A Song in the Night (43 page)

Sam found himself remembering his own recent trip home. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

According to the doctor, Boxer had been lucky to keep his leg. The whole hospital was full of men with wounds that had gone the wrong way. Boxer had come across a young Scotsman from the Black Watch who’d been admitted a few days earlier with a light wound very similar to his own, and in the same part of the leg too. Infection had set in and the man had undergone the same treatment as Boxer, but without success. Sadly, the wound had become gangrenous and the medical staff had had no option but to amputate at the top of the thigh. The day before Boxer had left for England, this soldier had shown him a letter which had just arrived from his sweetheart back home. She was writing to tell him that she’d met someone else and wanted to break off their engagement.

“Poor fellow was inconsolable. Said this woman was his reason for living, the only thing that had kept him going. Now that she’d given her heart to another, he said he could see no point in carrying on. It upset me a great deal, I can tell you.” Boxer’s face was lined with sadness as he remembered the thing. “I tried to talk some comfort to him, but he just kept staring down at his wretched stump and wishing himself dead. I’ve never seen a man so full of despair …”

I’ve found myself wondering how I would be if I lost my hope of you, Emily. The more this war goes on, the more I realise I’m losing touch with all that is good and beautiful. Even my own heart seems a dark and frightening place to me now. How could I bear to lose you too? How do I know that you’re not already promised to another? Oh Emily – that’s too terrible a thought to contemplate. I will not think of it any more. A man needs hope to survive.

Houtkerque March 25th 1917

I think my spirits are a little more restored today. Rest and good company must be doing the trick, I tell myself. I reckon we’ve all just become weary during these last months. Continuous action is a terrible burden on the nerves. I daresay we were all ready for a break. Twinny Two knows how to time things …

Twinny Two had only been back a couple of days, but he seemed energetic enough and was back to his usual clowning self.

“Bet you’ve forgot what the front looks like, ’aven’t yer?” one of the lads ribbed him. “Was you tryin’ to stay ’ome till the Bosch ran outta bullets?”

Twinny Two gave him a clout. “Leave off, sarky. I’ve been ill, I ’ave.”

The other lad winked at the others. “What was the diagnosis then?
Terminal frigiped?
”

Twinny Two took it all in good part. “Listen – for your information, I was very sick. I ’ad a priest come in at one bit, wantin’ to gimme the last rites. I opened one eye, I did, and told him – ‘I’ve got a mate who can do that sorta thing. Only
he
don’t wait till you’re nearly snuffin’ it before he starts preachin’ at yer.’ I told ’im good and proper.”

Everybody laughed and looked round at Boxer.

Boxer gave a wry smile. “About time you started listening then, isn’t it?” He aimed a swipe at Twinny Two and they ended up in a heap on the ground, wrestling like two idiots. It all made for wonderful entertainment.

It was good to be able to relax. Of course, there was still plenty to do; there was no such thing as complete rest out here. But at least, being this far behind the line, the men were not living on their nerves in the same way. They could go to sleep at night and expect to wake up in the morning. When in the line, that was something none of them took for granted any more.

It was late afternoon and Sam, Boxer and Jimmy were sitting in an estaminet eating soup and chips. A woman’s voice crackled out from a gramophone in the corner. Sam could barely make out a word. He found spoken French hard enough to decipher – sung French was simply unintelligible. Still, it made for pleasant listening. It was music and that was enough.

“Reckon my stomach’s shrunk. At one time I could have cleared that lot no trouble.” Jimmy pushed his almost empty plate forward on the table and leaned his back against the wall. He looked around. Most of the wooden benches were occupied by soldiers, many of them eating or drinking, some of them trying out their language skills on pretty local maidens who had chanced to drop by. Jimmy smiled thoughtfully. “Wonder if we’ll miss all this
après la guerre
.”

“Suppose that depends on how much longer
la guerre
lasts. Any wild guesses as to how long that might be?” Sam tossed the question out idly.

Jimmy shrugged. “Well, we’ve gone way past Christmas, that’s for sure. I reckon it’ll go on for the duration.” They all laughed. Jimmy’s was a typical Tommy reply; stoic resignation in the face of an unrelentingly awful situation. And in reality, there was no other answer. The war would last as long as it lasted and
they
were there for the duration, however lengthy that might be. Either that, or until their number was up. It was something one had to accept – or die trying. Shrill laughter broke out further up the room.

“Looks like old Ned’s getting a bit fresh with the
mam’selles
again.” Jimmy fired a carefully aimed chip in the direction of the amorous soldier. It hit him smack on the ear and Ned spun round, a perturbed expression on his cratered face.

“Hey! Who’s lobbin’ chips at me?”

But Jimmy was like lightening. By the time Ned had turned to face his direction, Jimmy was chatting intently with Sam and Boxer, seemingly oblivious of any untoward occurrence. A young, rather tipsy brunette soon managed to take Ned’s mind off his injury and the incident was quickly forgotten.

Boxer grinned. “Thought you were gonna get your features rearranged then, mate.”

Jimmy shook his head. “Some of these chaps need more than a chip chuckin’ at them. Honestly, they must be crawling with all sorts.” His face hardened into an expression of indignation. “Just look at that girl – she’s hardly more than a child. But I know for a fact that Ned’s in every brothel he can find. It’s not right. If she finds herself doing him any favours she’ll end up with more than she bargained for.”

Sam looked over at the young woman who now sat with Ned’s arm draped clumsily around her shoulders. It was true; she was indeed very young. He couldn’t help noticing that she almost had a look of his younger sister, Kitty. It made him feel at once disgusted and strangely sad. It seemed this war had taken victims from every sphere of life.

“I was talking to one of the padres the other day,” Boxer interjected in a low voice. “He told me he was trying to get something done about a particular spot just outside Pop. An estaminet – about six women working the place, a couple of them old enough to be grandmothers to some of the lads out here, by the sounds of things. He said all the boys coming out of there are rotten with pox. This padre was quite put out about it all. He’d talked with several of these lads and it seemed the syphilis was about the last straw for many of them.”

“I don’t understand it,” Sam said into the air. “It’s not like they’d ever do this kind of thing back home. Surely some of them have wives or sweethearts. What are they playing at?”

“I think this war has made them mad.” Boxer’s tone was suddenly heavy. “And the women too. Seems with all the killing, people are just living for the moment. Life’s been reduced to little more than animal instinct. It’s tragic.” His voice tailed off as he stared over at the noisy rabble seated at the top end of the room. There was a shadow in his countenance, Sam noticed. But studying his friend, he could see that the expression in Boxer’s eyes was one of sadness and compassion. After a few moments Boxer stood decisively to his feet. “Come on, lads. Let’s go and fill our lungs with God’s fresh air …”

The world is becoming a place I hardly recognise, Em. All the values I held dear, all the virtues and standards that were so much part of life back home – they seem so out of place here in this landscape of war. I wonder, sweet Emily, if you’ve found the same. Can we ever go back to things as they were? Can we, who have seen so much and changed so much, ever go back to life as we knew it before? Or has it all been ruined for us?

____________

Rosie quickly tapped in a message for Jonathon. She’d been so absorbed with Gavin over the last few days, it had only just occurred to her that she’d not been in touch. She hadn’t even told him about the change of date for her visit.

Hi Jonathon –

Sorry I didn’t make it at the weekend. Been very busy recently and completely forgot to let you know I’d rescheduled my journey for this coming weekend instead. Should be travelling up Friday evening.

See you then

Rosie.

It wasn’t until later that night that Rosie received Jonathon’s reply.

Gutted Rosie – I won’t be there! I’ve arranged to go over to Durham to some ridiculously posh do with Lauren. It’s something I can’t get out of – you know what these things are like. I even have to wear a tux … lol! We’ll have to try and arrange things better for your next visit. Have a good one anyway and laugh as you think about me dressed up like the dog’s dinner.

Luv Jonathon.

Rosie shut down her laptop and closed the lid with a resentful click. Life was really starting to tick her off.

____________

“You okay?” Ciaran brought Beth’s wheelchair to a gentle halt next to a wooden bench on the village green.

“Perfect. This has to be one of my favourite places on earth.” Seeing him frown, Beth smiled. “Down in London, whenever I thought of Ridderch Standen, this is one of the first views that came to mind. This and the church. Not that there
is
much else in Ridderch Standen.”

Ciaran gave a little laugh and sat down on the bench. “Blink and you’ll miss it, eh?”

“Small and charming,” corrected Beth. She sighed contentedly. “No, we’ve got everything we need round here – for a simple life at least.” She winked at him. “Guess I’m still a village girl at heart.”

Ciaran twined his fingers around hers. “I don’t know how you ever managed to settle in the city.”

“Not sure I ever did really. I think I was just too busy to notice.” A cool breeze rippled across the green. Beth shivered and leaning forward, began to rub her leg through her blanket.

Ciaran looked concerned. “You cold, Bethy?”

“No, no – I’m okay. It’s warm enough for this time of year. My leg’s a bit sore today, that’s all. A bit stiff.” She squeezed his hand reassuringly and leaned back in her wheelchair. For a few minutes they sat quietly, watching village life go by; an old man shuffling along, newspaper tucked precariously under one arm, a small black and white dog pattering submissively behind him; a corpulent, rosy-cheeked young mother half pulling, half cajoling an uncooperative child towards the row of neat, bright-fronted shops situated a stone’s throw from the church. Beth turned to Ciaran and grinned. “It’s always looked like this, y’know. I was just remembering the Sunday school parades when I was young. Sunday afternoon – all the shops would be shut of course. But Mr and Mrs Turpin from the Post Office, they’d have a little stall set up here on the green with sweets and bottles of pop for sale. We’d all come parading past – trying to turn our eyes away and walk nicely like we’d been told to. On the way back, though, we’d be waiting for the signal. We’d get as far as that lamppost over there, then the leader would give us the okay. After that it was every kid for himself. We descended on that stall like we hadn’t seen sweets in six months. The Turpins made a right killing.”

“Sounds like they knew how to corner the market,” Ciaran remarked dryly.

“Well, they cornered me anyhow.” Beth gave a low chuckle. “Sherbet dabs, flying saucers, black jacks. I’ve always been a sucker for a ten pence mix.”

She blinked as she remembered. Somehow it seemed like only yesterday. And yet so much had happened since those happy times. She swallowed hard. How she loved this place.

“I want you to marry again, Ciaran – when I’m gone.” Her voice was slow, deliberate.

Ciaran’s shock was almost tangible. “
What?
What are you talking about, Beth?” His face was a mixture of hurt and indignation. “Where did
that
come from?” He cursed softly under his breath and Beth lowered her head.

“I’m sorry.” She fidgeted with her gloves for a moment or two. “I know it’s hard – but we have to talk about it some time. I’m scared to bring anything up for fear of upsetting you. But we don’t have that long, Ciaran. If not now, when?”

“Please, Bethy –” It was Ciaran’s turn to lower his head. “This hurts like hell.”

Beth shuffled nearer to him. “I know … I know.” Her voice was little more than a cracked whisper. “Do you think
I
want to leave
you?
” She pressed his hand to her cheek as she tried to hold back the tears. “You’re the only man I’ve ever loved – the only man I
will
ever love. But that’s why I want to release you. To be happy again … one day.”

Ciaran was shaking his head incredulously. “How can you say that? How can you talk about me being happy again, Beth? Do you know what all this is doing to me?” He bit his lip guiltily as though he suddenly felt he’d said too much.

Beth cradled his hand in her own. “I’m sorry. So sorry. I wish I didn’t have to put you through this.”

“Don’t –” Ciaran interrupted, his face a wash of anguish. “Don’t apologise. It’s not your fault, Bethy. I’m just being selfish, not wanting to think about things. But it hurts so much … imagining life without you here.” His voice broke then and, pulling free from Beth’s grip, he ran both hands through his hair in a gesture of hopelessness. Beth said nothing. She tugged the blanket tighter round her legs as another breath of cold air blew across them. The sky was a thin, water-colour blue and the mid afternoon sunshine spoke all the promise of an early spring preview. Along the village’s bare, soily verges, small spikes of green had been teased out of hiding by the unseasonably mild daytime temperatures. The irony was not lost on Ciaran. Slowly his eyes took in the view from the bench where they were sitting. To the right of them, rising up from the road at the bottom end of the village and hedged in by its ancient stone wall, Saint Edwin’s Church. Immediately across from the green, the Post Office and the handful of small shops that made up the commercial hub of Ridderch Standen. After that, at the so-called ‘top end’, a row of tiny, white cottages and the village inn. And beyond them, as though Ridderch Standen had been a temporary interruption in some vast natural plan, the landscape opened up once more into acres of rolling countryside. As far as the eye could see, signs of life were starting to appear amidst the debris of the winter’s decay. Fresh green amongst the sullied brown. Hope after despair.