A Song in the Night

by Julie Maria Peace

  The next thing I recall was seeing Boxer fall to the ground. He called out to me, but just as he did, I took a hit myself and then I was on the ground too. As I lay there, I struggled to turn so that I could look over at him. I could see he was trying to tell me something, but when I saw the blood coming out of his mouth I knew he was done for. Then a terrible pain began to grip at my hip and thigh. It grew so intense that I thought I would pass out from the agony of it. But no such relief came. I lay staring across at Boxer, wondering how long it would take for death to claim me too. Boxer was quite still now, his eyes open but vacant, a bright stream of blood oozing from his mouth. ‘Oh God,’ I found myself saying, ‘it’s all over. Boxer’s dead and I am dying. How I wish you could have been that Field Marshal he spoke of. But it’s all over now. It’s all over … .’

  I have never felt despair like I felt in that moment. A terrible darkness seemed to clutch at my soul and I began to weep. Was this the beginning of death? Or was I slipping half-dead into hell? I hardly knew. But all around me I could hear the whistle of steel and the screams of men, and I knew that hell could not be much different.

  How long I lay like that I cannot say. I tried to close my eyes to lessen the pain, but somehow that made the thing more fearful. As the minutes crawled past, my agonies grew worse, and though my heart was terrified to die, I knew I had reached the limits of my endurance. Even as I sensed my own life ebbing away, my ears were filled with the groans of my dying comrades. It was more than I could bear. Feeling totally without hope, I began to pray for God to take me.

  Though the daylight had taken hold now, the sky was still thick with smoke from the firing. From my position on the ground I tried to look around me. It was then that I perceived two figures emerging out of the grey haze. They looked like stretcher bearers but had no stretcher with them, and they seemed to proceed across the boggy terrain with little trouble. At first they appeared to be advancing in my direction. But as they got nearer, I realised that they were not coming towards me but towards Boxer. When they reached him, one of the men bent down and picked him up in his arms as though he weighed no more than a feather. Then, without further ado, they began to walk away. A sudden desperation gripped me. Surely if they could rescue Boxer they could rescue me? Perhaps they hadn’t noticed me. I cried out after them but my voice seemed to make little impression on the terrible noise all around. My anguish grew. More desperately I cried out again. It was then that the second man turned and looked at me. He was not the man carrying Boxer, you understand, but the other fellow. He looked at me with the most piercing eyes I’ve ever seen. ‘Please …’ I begged him, ‘please help me.’ But he shook his head. ‘It is not your time,’ he said. And then he reached down and touched my forehead.

  Emily, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to describe the feeling that went through my body in that moment. A lightning bolt could not have hit me with more force. At once my blood was set on fire. Yet, with each pulsation of my heart, I felt its heat begin to cool my wounds until I could almost forget my pain. Not understanding, I lifted my head to glance at the man once more, but he had turned to leave and did not look at me again. I watched as they began to walk away – the first man carrying Boxer in his arms, the second treading slowly behind him. I did not take my eyes off them until they disappeared from sight, and then I lay there for some time, still staring in that direction, wondering what on earth to make of it all. After a long while I tried to turn my head again. But when I looked towards the spot where Boxer had been lying, I was shocked. His body was still there. Immediately I noticed his eyes. They were closed now and on his face I saw the faintest smile. My own forehead was still burning from the stranger’s touch and still the blood in my veins made my limbs tingle.

  It was in that moment that I understood. God had sent his angels for Boxer, just as he always told me would happen. But even more incredible than that, I knew that God had spared my life.

  Suddenly I was filled with the strangest emotion, Em. A joy – but a weeping too. And just then, I heard the nightingale begin to sing again. I found myself recalling something Boxer had said of her just before the battle. ‘Perhaps she’s trying to show us that it’s possible to sing in the darkness … if we know the One who gives songs in the night.’

  That little bird sang for hours, Em, or so it seemed to me as I lay there. She was the sweetest and brightest of companions, and I feel sure she was sent to me. The last I remember of her was when I saw stretcher bearers coming in my direction. I must have slipped into unconsciousness then, because the next thing I recall was waking up in a CCS to see a nurse standing by my bed. ‘Thank God’, she said when I opened my eyes.

  ‘Thank God indeed,’ I thought. ‘Thank God indeed.’

  And so it is that I’ve survived, Emily. Plucked from almost certain destruction, given a second chance to live – how can I ever be the same? I have set my heart to go after the God who saved me. He heard my cry and showed me mercy. For that I’ll be eternally grateful. I can only pray that you, my sweetest girl, will find him too.

  Jonathon stared down at the letter in his hands. For a few moments he was silent.

  Rosie shuffled slightly on the bench. “Looks like it’s been in the tin forever, doesn’t it? Wonder if Emily ever did get to read it.”

  Still Jonathon said nothing. But when he finally looked up at her, Rosie could see that his eyes were filled with tears. “I don’t know what to say, Rosie. I’m blown away, I really am.” He carefully folded the pencilled pages and handed them back to her. “Thanks. Thanks so much for showing me this. And the diary. Everything. It means a lot.” Taking the New Testament from her knee, he began to leaf through it, pausing at John’s Gospel and running his fingers lightly over the text. “Wonder which bit Sam read to the Welshman.” There was an almost reverential softness about his voice.

  “Probably Chapter 3,” offered Rosie. “That’s become one of my favourites recently.”

  Looking up again, Jonathon shot her the gentlest of smiles. “Yeah. I’ll bet he read that.”

  He continued to turn the pages for several moments, but when he got to the last leaf he stopped. Inside the back cover was a newspaper cutting. It was folded down the middle and someone had secured one side of it to the book with sticky tape.

  Rosie frowned. “Never noticed that before. I was too busy reading the letter.”

  Jonathon opened out the cutting. A photograph of an elderly couple smiled up at them. The woman was bright-eyed and beautiful for all her years, her husband, gentle-faced and clearly as much in love with her as ever. Rosie and Jonathon peered closer to read the words printed underneath.

  Congratulations to the Reverend

  Samuel and Mrs Emily Chetwynd

  On the occasion of their Golden Wedding

  April 3rd 1970

  “Reverend Samuel and Mrs Emily Chetwynd …?” Jonathon repeated the names slowly and shook his head. “This just gets better.”

  Rosie stared at the photo. So this, at last, was Sam. “Looks like he got his girl after all,” she said softly. “Guess your Uncle Boxer would have been chuffed about the Reverend bit.”

  Jonathon nodded, a faint smile beginning to play on his lips. “Reckon old Sam must be in heaven himself by now. No doubt he’s told Boxer and Jimmy all about it. Bet that was some reunion, eh?”

  Rosie closed her eyes and tried to picture the scene. After months of reading Sam’s diary, it was hard to imagine the three friends wearing anything but filthy khaki uniforms. Yet somehow, she couldn’t help feeling that such souvenirs of suffering would be out of place in heaven. She suddenly felt Jonathon reach for her hand.

  “Rosie?”

  Surprised, she opened her eyes and glanced at him. He was looking at her, his face set in an expression she didn’t quite understand.

  “Come on.” He pulled her to her feet and began to lead her across the grass. When they reached the war memorial, he loosed his hold on her and stepped towards it. Slowly, he ran a finger
under Boxer’s name. “D’you remember, Rosie, the day after you sent me the last diary entry? When you said that not all stories had happy endings?”

  Rosie remembered it all too well. And the hurt she’d felt when she’d said it. So much seemed to have happened since then.

  “You were right,” he continued quietly, “not all stories do have happy endings. But I doubt either of us could have come up with a better ending for Sam’s.”

  Rosie shrugged. There was no arguing with that. She was beginning to realise that nobody could finish a story quite like God could. “Okay,” she conceded. “Guess I don’t mind being wrong on this occasion.”

  For a few moments, the only sound was that of the breeze, soft and welcome in the hot noon sunshine. Jonathon dug his hands into his pockets and looked down. “I hear Bev’s asked you to stay on at Paddock Hill.”

  Rosie nodded, slightly taken aback by the sudden change of subject.

  “But I hear that you’re still considering going back to London.”

  Rosie nodded again, her heart quickening. Please don’t ask me to explain, Jonathon.

  He looked directly at her. “Is that what you want, Rosie – to go back to London?”

  She lowered her head. “I – I don’t know. It just seems the best thing to do.”

  “But is it what you want to do?” Jonathon persisted softly. “You seemed so unhappy before you came up here. I can’t quite understand why you want to go back.”

  Swallowing hard, Rosie closed her eyes. She could feel herself filling up. Please, Jonathon. Please don’t even try to understand.

  Suddenly she felt his hands take hers. “Rosie, would you stay if I asked you to? Would – would you stay for me?”

  For a moment Rosie wasn’t sure if she’d heard properly. She lifted her head and looked at him through her tears. “Stay for you? I’m not sure I know what you mean.” She felt his grip tighten as he looked at her with an intensity that made her weak. His blue eyes had never seemed more beautiful to her.

  “Rosie … would you stay if I told you that I don’t want you to leave. That I can’t bear it if you leave.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Would you stay if I told you I was in love with you?”

  Rosie stared at him. In love with me? But that’s impossible … you’re supposed to be in love with Lauren –

  As if he could read her thoughts, Jonathon shook his head. “That’s over, Rosie. That’s been over since Easter. As soon as I heard you were coming to live up here, I knew in my heart what I had to do. I couldn’t go on with Lauren knowing I was in love with someone else.”

  Rosie was struggling to take in what she was hearing. “But you never said anything. Not a word. I never would have guessed for a minute … .” She stopped, her voice fading to nothing.

  Jonathon gently tilted her face towards him. “I felt the Lord tell me to hold back. It was more important that he got hold of you before I tried to. I was okay with that plan until the day we were over by Beth’s grave – that day you told me you were thinking of going back to London. I panicked a bit then, Rosie. My prayer life went into a whole new league.”

  Rosie looked down again, fresh tears pricking her eyes. “I can’t believe it,” she muttered. “I just can’t believe it.”

  Jonathon touched her cheek softly. “D’you know when I first started to fall in love with you?”

  Rosie’s head was reeling. “No. I’m not sure I know anything any more.”

  Jonathon smiled. “It was the first time I saw you. The day you fell on the leaves over there.” He turned and pointed to the spot. “After that I couldn’t get your face out of my head. When you agreed to start e-mailing me I was so happy. You don’t know the number of times I’ve thanked God for that diary, Rosie. Every e-mail you sent just made me love you more.”

  Rosie couldn’t hold back the tears now. “Some days,” she whispered, “your e-mails were the only thing holding me together.”

  Jonathon pulled her close and held her. “I love you, Rosie. With all that I am, I love you.”

  As his words began to register, Rosie sank her head against his chest. As she breathed in the fragrance of his skin, she thought back to the last time she’d found herself in Jonathon’s arms. How wonderful that had seemed. How frustratingly, painfully wonderful. Now as she listened to the steady pulse of his heart, an overwhelming realisation dawned in her mind. It was beating for her.

  Lord Jesus, I don’t know what to say. Thank you seems too small. But thank you, thank you, thank you …

  After a few moments Jonathon pulled back and held her at arms length. Wiping away her tears with his finger, he looked into her eyes. “Rosie Maconochie, please can I kiss you? Only God knows how long I’ve wanted to.”

  Rosie’s heart melted. In all her life she’d never been asked a more beautiful question. Stepping forward, she let him hold her again. It was like coming home. As Jonathon’s lips touched hers, she knew with every fibre of her being that she would love this man for the rest of her days.

  “You’re safe now,” he whispered, holding her as though he’d never let her go. But in the safety of his strong arms, Rosie sensed that greater arms were holding both of them. And in that moment, she needed no one to tell her that God writes the most precious stories of all.

  Epilogue

  Laureate Hall, London, April 21st 2007

  As the last faint notes drifted high into the atmosphere, Rosie sat motionless, hardly daring to breathe. She gazed down at the violinist on the stage, her heart bursting with pride. He’d done it. And no sister in the world could have been happier than she felt in that moment.

  As the applause broke out and people began to stand to their feet, Rosie thanked God for the miracle she’d just witnessed. The concert had been Ciaran’s idea. A concert in Beth’s memory, he’d said – all the profits to go for research into cancer. Emmett Mallory had jumped at it, and the rest of the orchestra too. It was clear that Beth still held a unique place in people’s hearts.

  Of course, the highlight of the evening had been the premier performance of a very special piece of music; ‘Chant du Rossignol – Rosie’s Song’. In the programme, Ciaran had made some poignant dedications.

  In memory of my beautiful wife, Beth Maconochie. A precious lady, loved by all, and a greater musician than I could ever hope to be. Beth was the joy of my heart. I will never forget my princess. Heaven is richer today.

  And with grateful thanks to Samuel Chetwynd for birthing this exquisite melody. He knew what it means to sing in the darkness.

  Beth’s family – what can I say? I never knew folks like you existed. You saved my life. Thank you. I’m proud to be a part of you.

  And finally, my dear sister, Rosie, who wouldn’t let the music die in me. You’ve always been there, Ros. This one’s for you.

  As she joined the applause for her brother, Rosie’s heart was full. All around her, standing to their feet and clapping with great vigour were the Simmons clan; just as eighteen months earlier – Ed and Cassie, Ben, Josh and their wives and children. But this time there was someone else too. Rosie quickly touched the ring on her left hand and smiled to herself. Very soon she would have her own family – her own husband. This ring was Jonathon’s promise to her.

  She felt Cassie slip an arm around her waist. “Isn’t it wonderful, Rosie? Your brother will go from strength to strength now, you watch.”

  Yes, he will, thought Rosie. Over the last few months she’d watched the tentative changes in Ciaran and been greatly encouraged. He was spending quite a bit of time with the orchestra in London now, but on his trips back to Yorkshire he’d even started coming to church with her. Of course, she knew he still had his bad days. But Rosie also knew that Jesus was in the picture now, and that would make all the difference.

  As the clapping subsided and people began to move, Jonathon turned to her. “I’ve had a brilliant idea where we could go for our honeymoon.” There was a twinkle in his eyes. “Some holiday companies do Battlefield Tours
. They have one for Ypres. Tour of the trenches, Last Post at the Menin Gate – we could even squeeze in a visit to Toc-H. What d’you think?”

  Rosie smiled at him and shook her head. Who said the age of romance was dead? She popped a kiss on his cheek. “I think you’ve been a bachelor far too long, Jon.”

  But she couldn’t help feeling that somewhere up in heaven, Uncle Philip and his mates might find it a very novel idea indeed.

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  Copyright © Julie Maria Peace, 2012

  Julie Maria Peace is hereby identified as author of this work in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988