As he spoke, Rosie was struck by the passion she saw in him. She’d seen it before, on those occasions in the past when he’d tried to talk to her about Jesus. None of it had made much sense to her back then. But today, for the first time, she began to understand it. This was what made him tick. Jonathon was a man on fire from the inside.
____________
The next day Rosie was interviewed by two women from Social Services. The following day Molly was not in school. Bev Carradine put Rosie in the picture. “She won’t be coming back to us for the rest of this term. Not sure what will happen in September, but they’ll inform us.”
Rosie felt sad. “I wish there was something more we could do to help her.”
Bev shook her head. “I’m afraid our bit’s done, Rosie. Molly’s safe now, and the police are on the case. Unless they need to speak to us, we can’t really get involved any further.”
That’s not strictly true, thought Rosie as she lay on her bed later that evening. She might not be able to see Molly any more, but there was one thing she could do for her.
Father, please look after little Molly. Please take care of her. Watch over her and keep her safe. And one day, Lord, please let her come to know you as I’ve done. Let her know you as the God who sees everything. As the one who loves her enough to die for her. And heal her hurts, Lord. Heal her wounds. Amen.
____________
The journeys to and from school didn’t seem quite so painful now. Rosie’s heart still turned over every time she set eyes on Jonathon, yet somehow it was easier to bear now that God was in her heart too. Their topics of conversation varied little. Sunday service, Tuesday Bible study, Thursday prayer meeting. All they seemed to talk about these days was God or the latest church event. And Rosie loved it.
One day, as he drove her home from school, Jonathon smiled and shook his head. “I can’t believe you’re the same girl, Rosie. Listening to you talk, I can hardly believe the change in you.”
Rosie tried to look offended. “Not sure how I’m supposed to take that. Was I some kind of hideous reprobate or something?”
Jonathon gave a little laugh and shook his head again. “No, I didn’t mean that. I’m just so thrilled to see you like this. So – so plugged in.”
He looked genuinely delighted, and suddenly it pained Rosie to see him so happy on her account. If only things could have been different between them. She consoled herself with the thought that soon she would be free to move on. A new life, she told herself; and with God looking after her now, surely things would work out this time.
In the last week of term, however, she found herself in a dilemma. Bev Carradine summoned her to the office. “I’ve just had a call from Lydia Vardy. She won’t be coming back to us after all. Seems she got talking to someone from the Children’s Department on one of her hospital visits. There was a playworker’s post going, so Lydia applied. They’ve just rung to say she’s got the job. She starts in September.” Bev hesitated for a moment, then leaned over the desk. “How would you feel about staying on with us, Rosie? We’ve come to value you a great deal – and the kids love you. How would you like a permanent position at Paddock Hill?”
Rosie was taken aback. This was the last thing she’d been expecting. “I’m not sure what to say. I’d kinda planned on going back to London when I’d finished my stint here … guess this throws a different light on things.”
Bev nodded slowly. “I understand. Well, the offer’s there, Rosie. Do you want to think about it for a couple of weeks and let me know? It might be easier for you to make a decision once we break up. Whatever you decide to do, I just want to thank you for your input while you’ve been here.” She gave a knowing smile. “Some of it has been quite literally life-changing – for one little girl at least.”
Rosie stood up from her chair. “Thanks, I’ve loved working here. I’ll think about what you’ve said. Give me a fortnight. I’ll get back to you as soon as I’ve made up my mind.”
Her mind was pretty much made up already. In any other circumstances she’d have jumped at the opportunity. Paddock Hill was the ideal place of work. Great staff, great kids, beautiful setting. How could you improve on perfection? But the thought of seeing Jonathon day in, day out on a permanent basis was too much to contemplate. How would she cope on the inevitable day he announced his engagement to Lauren in front of the whole staff room? It didn’t bear thinking about. Rosie couldn’t bring herself to turn Bev’s offer down flat. But deep in her heart, she knew that staying on in Ridderch Standen wasn’t really an option any more.
____________
It was a beautiful sunny morning in the second week of the long summer break. Rosie had just made herself a coffee and was on her way upstairs to her room. She’d been thinking about Bev’s job offer again. She knew she needed to get back to her, but there seemed something so final about saying no.
Oh Lord, what do I do about this? Couldn’t you persuade Jonathon to move to Durham or Cornwall or wherever Lauren is these days? It would make life a whole lot easier for me.
Her prayer was interrupted by the sound of Ciaran calling to her. She turned to see him standing on the landing in front of his room. “Are you busy, Ros?” There was a sigh in his voice as he spoke.
“Not really. Just thinking about some stuff, that’s all.”
Ciaran nodded absently. “Just wondered if you fancied helping me.” He pushed open his bedroom door and pointed. “I’ve been looking through some of Beth’s things – y’know, all the stuff she brought up from London. Thought I’d go through it a bit at a time. See what I should keep … or if there’s anything I should give to other people.” He looked overwhelmed just thinking about it, and Rosie’s heart went out to him. He sighed again. “Some of this stuff I’ve never even seen before. Didn’t know she’d got it. Wondered if you wanted to help me for half an hour. We don’t have to do it for very long, but I guess I have to make a start sometime.”
Rosie couldn’t bring herself to say no. “Course I will. Lead the way.”
Ciaran had already pulled out several boxes from their hiding places, and across the room, through the open doors of a large built-in closet, Rosie could see a further pile of random paraphernalia. It seemed that something had been squeezed into every available crevice. She rolled her eyes. Working in half hour stretches this could take weeks. They decided to make a start on the books first. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, they took a box each and began to separate the books into piles.
“Wonder if Ed and Cassie might like some of these,” Ciaran ventured as he flicked through yet another dusty tome. “Can’t see me ever reading them, but I want everything to go to a good home, Ros.”
Rosie said nothing. Poor Ciaran. She doubted he’d be able to bring himself to throw away even so much as a dirty tissue that had belonged to Beth. Still, if sitting here sifting through stuff made him feel he was doing something, it was a worthwhile exercise. Certainly a step in the right direction.
It was well over half an hour later when Ciaran straightened up. “Well, I think that’s my box finished. I’ve found a couple of things Ben might be interested in.” He stood to his feet and walked over to the closet. Surveying its contents for a couple of moments, he shook his head. “Dunno what I’m gonna do with all this lot.” He reached into the closet and pulled out a small, battered suitcase.
Rosie gave a slight gasp. “Hey, wait a minute – I remember her getting that case! It’s from the bookshop at Applemarket. Remember when the two of us went for the day last October? The old guy gave it to her for nothing. Said she’d been his best customer all week.” Her mind was suddenly flooded with memories. It had been a wonderful, perfect day. Beth had been so happy; they both had. Could it really have been less than a year ago?
“Don’t know that there’s much in it, Ros. I seem to remember having a quick look when we first came up here.” Ciaran flicked the catches and opened the lid of the case. “Yeah, like I thought. Just some old music scores.” He put his ha
nd inside and lifted out a pile of papers. Tossing them onto the bed, he suddenly frowned. Peeping out from between the sheets of music was a large brown envelope marked ‘PRIVATE’. Curious, he picked it up and opened it. “Wonder what this could be.”
Rosie had only half heard him. She was still thinking back to her day out with Beth.
“Chant – du – Rossignol … “ Ciaran began, his pronunciation awkward. “This looks like Bethy’s writing.”
Rosie looked up. “What did you say?”
Ciaran was holding a wedge of manuscript sheets in his hand. “It’s a piece of music – ‘Chant du Rossignol’ or something. But it looks like Beth’s handwriting to me.”
Rosie straightened. “It is Beth’s handwriting! I wondered where that had got to. She was composing it for you, Kitch. She told me about it a while back. It was meant to be a surprise for you, but I guess she died before she ever finished it.” Rosie looked over at the shabby little case from the bookshop. “Did Beth ever show you the soldier’s diary she found – written by a guy in the First World War – Sam his name was? Well, seems he put together this little tune too. ‘Chant du Rossignol – Song of the Nightingale’. He had a bit of a thing about nightingales – nicknamed them all Rosie, would you believe?” She gave Ciaran a moment to comment on the coincidence but soon realised she probably wasn’t making much sense. “Anyway, Beth took a liking to the tune. Felt she could do something with it. Said she was gonna work on it, y’know, fill it out a bit. She wanted to give it to you as something to remember her by.” Noticing her brother’s face, she broke off. He was staring forlornly down at the manuscript in his hand. She leaned over and touched his shoulder. “Maybe you’ve done enough for today. Let me tidy this stuff away for now, eh? We can tackle a bit more some other time.”
Ciaran nodded, still staring down at the papers in his hand. Pulling together the pile of music sheets from the bed, Rosie went to put them back into the case. Her eyes were momentarily drawn to an old newspaper lining the bottom of it. In a moment of curiosity, she lifted it out to take a look. But the newspaper was instantly forgotten the second she saw the array of objects hidden underneath it. Especially one of them. She gave a low whistle as she reached in and took out an old brass tin. ‘Christmas 1914’ read the inscription on its lid. Rosie had never seen it before, yet she recognised it immediately. She hurriedly replaced the music scores and shut the case. After tidying away the other stray items in the room, she made a tentative request. “Mind if I take this tin to have a look at, Kitch?”
At that moment Ciaran was in a world of his own. Then he looked up and gave her a weak smile. “She did this for me, you say? Bless her … she never mentioned a word of it.”
“Like I said,” Rosie began softly, “it was supposed to be a surprise. She was intending to give it to you herself, but in the end everything happened so suddenly.”
Ciaran got up and walked towards his keyboard. “I’ll give it a go on here. But there are quite a few parts to it, Ros. Wonder how she managed to do all this without me twigging.”
Rosie held out the tin again. “Before I leave you to practise, could I take this to have a look at?”
But Ciaran was miles away. Without even looking up, he gave an affirmative gesture and started to hum his way through the notes. Clasping the tin gratefully, Rosie left the room.
It was clear the tin had been through hard times. The brass was dull and tarnished but, despite a few dints here and there, Rosie could still make out the embossed words on its lid – and the profile of a woman’s face. Princess Mary no doubt, she mused as she eased it open. Now inside here, if I’m not mistaken, there should be …
And there it was. A small, black New Testament, inscribed with gold lettering. The one from which Sam had read scriptures to the dying Welshman. She pulled gently at its top cover in an attempt to remove it from the tin. But as she worked it loose from its position, her eyes fell on something else sandwiched beneath it.
____________
Come on – pick up! Rosie drummed her fingers agitatedly on her mobile as it started to ring out. After a few moments Jonathon’s voice sounded at the other end.
“Hello … Rosie?”
“Hi, where are you?”
“I’ve just arrived up at the churchyard. Thought I’d do a spot of tidying up while the weather’s good. Are you okay, Rosie? You sound a bit flustered.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Look – have you started work yet?” She was struggling to contain the urgency she felt.
“No. Like I said, I only just got here.”
“Good, then hang on. I’ll be up there in a few minutes. You’re not gonna believe what I’ve found … .”
Without another word, she clicked off her phone. Ten minutes later she arrived at the churchyard to find Jonathon sitting on the bench waiting for her. His head was tilted back and his eyes were closed as he faced towards the sun. Rosie couldn’t help noticing how brown his arms looked against the white of his tee shirt, or how his fair hair was now streaked with flashes of pale blond. Some folk would pay a fortune for highlights like that, she thought ruefully, trying to ignore the effect he had on her. She coughed to signal her arrival.
“Hi Rosie. So what’s all this about then? I’ve been racking my brains trying to come up with ideas. You sure know how to leave a guy in suspense.”
Rosie flopped onto the bench and smiled mysteriously. Putting a hand into her bag, she pulled out the tin and waited for Jonathon’s reaction. For a split second nothing registered. Then a look of recognition dawned on his face. He reached out and took it from her. “Sam’s tin …! Where on earth did you find this?”
“It was in the bottom of the old case the bookshop man gave Beth – d’you remember me telling you about it? That was where Beth first found the diary. She never mentioned the tin though. Guess she can’t have realised what it was. She must have brought the case up when she came to Yorkshire. I’ve just been in Ciaran’s room helping him go through some of her stuff, and suddenly there it was – with Sam’s tin hidden away at the bottom under an old newspaper.” She looked down at the tin lying in Jonathon’s hands. “Someone was determined to keep it safe. I very nearly missed it.”
Jonathon opened the lid. “Hey, the Welshman’s New Testament too!”
Rosie smiled. “Yeah. But that’s not all. Take a look at this.” She reached into her bag again and pulled out a letter. “This was in the bottom of the tin – squashed under the Bible. Talk about a tight fit.”
Jonathon took the letter from her. It was not in an envelope and was written on several thin sheets of paper which had been folded in half, then in half again. Both sides of each page had been used, and judging from the severity of the fold marks, it was clear that the document had been compressed in its hiding place for some considerable time. Rosie nudged him. “Go on, read it. I already have.”
Carefully smoothing out the pages, Jonathon looked down at the tiny pencilled writing.
Royal United Hospital, Bath, September 14th 1917
My dearest Em, at last my war is over. I find myself here in England, and never has our land looked more beautiful to me. I’ve been told that I cannot return to the fighting. I’ve been shot up quite badly, and though I shall recover in time, the doctor tells me that I’ll always walk with a slight limp. But I’m not going to complain about such a small thing. I’ve kept all my limbs, which is more than can be said for so, so many. I can still hardly believe that I’m alive. That I’m here, in our beloved England, surrounded by English sights and sounds, quieted by soothing English voices. Knowing that I’m safe, in one piece … that I never have to go back to the line again. I can only hope and pray that for the sake of those still out there – for you especially, my dearest, bravest girl – this war will end soon.
There’s something I need to tell you, Emily. At the moment I find myself separated from my diary. It’s still in my bag, wherever that may be. But I’ve been heavily impressed to commit to paper an account of someth
ing that happened to me a month ago, during the early morning hours of August 17th.
On the night of August 16th, we were preparing to make an attack on Glencorse Wood. I think, if truth were told, most of us were sick with fear at the prospect. The reports we’d heard about recent attempts to capture the place were dismal. Though estimated casualty figures varied, the general story was the same. The Germans had got the place well and truly covered, and it seemed there was little chance that any of us would get out alive.
It’s a strange feeling, Em, to be so utterly trapped in a thing. To know you have no choice but to go forward; to know that in going forward you will probably never make it back. In reality that’s been the situation all the time we’ve been out here, but somehow it really came home to me that night. I felt quite depressed about it all. Of course Boxer, being Boxer, noticed my unhappy state. We fell into a little chat and he began to remind me of some of the things he’d told me in the many times we’d talked before. As he spoke, I found myself wishing I could have just a little more time. I knew deep down that I wasn’t ready to die, not in the way Jimmy had been. I sensed something wasn’t right, and it troubled me. But the night hours marched on with no regard for my disquiet, and I couldn’t shake off the feeling that each one that passed was bringing me closer to my end.
As the time for jump off drew closer, I remember suddenly hearing a nightingale begin to sing. It seemed strange to hear one so late in the year. I wondered if perhaps she was singing to comfort us. Did she know our fate even more surely than we did? Was she singing our requiem? I shared my forebodings with Boxer. He made some characteristically calm reply. How I found myself wishing I could be more like him.
At dawn the first wave of infantry went over. We were in the second wave and were due to follow on shortly afterwards. Just before we went, Boxer clapped a hand on my shoulder and said a prayer for me. We left from Jargon Trench (if indeed you could call it a trench) and as soon as I saw the scene ahead, it seemed to me that we were running straight into the jaws of hell. Up in front we could see men dropping down everywhere – just dropping like little birds from the sky. I confess I felt sick with fear, but my legs kept moving, albeit with difficulty. Parts of the ground were so cloggy with mud it was impossible to go at any speed. The noise was absolutely terrible. We were being shelled, bombed, machine-gunned; they were throwing everything they had at us. Though our gunners were hitting back, I for one had all on to keep my nerve as we headed into the carnage. At one point I remember Boxer shouting to me to keep to his left. Not understanding his instruction, I complied without further thought. Shortly afterwards, however, I understood the reason for it. Just ahead of us I saw four men go down, one after the other, and it was then that I realised they’d been shot at from some position towards our right. I knew in that moment that we were the next targets in line and that Boxer was trying to shield me. Despite the deafening noise and the terror of the situation, I suddenly found myself praying. As I remember, it wasn’t the most eloquent of prayers, Em. I just cried out to God and begged him to spare us …
A Song in the Night Page 54