to bits. What sense can you make of that, Em? Surely there must be more to it all, don’t you think? If not, then it seems to me that life is nothing more than a huge tragedy.

  ____________

  Rosie flicked off the lamp and lay in the darkness. Well, that pretty much equated with her view of things at the moment. She certainly hadn’t been able to come up with a more positive interpretation of life over the last few weeks. Not, she chided herself, that she should even be giving brain space to this kind of musing. She was pretty sure Mel never did. Or Ellie. Or any of them down at the nursery come to that. No, from what she’d managed to pick up in staffroom conversation, most of them seemed to lead a fairly vacuous existence. Pubbing, clubbing, snogging and shopping. What was more, they appeared quite content to do so. She’d never heard one of them agonising over the meaning of life. And why should they? They were young, they had their dreams, and even if their aspirations never went much beyond who they were going to pull at their next weekend pub crawl, what did it matter so long as they were happy? That’s more than I am, thought Rosie, as though she had just realised it for the first time. Her mind turned to Beth. She was young. She had dreams. But it seemed that Life hadn’t stopped to consider that. It was marching on regardless, and soon Beth would be gone. Just an empty space where she used to be. A string of broken hearts. And a boatload of questions.

  Chapter 13

  Beth looked around the church hall. It was years since she’d been in here. There was a definite freshness about the paintwork and one or two of the old fixtures had been replaced, but apart from that, everything was just the same as she remembered. Interspersed amongst the familiar faces, however, were quite a few new ones that she didn’t recognise, and she suddenly realised how long she had been away. She leaned over to her mother. “I see Betty Flavel really is still here. How old is she exactly? She was ancient when I was a kid.”

  Several of the old faithfuls came over to say hello. For their sakes Beth did her best to look bright and cheerful. At least they’d had the guts not to ignore her, even if a couple of them had become a little tongue-tied after the first few words. She couldn’t help feeling for them in their awkwardness.

  Her mother nudged her gently. “There’s Tim, look – over there. I bet he’s hardly changed since you were here, has he?” She pointed discreetly across the room to a man who appeared to be in animated conversation with two young children. Beth recognised him immediately. It was a good eight years since she’d last seen him, but despite a few silver flashes in his hair and a slight thinning in his face, he looked very much the same.

  She could remember the stir Tim Fitzpatrick had caused when he’d first arrived at Saint Edwin’s all those years ago. She’d been about eight at the time. Even at that age, she was already a seasoned churchgoer. Church had always been a great place to be, socially at least. She thought of the countless ‘aunties’ and ‘uncles’ she’d managed to collect during her childhood years, and of all the kids she’d regularly sparred with in the weekly Sunday school quizzes. They’d been good days.

  Then suddenly, along had come this strange, excitable guy wanting to change the world – starting with Saint Edwin’s. It hadn’t taken long to upset the applecart. Several stalwarts had disappeared from the scene pretty soon after his arrival. She’d only been a kid back then and hadn’t really understood what was going on. Except that she’d soon noticed some of her friends were no longer around either. Explanations had been vague at the time. It was only later, as she’d got into her teenage years, that she’d twigged. Things had gotten just too hot for some folk. Tim Fitzpatrick didn’t exactly swing from the chandeliers singing ‘I’ve seen the light’, but he wasn’t like any vicar Saint Edwin’s had known before. He talked about God with such a sense of reality and challenge that pretty soon it became impossible for anyone to sit on the fence. Either you made up your mind to follow his lead, or you left for new, less radical pastures. A few hopefuls had stuck around hoping things would go back to the way they’d been before, but eventually they’d tumbled to the fact that change was here to stay. Ed and Cassie Simmons had been among those who’d been stirred by the charismatic young preacher. Suddenly their lives had been turned around by the things that were happening in the hitherto staid parish of Saint Edwin’s. At first, Beth had been in the thick of things too. Even Sunday school had buzzed with
a new excitement. In her young heart she’d felt the pull, the same pull that her parents and countless others were experiencing. They’d been happy days. Back then, God was in His heaven and all was right with the world.

  Until she’d become a teenager.

  Beth smiled sadly to herself. To think it had taken cancer to bring her back to her senses. And now here was Tim Fitzpatrick making his way over to say hello. Ah well, she ought to try and look enthusiastic. She had a favour to ask of him.

  Rosie was feeling slightly out of place. Sitting at a table with a cup of tea in one hand and a slice of the famous Flavel fruit cake in the other, she was beginning to feel like she’d joined the Women’s Institute. She turned to Ciaran and made a wisecrack to that effect, in the hope of drawing him into conversation. But he just smiled absently and said nothing. Rosie gave up. It was the third attempt she’d made; he obviously wasn’t in the mood for chitchat. Just then, a tall, slim man who looked to be in his early forties came over to the table. Cassie made the introductions.

  “Tim – this is Ciaran, Beth’s husband … and this is his sister, Rosie. We’re all going to be spending Christmas together.” She flashed a reassuring smile in Rosie’s direction. “Rosie, Ciaran – this is Tim, our minister.”

  Rosie didn’t think he looked much like a minister. He was dressed very casually in jeans and a sweater, and he had soft, brown eyes which twinkled when he grinned. No, he looked way too happy to be a vicar.

  “Great to have you with us.” Tim shook both their hands warmly and apologised that he was rather busy. “I’m afraid I can’t stay and chat at the moment. In a few minutes our children’s choir will be giving us a carol recital, so I have to go and make sure everything’s ready. But I’ll catch you both later.” He checked his watch. “Better be going. Enjoy the show … and look out for the angels!”

  It was Tim who introduced the choir. They trooped out onto the small stage and lined up in three rows, their nervous faces expectantly searching the audience before them. The ‘angels’ were on the front row. The very youngest of the group, they were dressed all in white and wore tinsel halos. Rosie couldn’t help smiling to herself. They reminded her so much of the kids back at the nursery. Children were the same the world over. The choir began by singing ‘Silent Night’. The older members carried the song well. Their voices were surprisingly strong and melodic, and it was obvious they’d sung in public before. Though the ‘angels’ gave little in the way of vocal contribution, their facial expressions and unselfconscious fidgeting more than made up for their lack of participation in the singing. Rosie’s attention was particularly captured by one little girl who was standing right at the far end of the front row. She had very dark hair and eyes, and a genuinely cherubic face with shiny pink cheeks which dimpled every time she smiled. And smile she did. It was as if she’d spent the last month practising. One minute she’d be turning around and pulling faces at her fellow choristers, as though totally oblivious of the audience’s presence. The next, she would give the widest, most winning smile imaginable, as though she had suddenly remembered why she was there. Rosie couldn’t take her eyes off the child. It had been worth coming just to watch this hilarious display.

  The next carol had a slightly Caribbean feel to it. The ‘angels’ didn’t seem very sure of this one either. They moved their little mouths from time to time, as if trying to find a familiar word, but on the whole, most of the song was spent twiddling with halos or having a scratch. The dark-haired cherub seemed more in tune with this particular number. She made no attempt to sing, but swayed happily from side to side, clapping her chubby hands to the rhythm of the music. When the song finished and the audience began their applause, the little girl gave several rapid, ostentatious bows in the various directions of the hall. Rosie wanted to laugh. This kid was an absolute scream.

  Tim came back onto the stage and announced that the choir would be finishing with a rendition of ‘Away in a Manger’. As the pianist played the introduction, a change seemed to come over the ‘angels’. Suddenly their small faces became gripped with concentration as they waited for their first note. As the song began, Rosie watched her little friend. The child’s expression had become deadly serious, and now she sung every word with great feeling. Her head was tilted back and her large, dark eyes gazed into the air as though she really could see angels. The little girl did not miss one syllable of the carol. As it went on, she became more and more impassioned, so that towards the end of it, her tinsel halo had slipped over one ear with the efforts of her delivery. Never had Rosie seen such a simple childhood song offered up with more earnestness.

  Quite unexpectedly, a powerful wave of emotion washed over her. As she watched the child, she realised that her own throat was beginning to tighten. She swallowed hard and tried to pull herself together. This was ‘Away in a Manger’, for crying out loud. Everybody did ‘Away in a Manger’ at Christmas – what was the big deal? Yet she couldn’t remember the last time she’d sung it herself, or where, or with whom. And suddenly, she felt terribly suffocated.

  As the song drew to a close, she knew she had to get out. When Tim Fitzpatrick climbed onto the stage once more and asked if he might share a few words, she seized her chance. Quietly, she took her coat from the back of her chair and softly nudged Ciaran. “I’m just going outside for a breather,” she whispered. “See you in a bit.”

  The hall was situated a few paces from the south side of the church itself. Now as Rosie ventured out into the cold December air, she found herself with a choice of two paths, both of which led into the sprawling graveyard. She veered left, hardly thinking where she wanted to go, and soon found that the path had ended and she was walking amongst the headstones. The ground beneath her feet was brittle with frost. It crunched as she made her way along it with agitated steps.

  What the heck was all that about? I must be going crazy or something. Filling up over a Christmas carol … man, I’m really losing the plot now.

  She walked a little faster, trying to shake off the disquiet that was gripping her. Maybe I should have stayed in London. At least I’d still be sane.

  But she knew deep down that that had never been an option. She couldn’t have refused Beth this last Christmas. Her stomach churned. Beth’s last Christmas – what a hideous thought. She swore under her breath. Everything was so wrong. So very wrong.

  She didn’t see what she slipped on. But one minute she was striding along, and the next, she was flat on her back. She fell so heavily that for quite a few moments she lay on the frozen ground, hardly daring to move. Great. Now I go and break every bone in my body.

  But she felt too shaken up to be angry. There was a slight throbbing in her ankle and the bottom of her back hurt. Trying not to wince, she drew her legs slowly up into bent position. Well, that’s positive I suppose. At least they still move – I haven’t gone and paralysed myself.

  Some rooks flew overhead, cawing loudly as they circled in the overcast sky. Rosie waited for a few moments before attempting to move again. Her head was teeming with gruesome facts she suddenly wished she didn’t know. Why was there never a first aider about when you needed one? She gently rolled onto her right side and propped herself up on her elbow. So far so good.

  Looking around, she realised she was completely surrounded by gravestones. They were in varying shapes and sizes, and appeared to be arranged in no particular pattern at all. There was certainly nothing of the modern linear cemetery about this place. Some of the stones looked very old, and some, much more recent, but they seemed to sit together quite easily in their haphazard setting. The most arresting feature in view, however, stood only about three yards from where Rosie lay. It was a marble monument, about nine feet in height and in the shape of a cross. Rosie’s eyes went to the words chiselled on its frontage.

  TO THE GLORY OF GOD

  AND

  IN HONOURED MEMORY

  OF

  THE FALLEN OF OUR VILLAGE

  There followed a list of names. Ro
sie pushed herself up into sitting position, wincing lightly as she did. They must be used to folk tripping up round these parts, she thought darkly. They’ve even gone and shoved up a memorial to them.

  She rubbed her ankle, wondering if she dare try standing on it. Deciding to give it a go, she was just about to test it out when she suddenly heard the faint sound of footsteps crunching along the ground. Now what – a haunted graveyard? Can today possibly get any worse?

  “Are you okay over there?”

  A voice seemed to shout from somewhere behind her. She turned round to see an approaching figure. From a distance it was hard to know whether the person was male or female. Whoever it was, they were dressed in dark trousers and what appeared to be a scruffy duffle coat with the hood pulled up. Inwardly Rosie groaned. Oh wonderful. It’s either an overgrown Paddington Bear or some weirdo with really dodgy fashion sense.

  A few seconds later the mystery person was standing beside her. “Are you alright? You went with a right bang there.” The enquirer pushed back the duffle coat hood with a soily hand, and Rosie could see that he was a young man who looked to be in his mid-twenties.

  She tried to straighten up. “I was going for the backflip. Didn’t quite make it.”

  The young man smiled and crouched down beside her. “Have you hurt anything – I mean, can you stand up?”

  Rosie rubbed her ankle again. “I think I’ll be okay. Just feel a bit shaken that’s all.”

  The young man looked concerned. “D’you think someone should take a look at you, make sure you haven’t broken anything?”

  Rosie shook her head. “No, no I’m sure I’ll be fine.” She smiled in an effort to reassure him. Apart from feeling a complete jerk, that is. Why is there always someone watching when you go and do something stupid?

  The young man extended a hand to her. For a second, Rosie wasn’t sure whether she was supposed to shake it or grab it to pull herself up. Either way, she wasn’t too keen. It was filthy. The guy looked like he hadn’t seen a bath in weeks. Thankfully at that point he glanced down at his hand and, realising its grimy state, hurriedly withdrew it.