A Song in the Night (19 page)

Laura grinned cheerfully. “No probs. I’ll nip down to the coffee shop and get a drink. If you get into any difficulties there’s a cord here at the back. Someone will be with you in no time.”

The door gently swung shut and Beth found herself alone. She looked around. The inside of the chapel was lit from the ceiling by small, chrome downlights. They were dimmed to a mellow softness as warm as candle glow, yet over the simple beech altar shone a single spotlight which illuminated the front of the sanctuary as though it were a ray from heaven. On either side of the altar, tall, waxy-leaved plants climbed from raffia tubs, their shiny, dark foliage stunning against the pale wood of the table. But it was the area behind the altar that most caught Beth’s attention. On the facing wall, looking out over the whole chapel, hung a richly coloured mural depicting the crucified Christ. Dressed in a simple robe, his crowned head fell forward so that his face could not be seen, but inscribed in a semicircular sweep above his bent neck were the words: –

Beth stared at the painting. It was at once both simple and profound. Simple and raw and honest, with a gentle, uncomplicated piety. Yet profound enough to satisfy the deepest, most searching question of a child.

I am with you always.

Did that mean he was still with
her?
She looked at the outstretched arms. Had it been
his
voice she had heard the other day?

You are still my little one. And I’ve been waiting for you.

She felt a stab of guilt. Was it right – decent even – to come looking for God when she’d spent the whole of her adult life ignoring his existence? Harsh, accusing thoughts began to prick her mind. Why should God take her back now? She’d shown she wasn’t interested, hadn’t she? She was only running to him because she needed something, because she was scared. A rat leaving a sinking ship.

Outside in the grounds, an ambulance siren began to wail. Its discordant cry seemed to fill the airwaves for a few moments, then it thinned to a sad plaint as it disappeared down the road.

Never send to know for whom the bell tolls …

Beth clasped her stomach and rocked forward in her chair.
Oh God, I’m sorry. So, so sorry. I acted like you weren’t there. You gave me so much and I acted like you weren’t there –

A great sob engulfed her then and she began to cry. She wept for herself, for her sick body and her confused, terrified mind; she wept for Ciaran and the sadness she saw in his eyes; she wept for the childhood she had lost and now longed for. And she wept for the God she had once known. As she hugged herself through the thin satin dressing gown, her fingers could trace the outline of every rib. Skin and bone. Only a month ago she’d been flying high, her dreams just beginning. Now she was reduced to this. Could God ever take her back like this? It seemed a pathetic offering. Tears dripped onto the back of her sleeve as her heart gave way to raw grief.
Oh God, look at the state I’m in. I’ve got nothing to bring you.
Another broken sob.
I’m so scared – this thing is far too big for me. Please. Do you still have room for me?

For a few moments she remained with her head bowed, staring at the carpet through her tears. Had he heard her? The place was heavy with stillness. She waited. The silence seemed to draw near to her. Nearer and nearer. Soft, almost tangible. And with it, memories of words from long ago, washing over her now like gentle waves on a sleepy shore.

Just as I am, without one plea

But that thy blood was shed for me

And that thou bidst me come to thee

Oh Lamb of God, I come,

I come.

From outside the chapel window came the faint sound of birdsong; the dreamy, desolate cry of a mistle thrush. Beth knew it immediately. As a girl she’d grown up with the sound. From one of the ancient trees in the garden at Oak Lodge had come the song of a mistle thrush ever since she could remember. Just before Christmas it would start. As the weather turned cold and the days shortened, its sound would ring out from the top of the oak. Singing all through the icy blasts and shivering gales of winter, welcoming in the soft, green warmth of spring, pouring out its song well into the hot and balmy days of summer. Every year, right up to her leaving home.

She lifted her head and looked at the painting again.

In that small moment, she suddenly saw it with different eyes. The roughness of the robe, the majesty of the crown. The surrender of the crucified king, the great humility of God. The Creator dying for his creation. Willing to take in the whosoever. She had known it all her life and yet she had forgotten. Now she was like one waking from a dream. As the mistle thrush sang outside the window, Beth let herself remember. And gradually, the storm which had been raging in her heart began to give way to a peace she hadn’t felt since she was a little child.

____________

Rosie kicked off her shoes and flopped onto the bed. She had a couple of free hours before Gavin was due to pick her up at eight. Flicking open her laptop, she found her page in the diary. As the computer was booting up she thought about Gavin. She’d seen him twice since he’d made his Christmas proposition, and thankfully he hadn’t mentioned it either time. She hadn’t seen him since Beth’s diagnosis. He’d been away over the weekend again but had rung on the Sunday evening to arrange tonight’s date. Rosie had broken the news to him.

“
Cancer?
” He had sounded genuinely shocked. “I’m real sorry to hear that, Rosie. That’s awful news to get.”

“Yeah. My brother’s pretty devastated.” Rosie hadn’t been able to get Ciaran’s distraught face out of her mind since Friday night. “But she’ll come through, I’m sure she will.”

Gavin had said some encouraging stuff then about one of his aunties – how she’d pulled through when she’d only been given a twenty per cent chance of survival. He had been sweet and Rosie had found herself warming to him again. Locked away somewhere in there was a nice guy. He just managed to hide it well at times.

Bailleul (Billets) September 4th 1916

A thousand apologies, Emily, for the miserable wretch I was last time. Poor girl, you’ve probably seen just as many gassed men as I have. Forgive me for my unhappy thoughts.

Well, we’ve moved down here and at the moment we are billeted in this lively little place and having a rather pleasant time of it. Jimmy has an admirer! We came across a small shop yesterday where he found a nice postcard to send to Mrs Egley, the baker’s wife back home. The shopkeeper’s daughter seemed quite taken with him. She was all shy smiles and coy looks. You could get a cup of tea in there, which we did, and it was the girl who served us. Boxer and I tried to be discreet of course while she attempted to strike up conversation with Jimmy. I didn’t realise his French was coming on so well. There was no shutting him up once he got going! I don’t think I’ve ever heard him speak so much in English, let alone French. Nothing can come of it of course – we’ll be leaving here in a day or so. But it’s done wonders for Jimmy’s morale. He seems a different lad. She was only seventeen, but then, he’s only nineteen. They would have made a handsome couple, but we cannot always choose our paths, can we? War can be cruel on the heart. I speak as one who knows.

Bailleul (Billets) September 8th 1916

Some of the boys were in a spot of bother this morning. Several of them were at an estaminet last night, and a couple of them came back dead drunk. The officers don’t mind us having a drink, but these lads were rather beyond that. We’re due to move on tomorrow and they look like it will take them a week to recover …

The two lads were in a sorry state. They’d been given a very stout warning and there’d been talk of some kind of punishment. It seemed, however, that Captain Brierley was being lenient on account of their young age. Sam couldn’t help feeling sorry for them. They claimed to be nineteen, but it clearly wasn’t the case. They’d no doubt lied about their ages to join up. Some kids did that. Obviously thought the whole thing was some great big wheeze and only found out the truth when it was too late. That was the trouble. There was no going back once you were out here. The two boys were probably just finding that out. Perhaps drink was their way of making the best of a bad job.

Boxer seemed rather subdued about the whole business. Sam wondered if he disapproved of what had happened. After all, he
was
religious. Maybe he didn’t like that kind of thing.

“You’re quiet, mate.” It was just after four in the afternoon and they were cleaning rifles.

Boxer forced a smile. “Sorry, Sam. Suppose I’m not much company today.” He fell into silence again as he worked.

“Something up?” Sam pressed. It wasn’t like Boxer to be so uncommunicative. He was usually such a sanguine and cheery type.

Boxer whistled a sigh. “I’m feeling very unsettled, pal. Can’t stop thinking about those two boys. Y’know, Sam, the Bible talks about being overcome with drunkenness and the cares of this life, so that day comes upon you unexpectedly.”

Sam frowned. “
What
day?”

Boxer looked straight at his friend. “If you knew you were going to die tomorrow, how would you spend tonight?”

Sam took a moment to consider the question. He was almost afraid his answer might disappoint Boxer. In truth, he’d never really thought about it, simply because since being out here, a steady stoicism had overtaken him. One got so used to the dead. It was strangely numbing. He shrugged his shoulders. “I dunno. I could
easily
die tomorrow. Any one of us could. But I can’t see how that would affect how I spend tonight. What difference would it make?” He threw a glance over at Jimmy who was within earshot of the conversation, but Jimmy just lowered his eyes and continued working on his rifle.

Boxer smiled sadly. “The fool has said in his heart that there is no God. That’s what the good book tells us. Y’know, Sam, if there’s no God, it really doesn’t matter how you spend tonight.” He hesitated for a moment. “But if there
is
a God, wouldn’t it make sense to try and get to know him before you have to stand before him?”

Sam said nothing.
Was
there a God? He had no idea. Did that make him a fool? Well, from what Boxer had said, perhaps it did. Half a fool at least. He wasn’t offended at his friend’s bluntness, but somehow Boxer’s words made him uneasy. Life had never before demanded that he examine such eternal issues. Yet suddenly it seemed the issues were examining him.

“I tried talking to the lads for a few minutes this morning,” Boxer said quietly, “but they were upset and feeling too rotten to pay much attention. I’ll bet they’d never touched drink till they got out here, poor bairns.”

Sam felt depressed. They were all going back to the line in a couple of days. It was anybody’s guess as to who would make it through the next few weeks …

Oh, Em. Suppose Boxer’s right with all his funny ideas? Where does that leave me? All I know is that I saw no trace of judgement in his face when he talked about the two drunken boys. He just seemed immensely sad for them, and I am left chewing on the thought that we’re all being led like lambs to the slaughter and any day could be our last.

Contalmaison (Support Trenches) September 22nd 1916

Dearest Em. It has been almost impossible to grab a moment to write these last two weeks. We’ve been in various spots, all of them lively, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt so dead tired in my entire life. This whole area is in ruins now; roads torn up, buildings pulverised by shellfire, a choky sense of desolation about the place. One wonders if the French will ever forgive us.

We were badly shelled near Martinpuich the other day. Sad to say we lost a handful of men, including one of the young lads who got drunk. His mate, Wilf, was quite beside himself …

It was late morning but the sky was dark with the weight of smoke hanging in the air. The enemy had kept up a continuous barrage since dawn ‘stand to’, and now nerves were getting frayed. Sam’s company was two hundred yards behind the line, moving through a small wood which had been almost decimated by the firing.

“Hey, look at this –” The young subaltern went over to a splintered tree where two dead Germans were laid out, their bare feet pale and wet in the drizzle. “Somebody’s gone off with their boots. I wouldn’t mind some new ones myself. See who can bag me a pair in my size!” He flashed a cheery grin at the men behind him. They continued to make their way through the wood and it wasn’t long before they stumbled upon an abandoned German pillbox.

“Check it out,” came the order. “See if there’s anything in there we can use.”

It wasn’t uncommon to come across weapons, ammunition, even bits of foodstuff in such places, but that usually depended on why the occupants had vacated the post in the first place. Two of the men went over to take a closer look.

“Dead Bosch in here, sir,” one of them called out. “Nothing much else.”

At that moment there was a deafening explosion. A long range shell had come over, landing some twenty yards from the back of the pillbox. The point of impact was a tall deciduous tree, one of the few still hitherto intact. It split with the blast, cracking with a noise like a thunderbolt. A volley of shrapnel ricocheted from the trunk and hissed through the air. Sam saw the subaltern go down, the top of his head sheared off by a slither of burning steel. He wouldn’t be needing new boots now, Sam thought, sickened. Within seconds the air was filled with screams as men all around fell from hideous wounds. A second shell came over, landing slightly further away than the first. The scene was turmoil.

“Sam! Over here!”

Sam spun round in the direction of Boxer’s voice. Boxer was trying to restrain one of the boys who’d got drunk a week previously. As Sam reached them, he could see that the boy’s mate had taken a bad hit. Most of his insides were on the ground next to him.

“Come on, Wilf, he’s gone, mate. You can’t do anything for him now.” Boxer was trying to shout above the noise of everything else that was going on. Wilf was wild-eyed, shaking the dead lad, bawling at him to get up. It was a pitiful sight. Sam closed the dead boy’s eyes and joined Boxer in trying to pull Wilf off. But grief had made the boy mad and lent him an uncommon strength. Lieutenant Colton came over. He bellowed at the distraught boy, who was by this time almost hysterical. The shock of the lieutenant’s voice seemed to bring Wilf to his senses, and as the officer yanked him to his feet, the lad began to sob like a baby.