“Over the last few weeks,” Tim began, his eyes looking across the congregation, “I had several conversations with Beth. On one particular afternoon, after having spent a most pleasant hour or so chatting together, she gave me something which she requested I read out at her funeral. And so, with your permission, I would like in these next few moments to bring you all –” He looked down and read from the envelope. “A Final Word From Beth.”
There was an air of expectancy as Tim tore the envelope open.
My Precious Family and Friends,
Well, if you’re listening to this, it can only mean one thing; the time has come for us to say our goodbyes. I have not looked forward to this moment if I’m honest. My life has been blessed with so many beautiful people, it’s hard to think of our being separated from each other. And yet I guess that’s the way things have to be, at least for now. I thank God for every one of you. Each of you has helped mould my journey into what it has been. And what a brilliant time I’ve had! My life may have been short, but it has certainly been an adventure, made all the more so by my encounters with you fantastic folk. What stars you are!
Perhaps if you’d asked me a few months ago what had been the highlight of my life, I would have said it was the night I played solo violin with the Avanti Sinfonia – when we performed Vaughan Williams’ ‘Lark Ascending’ at the Laureate Hall in central London. For me, it was the fulfilment of a childhood dream; something I had longed for and worked very hard to see. I had hoped that night would mark the real take-off of my musical career. Alas, that was not to be the case. Unbeknown to me, things were about to take an unexpected turn. Within a month of the concert I was to discover I had cancer.
What fear that word can strike into the heart. What devastation it can bring upon a life. I would be lying if I told you that I received the news calmly. No, not at all. I must be honest and confess that at first, I came close to sinking. Trying to make sense of my life, trying to make sense of my impending death – none of it made any sense at all. The situation seemed quite hopeless.
And yet talking to you today, I can tell you that I did find hope. In the midst of everything that came upon me following the night of my ‘greatest triumph’ back in October, I began to experience something more precious than I could ever have dreamed of. In the fear and heartbreak of my illness and diagnosis, I suddenly found myself crying out to the God of my childhood. He’d been so real to me once, back in the simplicity of my younger days. Jesus, the friend of little children, the Good Shepherd searching for his lost sheep, the loving Father watching and waiting for his prodigal son. I’d known all the stories back then, and a whole heap of songs too. Yet somewhere along the way I’d become an adult – self-sufficient, proud and successful. It had been so easy to persuade myself I’d outgrown my need of him. Somehow, along with all my teddies, dolls and dressing up clothes, I’d left God far behind. Beth was a big girl now, carving out her own path in the world.
But there are times on our earthly journey when we find ourselves facing situations that are far beyond even the strongest, most unshakeable amongst us. When we sense, as if for the first time, our own fragility and transience. When we’re hit by the shocking realisation that we are not, and never were, masters of our own destiny. How terrifying it was to find myself in that dark hour. In all my life I’d never been in such an awful place. Yet as my shattered world began to fall apart, it was to God that I turned, albeit a little nervously at first. How would he respond after all my years of silence? Would he turn his back on me as I had turned my back on him? My prayer was not sophisticated or rehearsed; it was simply the broken sob of a hurting child. Imagine my joy and relief to discover that he had been waiting for me all along. No sooner had the pitiful cry left my lips than he reached down and scooped me into his loving arms. At my most wretched, I sensed his forgiveness and grace – at my most terrified, I felt his peace. And what an incredible peace it was! How could I have lived so long without his presence?
I have to admit something to you. One morning recently, I confided to him that I was afraid to die. Not so much of death itself, you understand, but rather the act of dying. Not exactly something one can practise for, is it? That very night I had a dream. In it, the Lord came to me and sat on the end of my bed. I remember the look of tremendous love in those eyes. “Don’t be afraid, Beth,” he said. “When the time comes, I’ll send my angels to carry you home to me.” The next morning, the fear had completely gone. Now, as you listen to this letter, I will have seen those very angels face to face. But even more precious than that, I will be looking into his.
And so for now, lovely people, I will say goodbye. As I leave this world, be sure to know I carry you all in my heart. Whatever you do, don’t be unhappy for me. Jesus said, ‘I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies; and whoever lives and believes in me will never die.’
Dear precious ones, I BELIEVE! In the words of the song – ‘I’m gonna live forever!’
Love You and God Bless – Beth xxx
A profound hush had fallen over the church. Ciaran’s arm was touching against Rosie’s and she could sense that his whole body was trembling. His grief seemed almost tangible now. Rosie hardly heard any of the short message that Tim delivered following his reading of the letter. Her mind was stinging with memories; the old church at Applemarket, the evening on Whitstable pier, Beth’s dream of the fog – it all fitted in. Yet listening to Beth’s final thoughts had been almost too painful to bear, and Rosie had a sudden, terrible urge to run out of the place before she completely lost control. She forced her brain to think of mundane things; shopping at Sainsbury’s, cleaning the nursery toilets, grilling nachos on a Saturday night … anything that might pull her mind away from the awful reality of what was happening and stem the surge of grief that was about to engulf her. It was with some relief that she realised Tim had finished talking. Now it was time for the final hymn. She steeled herself to hold on. Surely they had to be nearing the end now. The singing was strong and, Rosie sensed, almost triumphant. When it was over, Tim asked the congregation to remain standing for the final prayers. There was a simplicity in the way he prayed; a gentle, sincere empathy. Rosie was sure she could hear his voice breaking slightly as he spoke.
“Could I ask you all to take your seats for a moment?” Tim requested. “Before we carry Beth’s body to its final resting place, I would like us all to spend a few private moments remembering her life and thanking God for our precious memories of her.”
As the congregation sat down, strains of music began to drift through the still church. It was music Rosie had never heard before; music of such melancholic dignity that she felt it could almost have been composed for the occasion itself. She reached for the order of service leaflet and stared down at the photograph of Beth on the front. It was the same photo that had appeared on the programme the night of the concert. Rosie felt a stab of pain. Trying to distract herself, she opened the leaflet and fixed her gaze on the words swimming in front of her.
Maurice Ravel – Pavane Pour Une Infante Défunte (Pavane For A Dead Princess)
As her eyes fell upon the title of the piece that was playing, her heart quickened. Ciaran’s words came sharply back to her – the day he’d picked the music for the funeral.
“… Because that’s what she meant to me.”
She had no idea how long the piece went on. Suddenly her whole consciousness was fixed on the trembling form of her brother beside her. He could no longer hide his distress. He made little sound, but hugging himself, rocked gently backwards and forwards in his seat. Swallowing her own tears, Rosie put an arm around his shoulders and prayed for the ordeal to end. After a few minutes the pallbearers walked quietly towards the coffin. Tim gave a little nod to the front row and they stood to their feet for Beth’s final procession. Rosie quickly slipped her arm through Ciaran’s. As they began to make their way slowly down the aisle, she hardly saw the faces of the congregation. The melanc
holy of the music had hurt her at a depth she could barely identify. It seemed to speak of something beautiful, now gone; something deeply loved, now lost forever.
The fresh air hit her like a slap as they stepped outside. She breathed deeply, still trying to steady Ciaran who was now sobbing without restraint. It was only a few yards from the church to the freshly dug plot. As they made their way there, Rosie’s mind went back to the day she’d met Jonathon in this very place. Up until now this churchyard had carried pleasant memories for her. Surely after today she would never be able to think of it in the same way again.
She held onto Ciaran for most of the committal; except at the end, when Josh’s young daughter, Meg, handed out white roses from a box to all those standing around the graveside. Rosie took one and clutched it for a few moments. So. It was all over. Beth was gone, and this was goodbye. She tossed the bloom miserably onto the coffin below, then moved aside to let others come nearer. It was only then that she looked up and saw just how many people had come to say their farewells. There was the crowd of family members she’d seen at the house earlier, there was Emmett Mallory and a number of familiar faces from the orchestra, and there were countless others that Rosie had never before set eyes on. As Tim concluded the burial, everyone stood around in respectful silence. After a few minutes, the crowd started to drift off towards the church hall.
Ciaran stood looking down into the grave, his face contorted in an expression of helpless grief. Cassie gently touched Rosie’s arm. “Look – over there, Rosie love.” She gestured towards two figures standing some way off. “You go. We’ll stay with your brother.”
At first, Rosie did not comprehend her meaning. She squinted her eyes against the afternoon sunlight and tried to focus. No. It couldn’t be …
Slowly she began to walk across the graveyard to where the couple was standing. As she approached them, she could make them out quite clearly. The woman was middle-aged and thin, her raven hair tinted with silver. She was dressed in black and her make-up had smudged under her eyes. The man at her side looked much older than her, though Rosie knew he was not. He was balding and overweight, and seemed to stand at a strange angle as though in some kind of discomfort. The sight of him turned Rosie’s stomach.
“Hello, Rosie.” The woman tentatively reached out her arms.
Rosie hesitated for a moment. “Hello, Mum.”
Rosie allowed her mother to embrace her. She could not, however, bring herself to even look at the man standing with her. How dare he come here? How dare he show his face on a day like this? For a moment, she wanted to be angry at her mother for bringing him. But as she struggled to contain the maelstrom of emotion that was kicking off inside her, Rosie finally understood something. The very fact that her mother had brought Mickey here today only served to confirm what Rosie had suspected all along. Her mother had never known, never guessed, never had so much as the slightest inkling as to what had been going on.
“We’re not going to stay for the tea, Rosie.” Her mother’s face seemed to her so sad and empty. “Mick’s gout’s real bad at the moment and it’s a long way home for him. We just wanted to come and pay our respects.” The sound of her soft Irish lilt made Rosie feel like crying. Somehow it seemed to throw up every memory of her life that she wanted to forget.
“Aren’t you going to talk to Ciaran before you go?” Rosie urged. Surely she hasn’t made the journey all this way to go home without saying a word to him?
Her mother shook her head. “No, Rosie. Poor lad’s too cut up to talk today. Some other time, eh?”
“Yeah, I guess.” Like never, more like. Rosie stiffened. She couldn’t break down now – not in front of him.
Her mother kissed her cheek sorrowfully. “Bye then, Rosie. See you again sometime, love.”
Rosie watched as they turned and began to walk away. Mickey was hobbling painfully and for a brief moment, despite herself, she felt something akin to pity for him. His strength was broken at last, but strangely, she could not find it in her heart to gloat. As she observed the wretched pathos of his appearance, it seemed to her that he was reaping a miserable harvest. She continued watching until they turned out of the gate and disappeared from view. So that was it. Her mother’s token gesture of sympathy. Biting her lip, Rosie turned towards the church hall.
A few moments later, she found herself sitting on a table with some of Beth’s relatives. There was an exchange of empathetic smiles, a few kind but meaningless words, and then Rosie stared down at the floor. She had no desire for any conversation now. She’d always known today was going to be an ordeal. Indeed, the image of Beth being lowered into the ground had sickened her to the core. That in itself was enough to send her spiralling into depression. But nothing could have prepared her for the shock of seeing Mickey again. As she pictured his face, a vice-like pain gripped her stomach. She could almost smell him in the atmosphere around her.
A soft touch on her shoulder jolted her from her ruminations. It was Jonathon. He was helping serve the tables with tea and coffee.
“Hi, Rosie.” He bent down towards her ear and spoke in a low voice. “I thought you were incredibly brave in there. How you feeling now?”
“I’m okay,” she lied, trying to force a smile. But seeing the concern in those blue eyes, she knew she hadn’t fooled him. Hastily she looked down at the floor again. Jonathon, I can’t tell you the half of it. Just when I was thinking things couldn’t get any worse …
Inside she felt utterly fragmented. All things considered, today had probably been the worst day of her entire life.
Chapter 23
In the days that followed, Rosie felt as though she was trapped in a dream. The mood in the house was strange; a mixture of collective anticlimax coupled with a feeling of numb unreality. Beth’s loss seemed to permeate the very fabric of the building. The light, airy rooms with their lofty ceilings and sense of space seemed somehow smaller and more confined. The clock sounded dull and tired as though chiming the hours was suddenly too much effort. And the fire barely sang in the hearth. Rosie saw little of Ciaran. He came down for meals but hardly touched his food, only taking his place at the table for the briefest time before disappearing again. On one occasion, she noticed him leave the house through the back door shortly after dinner. He was dressed up warmly as though going off for a walk. Rosie suspected he was on his way to the churchyard. For all she knew, that was probably where he spent most of his time at the moment. But she was reluctant to ask him outright. One day during the week, Ed took him over to Tom Bennett’s to pick up logs and fresh eggs. They made a subdued pair as they set off. And, it seemed, even Tom Bennett’s company did not induce them to stay and chat. They were back within the hour, their faces sober and unrefreshed.
Rosie understood. Since the funeral, she herself had been finding conversation increasingly difficult. She made small talk with Cassie and tried to help her out with the cooking and cleaning. But she was always relieved when she found herself alone again. Deep down, she was afraid to engage with anyone at the moment. Since her encounter with Mickey, her mind felt raw. Losing Beth had been horrible enough – but seeing Mickey too …? A huge emotional scab had been knocked off and the wound was fresh as ever. All it would take was the wrong word at the wrong time, and Rosie knew it. It made her feel terribly vulnerable.
Jonathon called twice during the next few days. On both occasions he was only able to stay about an hour – a particularly heavy workload, he explained with genuine disappointment. Rosie was secretly glad. Not that she didn’t enjoy his company. She was fast coming to the realisation that she enjoyed being with Jonathon more than she did most other people. But she also realised that Jonathon had an unnerving way of seeing right inside her, and just now that was the last thing she wanted.
“You’re quiet,” he observed on the Thursday evening.
Rosie knew he was eyeing her with concern. She shrugged and tried to smile, but Jonathon wasn’t taken in by it.
“You don’t want to
go back on Saturday, do you?” He spoke so gently that Rosie wanted to burst into tears. He was right; she didn’t want to. It was bad enough trying to deal with everything while she was here, in the safety of Oak Lodge. But the thought of being all alone in Streatham again … that was a prospect that hardly bore thinking about.
“No, don’t suppose I do.” She made the admission simply. There seemed no point in pretending.
Jonathon nodded slowly. There was little he could say, but somehow she sensed that he knew how much she was hurting. The rest of their conversation was subdued and soon it was time for him to leave.
“Wish I could stay longer, Rosie. I really do.” There seemed to be a reluctance in his voice, as though he wanted to say more. For a moment they stood looking at each other awkwardly. Then Jonathon shook his head with a sigh. “Come here, you.”
He took a step forward and opened his arms towards her. Before she had time to think, Rosie found herself in his embrace. But it was unlike any embrace she’d had from a man before. It was full of warmth, yet without that blistering heat that always seemed to taint these things; full of love, yet completely pure. It was a brother’s embrace, yet somehow more. And it left Rosie speechless.
“You make sure you e-mail,” he said kindly but firmly. “Don’t go quiet on me again, or I might just find out where you live and come down and sort you out.”
Rosie mumbled something in reply, but inside, her mind was teeming. Why did she feel as limp as an invertebrate all of a sudden? And why was her heart thudding so uncontrollably? Jonathon’s cheek was pressed against hers and she could smell the scent of his skin. For a split second, her mind went back to Gavin and his overpowering designer aftershave. How different was Jonathon; lighter somehow, fresher. And so much less threatening.
After what seemed like an age, Jonathon pulled away and held her at arms’ length. Gripping her shoulders gently, he fixed her with his blue gaze. “I’m going to be praying hard for you, Rosie …” He stopped for a moment, looking for her reaction. “Dunno if you’re happy with that, but I’ll be praying anyway.”
A Song in the Night Page 39