A Song in the Night (47 page)

____________

Rosie sat back from her computer. This was one entry she hoped Beth wouldn’t read. Perhaps she should accidentally-on-purpose forget to e-mail it through to her …

She decided to think about that later. The most pressing thing at the moment was an e-mail to Jonathon. Suddenly she wasn’t sure what to write to him. She didn’t want to come across as desperate – even though desperate was exactly the way she’d been starting to feel recently. She tapped her fingers on the keyboard, willing the words to come.

Hi Jonathon,

Not the happiest of entries today. In fact, be warned – it’s positively depressing. Still, I suppose it’s quite fitting. I’m not the happiest of senders at the moment; I think ‘positively depressed’ just about sums me up. Life down here without Beth and Ciaran really sucks. London itself isn’t to blame. It’s just the whole ‘being down here on my own’ thing I don’t like …

She chewed on her lip. Was that too open? Was she telling him too much? She drummed her fingers on the keyboard again. Why was she telling him any of this anyway …? Oh yes, she remembered grimly. Because right now, he was the only person in the whole wide world she could spill her guts to. She sighed in resignation. She would just have to swallow her pride and risk looking like a head case. At least Jonathon seemed the kind of guy that could handle it. She decided to try and inject a bit of humour into the thing before he got the idea she was about to run amok with a couple of razor blades and a bottle of paracetamol.

Guess I’m just in the middle of one of those ‘moments of personal revelation’ you were on about. I’ll get over it. Meanwhile, I’ll get back to my pity party. Didn’t invite anyone else – they’re so much more miserable when you’re on your own …!

(PS. Hope the ‘electronic shoulder to cry on’ offer still stands or else I’m gonna feel a right dork …)

Hoping to be more cheerful next time

Rosie

By now it was almost midnight and Rosie was still wide awake. Leaving her laptop on, she went back to the kitchen. There was no sign of Mel. No doubt she’d gone to bed. After making another drink, Rosie decided to check her mailbox again before shutting down for the night. To her surprise there was a new message.

Hi Rosie,

That was a good bit of timing. I’ve been working online all night – just about to shut down when your e-mail came through. Haven’t had chance to read the entries yet
’
cos it’s way past my bedtime and I have to be up early for work, but I’ll read them ASAP. Thanks for
’
em!

Meanwhile, I just wanted to tell you something. Even tho’ you feel all alone at this time, there’s someone out there who longs for you to get to know him. The Bible calls him ‘a friend who sticks closer than a brother.’ Rosie, has anyone ever told you about Jesus? Get back to me –

Luv Jonathon.

Rosie stared at the screen. Just what was she supposed to say to
that?
She realised her hands were trembling slightly. Part of her wanted to reply, but no reply seemed to come. Only Beth’s words resurfacing in her memory –
‘I didn’t fancy going out with someone who was starting to sound like Tim the vicar … .’
Rosie frowned and bit the inside of her cheek.
Tim the vicar?
Jonathon was sounding more like his Uncle Boxer. She ran her eyes over the message again.

A friend who sticks closer than a brother …

She’d never had a friend like that. For most of her life, her brother had been the only friend she’d had. Until Beth came along.

Without warning, a sob forced itself into her throat and with it, a sense of thick, suffocating hopelessness. It felt as though her whole world was being sucked into a vacuum, its structure snapping and breaking like a matchstick house in a twister.

Has anyone ever told you about Jesus?

The tears began to flow now, hot and copious. Jonathon’s question seemed to burn a hole in her mind. She couldn’t answer him right now. Her heart felt like it was breaking. She quickly logged off and crawled into bed. How much longer could she go on like this?

____________

The rest of the week was hard to get through. She couldn’t bring herself to reply to Jonathon, and he hadn’t pushed the issue any further. It seemed to her that they had reached an electronic impasse. On the Friday evening as she made her way home from work, Rosie called off at a shop to make a special purchase.

It was night-time – when Mel had gone out with Dan, and Rosie knew she had the house to herself – when she finally opened the smart, green Brompton’s carrier bag and pulled out a new A3 sketch pad and a pack of pencils. She placed the pad on the living room table and closed her eyes. The idea had come to her the previous evening, just after she’d struggled with something that had felt dangerously close to a full-blown panic attack. A scene had drifted across her mind; a gentle, pastoral scene – one that she could quite happily have lost herself in. It had only lasted a moment, but later, when the panic had subsided and she’d felt slightly more in control, she’d realised that the brief impression had planted a seed. She hadn’t really sketched in years. But now, if only to save her sanity, she was prepared to give it a go.

She opened the sketch pad and pulled a pencil out of the pack. Placing the nib against the blank white of the page, she looked around the room for inspiration. Aesthetically speaking, there didn’t seem much to go at. Nothing that leapt out at her anyway. Then she remembered a cyclamen plant on the kitchen window sill. She brought it in and set it in front of her. Taking a deep breath, she made her first mark on the virgin page.

She sketched the plant for some time, recalling hints from her old art teacher about shading and perspective. It was all coming back to her – and surprisingly easily. When she was satisfied with her drawing, she put her pencil down and sat back to look at it.
Not bad, though I do say so myself.
The exercise had been pleasantly therapeutic. Setting her mind to think of another subject, she decided to try sketching something from memory. Her first attempt was the nursery garden. After all, she saw it often enough; it was a scene she knew like the back of her hand. But as her pencil went back and forth across the page, she realised that it had been some time since she’d seen the garden in its full splendour. The sketch of it in its winter garb made a disappointing offering. Her second attempt was a view from Streatham Common. This had become one of her favourite places since she’d been in London. Yet now as she sought to depict the setting on paper, she couldn’t stop her memory from throwing up images of the day she’d walked there with Ciaran, just after Beth had first been taken into hospital. They’d known nothing of the severity of Beth’s condition back then, but somehow the atmosphere on the Common that day had held a portent of the news that was coming. After twenty minutes of trying to make the sketch, she scrapped it and ripped the page out of the book. The memories were too depressing.

After a while, the idea came to her to draw Oak Lodge. She closed her eyes and tried to see it in her imagination. She was surprised to find that the picture came quite clearly. The old, stone house with its big, rambling garden and tall trees – her hand moved deftly over the page as she warmed to her subject – the wrought iron bench and old-fashioned lamppost …

With each pencil stroke came an increasing sense of peace. She understood why it had meant so much for Beth to go back there. Maybe Beth was right – maybe it
was
the best place on earth. She’d been working on the sketch for nearly an hour when Mel rung to say that she wouldn’t be coming in. Rosie was secretly pleased. She settled down to finish the picture. Perhaps she could give it to Beth when it was complete.

She worked well into the night, altering, perfecting. When at last she put her pencil down, she felt exhausted but strangely thrilled at her achievement. It was just after two o’clock when she crawled into bed. At least it was Saturday. She didn’t have to get up till dinnertime if she didn’t feel like it. Surrendering to her weariness, she sank her head into the pillow. As she hugged the duvet around her, images of Oak Lodge floated dreamily through her mind. Drifting into sleep, she could almost smell the scent of lavender.

She awoke hours later to the sound of her mobile ringing. Disorientated, she reached for the alarm clock.
Ten thirty-four …?
It was ages since she’d stayed in bed so late. She sat up and quickly tried to gather herself. Her phone was still ringing, but the incoming mobile number was not one she recognised. She picked up.

“Hello?”

“Hello,
Rosie?
”

“Yes –”

“It’s Cassie.” Her voice sounded oddly different. “I – I’m just ringing to let you know, love. Beth died an hour ago.”

Rosie stiffened, her mind refusing to believe what her ears were telling her. She swung her legs out from under the duvet and jerked to her feet, her heart pounding in her chest.

“Rosie – are you still there?” Cassie’s voice sounded broken down the phone.

Rosie’s breath came in short gasps as she began to pace across the room. “Yes. Yes, I’m here.” She felt sick. “
How …?
I mean, I thought we had longer.”

“We all did, love.”

Rosie could tell from Cassie’s tone that she was fresh from weeping. Rosie felt too stunned to weep herself. “I – I can’t believe it. I only saw her the other day. How can it have happened so fast?”

“We’re not really sure,” Cassie said quietly. “The doctor’s just left. He suspects it could have been a clot – Beth’s been complaining for a few days about pains in her leg. Maybe her whole body was starting to wind down and we just didn’t realise it …” Her words petered out into an inaudible blur. For a few moments there was silence between them. Then Cassie spoke softly. “It’s been so sudden, we’re all in a bit of shock up here. I just wanted to let you know, love.”

Rosie mumbled her thanks, but somehow the whole thing felt like a terrible dream. She almost expected to wake up and find herself back in bed. She leaned against the wall to steady herself. “When can I come up there?”

“You come as soon as you want, Rosie love.” There was a quiver in Cassie’s voice now. “And stay as long as you want. You’re family.”

Rosie said goodbye and slumped heavily onto the bed. This could not be happening. She wrapped her arms around herself, digging her fingernails into her ribs until her knuckles whitened. But the pain did not waken her from the nightmare.

Beth was dead. As the realisation hit her, Rosie began to tremble. Everything in her wanted to get back into bed and pretend none of it was real. But it
was
real. Horribly, hideously real. She felt a sudden urge to vomit. Pulling a dressing-gown around her shoulders, she dashed into the bathroom and bent over the toilet. Her insides turned over as she started to retch. But there was nothing in her stomach. Nothing but a ball of paralysing panic that threatened to consume her with every breath she took. When it became clear to her that she would get no relief from trying to be sick, she sat down shakily on the edge of the bath and tried desperately to think. For an awful moment she felt completely void of identity, as though her mind had been smashed by a huge hammer and its pieces tossed brutally into the atmosphere around her. It was impossible to pull any coherent thoughts together. All that seemed to remain of her brain was a deep, black hole; a gaping abyss of nothingness into which Rosie felt herself being helplessly sucked. Panicking, she jumped to her feet and moved towards the mirror. For a few seconds she did not know the face reflecting back at her. But looking into those eyes, she saw something she recognised all too well. For a while now it had been stalking her; at first from a respectful distance, but slowly and insidiously growing bolder in its pursuit. She had smelt it, felt it, and tried her best to shake it off. But now as Rosie stood staring into the mirror, she saw it staring back at her. Dark and menacing behind her own eyes. Fear. Cold, black fear.

Forcing herself to look away, she tried to think again. She knew she couldn’t go on like this. She had to do something, and fast. Less than an hour later, hair scraped into a rough ponytail and wearing no make-up at all, Rosie found herself walking into the nursery.

The supervisor was surprised to see her. “Hey!” she called hopefully, waving a wet paintbrush at her. “Come to join us, have you?” She and her decorator boyfriend had already spent the last two Saturday mornings doing some much-needed paintwork on the inside of the building. After apologising for her lack of availability, Rosie mumbled some half-hearted compliment about the colour of the walls, then explained the real reason for her visit. The supervisor was sympathetic but unable to bend the rules. In terms of compassionate leave, sisters-in-law were not considered close family.

“She’s about the only family I have!” Rosie urged, another wave of panic rising in her throat.

The supervisor frowned. “Sorry, Rosie. If I do it for you, I have to do it for everyone. I’m sure you can see that.”

Rosie was struggling to see anything.

“How long will you need?”

Rosie hung her head miserably.
How does forever sound?
“At least two weeks I should think.” It was a random suggestion. In truth, she didn’t think that half long enough. From where she was standing, six months would have been too short a time. She simply wanted to get away – as far away as possible – before she went totally out of her mind.

“Two weeks?”
The supervisor shook her head. “That’s quite a block, Rosie. I thought you were only looking at the standard three days. Have you any holidays left?”

Rosie said that she had, but not enough to cover a fortnight, not until the new holiday period anyway.

The supervisor smiled uncomfortably. “If you can take the rest of the time in unpaid leave, you’re welcome to go.”

Thanks,
thought Rosie darkly.
That’s real big of you.

She left the nursery a few minutes later and headed home. There were things she needed to do; travel arrangements, packing – explaining to Mel. Mel was in the kitchen when she got back.