A Song in the Night (10 page)

Fletre
(billets) August 14th 1916

Yesterday I got chance for a good conversation with the other chap – my fellow rescuer. He’s Pte. Philip Bocking, known to most, it seems, as Boxer. I thanked him for helping me get H. back the other day. Said he was more than happy to do it. Apparently he lost his best pal at Givenchy in February of this year. He’s a tall, robust-looking chap, with a healthy, outdoor sort of face and very bright eyes. He’s a Yorkshireman, he tells me, though I’m not sure I could have guessed it from his accent. Seems he’s a bit of a religious type too – mentioned God a couple of times as we talked and told me he was praying for Harry, which I thought was rather decent of him. Some of the lads give him stick about it, but he takes it in good part. Very cheerful– pleasant company, I’d say. It’s a funny thing, Em. I can’t say I ever think of praying myself. I’m not sure how I’d go about it. I suppose one has to believe in God for a start off. I’m a bit ambivalent even on that point. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t. And as for the afterlife, well, I’m not sure what to think. A lot of the lads here are very matter-of-fact about things. We see so much death around, they’re really quite stoical. ‘Once they put you in the ground, that’s an end of it,’ they say. ‘Unless the next shell blows you out again!’ Funny how you find yourself laughing at things like that. But it seems a sorry state of affairs to me, if this is all there is.

I wish I knew how you felt about it all, Em. I think I could believe in anything with you at my side.

____________

Beth hadn’t expected it. Tonight the diary had been no more than a distraction tactic; something to throw Ciaran off scent. Yet, as she lay in the stillness listening to his breathing, her mind wrestled with a multitude of thoughts.
Pray?
How long was it since she’d done that? It seemed like forever. Her mind went back to the conversation she’d had with Rosie in the church at Applemarket.

Did she still believe in God? Yes; she did. She might ignore him. Even try to pretend he wasn’t there. But deep down, she wasn’t so deluded as to think that her feeble philosophical whims determined whether or not he existed. It seemed to her that he
was
there – quite independently of
her
belief or acknowledgement, and totally without her permission. It was a frightening thought, especially now. Praying was pretty much out of the question. What could she possibly say?

Dear Lord, please don’t let me be pregnant. I’ve got a career to think about, we can’t afford childcare, and my husband doesn’t want to turn into Dave Marchant. Forget everything I ever said about babies when I was younger – this is NOT a good time, Amen.

Beth turned over and buried her face in the pillow. She’d spent all her adult life blanking God out. She wouldn’t have the nerve to start being awkward with him now.

The following evening, Rosie was looking through some paperwork when a sharp knock at the bedroom door made her jump. Ciaran walked in and hugged her briefly. “Hiya, Ros. Mel just let me in.” He looked tired as he flung himself down into the armchair. “Not interrupting you, am I?”

Rosie picked up the remote and flicked off the TV. “Nah. I’m just going through some of this stuff for work. What brings you here, Kitch?”

Ciaran ran his fingers through his dark curls. For him it was a familiar gesture, but she couldn’t help noticing a trace of agitation in his movements.

“I need a favour, Rosie.”

Rosie smiled tauntingly. “I’ll have to
charge
you.”

Ciaran’s face relaxed then and he sat forward in his chair. “Can you spare an hour tomorrow lunchtime? I know it’s a bit short notice –”

Rosie nodded. “Can as a matter of fact. I’ve got a whole afternoon. I wouldn’t normally on a Friday, but we’ve got a big inspection coming up soon at work. The boss needs a couple of us to go in Saturday morning to do a bit of sorting out. Guess whose name was first out of the hat.” She grimaced, then shrugged. “At least I get tomorrow afternoon off. I finish at twelve.”

“Oh, that’s great!” Ciaran gave a smile of relief.

“Not for me it isn’t. I hate working Saturdays.” Rosie tried to look disgruntled. “Anyway why – what’re you after?”

Ciaran looked down and began to pick distractedly at a piece of loose thread in the lining of his jacket. “It’s Beth.” He sighed heavily. “Normally I meet up with her on Fridays and take her out for lunch. Y’know, for a pizza or something. But I can’t tomorrow. She’s got rehearsals in the middle o’ London and I’m in Croydon again all day.” He paused and pulled thoughtfully at the thread. “I wouldn’t usually worry, Ros, but I think there’s something up. She’s not herself at all. I’ve been so busy working on this music marathon thing, I haven’t been able to spend much time with her. But this morning I had a free slot; I didn’t have to go in till practically lunchtime. We had nearly three hours together, Ros. But she was – well –
distant
. Something’s wrong, and she’s not telling me.”

Rosie’s eyes widened slightly. “
Go
on …”

He shook his head. “That’s all I know. Oh, and the fact that she’s chucking her dinner away sometimes. Like she of all people needs to lose weight.”

Rosie frowned. “That’s weird.”

“Yeah.” Ciaran leaned forward and looked at her directly. “You couldn’t meet up with her, could you, Ros? For lunch I mean. She might talk to you, woman to woman and all that.”

Rosie eyed her brother curiously. He seemed unusually vulnerable tonight. “Course I will. You set it up with her and let me know when and where.”

Ciaran fumbled in his wallet and pulled out a twenty pound note. “Here, take this. Should go some way towards it. It’s all I’ve got on me at the moment.”

She tried to refuse but he insisted. They talked for a little while, about work, the weather and being tired. It seemed to Rosie something like the old days. She hadn’t realised how busy they’d become, how rarely they got a chance these days to spend time together. Ciaran’s visit had been quite unexpected, yet when he eventually got up to leave, she realised how much she’d enjoyed it.

“Thanks, Ros – I owe you.” He gave her a peck on the cheek.

Rosie grinned. “No worries. The twenty should cover it fine.”

The following day, the two girls met in Trafalgar Square. Rosie arrived slightly late to see Beth already waiting, sitting on the steps of Nelson’s Column like Shakespeare’s
patience on a monument.
Her blonde hair was piled casually on top of her head, and her Indian cotton skirt flowed down to her feet, its hem undulating gently in the breeze. Her gaze was fixed on something far away, if anywhere at all, and she sat, perfectly poised, striking in her own neat, diminutive way. And yet her face was sad.

“Beth!” Rosie called out, knowing she hadn’t spotted her.

Beth seemed to wake up from a dream. She smiled and stood hastily to her feet, but Rosie observed that the smile never reached her eyes.

“You okay then?” Rosie tried to play it cool. She didn’t want Beth thinking she was on some kind of errand of mercy. Nevertheless, she couldn’t help noticing the pallor of Beth’s face and the dark circles under her eyes.

They wandered up past St Martin-in-the-Fields and Beth suddenly started to reminisce. “I remember the first time I played there. I really thought I’d arrived …”

Rosie let her talk. She seemed in reflective mood, at least for a few moments. Then she fell quiet again.

“You got anywhere to go this afternoon?” Rosie ventured.

Beth shrugged. “No, I’m finished for today.”

They made their way to St James’s Park and spent some time by the lake. While they were there, two middle-aged men in dated pinstripes ambled down to the water’s edge. They were having a loud, animated conversation, and though it was difficult to make out their exact words, Rosie sussed that it was some kind of political discussion. Suddenly, as if by magic, one of the men produced a small, white bag and, dipping his hand into it, began to toss tiny pieces of bread to the birds on the lake. The other man immediately followed suit. And still they continued in their dispute. When the bread was finished, they screwed up their bags in perfect synchronisation and went on their way, still arguing. Rosie found herself strangely affected by the scene. Its incongruity seemed to her both amusing and poignant. Perhaps it was the glimpse of a hidden fragility in the two serious, world-weary men. Did their hearts long to know – at least for the duration of their dinner hour – something of the joy of being boys again, she wondered? A feeling of immense sadness swept over her. The sight of these two busy souls caught between the relentless grind of their daily existence and an intrinsic desire for simple, childish happiness, filled her with a sudden sense of gaping futility.

She pulled herself up with a start. This was no time for existential musings; she was supposed to be sorting Beth out. She turned to her and grinned, ready to make some acerbic comment about the two duck-feeding combatants. But Beth didn’t seem to have noticed them. She was in a world of her own.

Rosie looked at her watch. “Ready for lunch? If we set off now, we can be at
Mama Bellini’s
before two.”

They got up and meandered their way out of St James’s Park, a cool, sharp breeze making their faces tingle.

“Been nice coming in here,” Beth said simply. “It’s a while since I last came.”

Rosie nodded quietly in agreement, but she couldn’t shake off the unsettling feeling that the visit had been some kind of gentle harbinger. It clung to her like a vapour, grey and vague, out of place in the autumn sunshine. They walked on in silence and soon found themselves in a familiar side street, outside
‘Mama Bellini’s Pizzeria’
.

The pizza house was a riot of chatter, bustle, and garlic. As was the custom there, Rosie and Beth stood just inside the door as they waited for a seat. In the very rare moments when everyone fell quiet at the same time, Italian music could be heard playing in the background. One could almost taste the atmosphere at
Mama’s
. After a few minutes, they were guided to a window table by a young fair-haired lad who was barely as tall as Beth and looked very new. He gave them menus, smiled shyly, and left them to make their choices.

“Doesn’t look old enough to be working, does he?” Rosie grinned.

“Be careful making comments like that.” Beth tried to smile as she opened her menu. “It’s a sign of age.”

Rosie noticed that her friend’s hands were trembling slightly. She forced her eyes back to her own menu. Ciaran had been right; Beth certainly wasn’t herself today. After a few moments, she made her selection. “I’m going for the Calzone Quattro Formaggi. What about you?”

Beth said she just fancied garlic bread.

“You’re sure that’s not too adventurous? Wouldn’t you fancy something a bit more plain?” Rosie’s tone was facetious but not unkind. Just then, the timid waiter returned for their orders. He took them and scurried off to the kitchen.

“What’s up, not hungry?” Rosie spread a napkin carefully over her knees as she spoke. She was fast running out of small talk. Conversation was bordering on torturous today.

Beth shrugged. “Guess not.”

Silence again – and that same far away expression. Inwardly Rosie sighed. Why had she ever agreed to this? It was clear Beth didn’t want to be here. She was just debating whether or not to ask her straight out what was up, when Mama Bellini herself came over to the table.

“
Allo laidees!
” Her accent was rich and musical, her manner warm. “
And
’
ow are you today? I
’
aven’t seen you for a while.
” She chatted with them for several minutes, the girls smiling and nodding at appropriate junctures. Mama Bellini had a remarkable gift for making each customer feel like a long lost friend. When their pizzas arrived, she wished them ‘
Buon appetito!
’ and went over to another table.

“I’m ready for this.” Rosie took a mouthful of Calzone. But she didn’t mean the pizza.
Ready for a break from trying to make chitchat with someone who clearly wishes they were a million miles away, more like.
She felt like she’d spent the last ninety minutes trying to plait water. All the natural ebullience that usually went along with Beth seemed to have evaporated into thin air. As she chewed absently on her food, Rosie glanced across the restaurant. The young fair-haired waiter was taking orders from an elegant couple at table seven. The woman looked to be mid-twenties; platinum white hair, ice-blue eyes – very Scandinavian. Her partner was probably around the same age, Rosie guessed. But all she could see of him was the back of his head. A mop of dark, soft curls which suddenly made her think of Ciaran. The hair was slightly longer, slightly lighter, and certainly less unruly than her brother’s, but the similarity was sufficient to remind her of her failed mission. Irritated, she jabbed at the Calzone. She knew Ciaran was counting on her to do the whole woman to woman bit – get to the bottom of Beth’s woes and bring her home to him all counselled, smiley, and together again. He’d even given her twenty quid to finance the operation. Somehow, the idea of letting him down made Rosie feel more awful than she could quite understand.
But,
she reasoned gloomily,
how was I to know when I agreed to this whole thing that Beth had gone in for a stupid personality transplant?

She was jerked out of her thoughts as she suddenly caught sight of Beth’s face. “Beth? Are you okay?”

Beth didn’t answer. She was leaning over the table, holding herself so tightly that Rosie could see her knuckles whitening.

“Beth –
talk
to me! What the heck’s wrong?” Rosie was alarmed by the urgency she heard in her own voice. Beth tried to look up. Her skin was ashen, her facial muscles contorting with every movement. Rosie jumped out of her seat and crouched down beside her. “C’mon Beth – please talk to me. Tell me what you’re feeling.”

She began to do a quick mental round-up of her first aid signs and symptoms.
For crying out loud, girl, don’t go and have a heart attack on me.
She reached over and took hold of Beth’s wrist. For a few seconds, Beth let her. Then she muttered something and sank her forehead onto the table. She was breathing fast now and despite the noise in the restaurant, Rosie could tell that she was moaning slightly. Mama Bellini suddenly appeared at the table again. “
Ees
something wrong – your friend ees ill, no?
” She looked worried.