A Song in the Night (52 page)

Bye for now

Rosie.

It was the following day when Jonathon opened the e-mail. He read it slowly, and then read it again. So. She was coming up to Yorkshire. He stared at the screen for some time, turning the thing over in his mind.

Lord … oh, Lord.

He dropped his head and began to pray silently. It was several minutes before he finally closed down his computer and stood up from his desk. Deep in thought, he went downstairs to make himself a strong coffee.

____________

“Hello?”
Headteacher Bev Carradine glanced at the wall clock in her office.
Eight thirty-five …?
Reception usually fielded calls until after nine, especially on Mondays.

The voice at the other end of the line sounded flustered. “Sorry, Bev. We’ve got Lydia Vardy’s husband on the phone. He insists on talking to you. Sounds in a bit of a tizzy.”

“Okay, Janet. Put him through.” Bev frowned as the receptionist made the transfer. Lydia Vardy – Helen Walker’s intrepid NTA. What had she gone and done now?

“Hello, Mrs Carradine?”

“Yes, speaking.”

“It’s Mark Vardy here. I’m afraid Lyd’s had a bit of an accident over the weekend.”

Bev took a sharp breath.
Accident? Weekend …?
That could only mean one thing. The charity parachute jump. Before she had chance to ask, Mark started to explain.

“She landed real badly.” He hesitated for a moment, then gave a slightly awkward laugh. “Mind you, the paramedics said it could have been a lot worse. Said they were surprised they weren’t scraping her up off the grass.”

Bev winced. “She’s injured then?” She almost dreaded the answer.

“Fractured femur, fractured wrist, two broken ribs, and she lost a tooth. The tooth’s upset her more than anything. She’s still in hospital. She’s going to be out of action for a while.”

Bev rolled her eyes incredulously. That girl certainly knew how to do a thing.

Mark’s voice sounded down the phone again. “There’s one good thing,” he quipped brightly. “People have been promising to double her sponsor money since it happened. So it’s not all bad news.”

Bev stifled a sigh.
Well, that’s brilliant, Mark. Tell her from me that the minute she gets her casts off, she can do another jump to raise money for the school – to pay the whacking great agency fees we’re going to have to fork out to get another NTA. Tell her I will personally push her out of the plane …

“Tell her we’re all thinking about her, Mark. Helen and I will come and visit her when she’s out of hospital. We’ll get some flowers for her and a card from the children. That should cheer her up a bit. You keep us posted. Let us know when she gets home.”

A few moments later the conversation ended. Bev walked gloomily over to the window, a twinge of guilt playing in her thoughts. She didn’t want to feel cross at Lydia. Obviously she was relieved that the accident hadn’t ended in tragedy as it so easily could have done. But the timing of it was awful. Helen Walker’s class simply couldn’t function without a full-time NTA. Not with twenty-four Year Three children to be kept in check. And especially not now that the class had a new, rather troubled arrival. Bev walked back to her desk and picked up the phone again. She needed to bounce the thing off Helen first, but in her own opinion, they had to get someone in – and fast.

____________

Rosie looked round her room. She was hit by the realisation that this was probably the last time she would stand here. It was completely empty, a mere shell, not the slightest hint as to whose life it had contained, or whose comings and goings it had witnessed over the last few years. It seemed small and pathetic in its emptiness, and Rosie felt a pang of sadness as her mind went back to the day she’d first moved in here. She’d been excited back then. An intoxicating sense of independence had gripped her as Ciaran and Beth had helped move her stuff in. For the first time in her life she was going to be mistress of her own affairs. No one to fuss if she came in late or didn’t eat right; no one to programme her life out. There was, of course, the small matter of her housemate to consider, but she’d been sure they’d be able to come to some agreement on matters of personal space and privacy. Ciaran and Beth weren’t going to be far away either; there was always a safety net if things didn’t work out for her. But things had gone fine. She and Mel had quickly learned to exist side by side without too much friction. Mel had her life and Rosie had her own. A smooth, well-ordered set-up that had suited both of them quite perfectly. For a long time, everything had cruised along with no problem. Until Beth had got sick. That had changed the whole picture. Rosie found herself remembering the day Ciaran had first broken the news that Beth had cancer. It had been in this very room. And the day, not too long afterwards, when he’d told her the prognosis. Beth was dying. Funny – that had been here too, as had the day when Cassie had rung to say that Beth had passed away. Rosie could remember that phone call vividly, and she could still recall the fear and disbelief that had gripped her mind like a vice as she’d struggled to take in the news. It was a terror that hadn’t really left her since. Now, with Beth gone and Ciaran so far away, this place no longer represented independence and freedom. It felt more like a prison, swirling with ghosts and dark forebodings. As she closed the bedroom door for the last time, Rosie knew that she would not miss this house. It had seen too much.

Her cases were in the hallway, packed and ready to go, and all her furniture had been put into storage. All, that was, except for her almost-new flat screen TV. She’d given that to Mel.

“You can’t do that, Rosie! I thought it was your pride and joy,” Mel had protested. But Rosie had insisted. Somehow, she’d wanted to give Mel something to say thanks. Mel and Dan had been absolute stars that week. Dan had borrowed a van from a friend, and the two of them had worked tirelessly, helping Rosie transfer all her stuff over to Ciaran’s place. They’d left her a mattress on the floor for her last night at the house, but now, even that had gone. Having both taken an afternoon’s leave to see Rosie off at the station, Mel and Dan sat quietly in the living room waiting for her to say the word.

“Think that’s just about it.” Rosie slowly pulled on her jacket as she came into the room. “Guess we’d better be getting off.”

The journey to the station was strangely subdued. Even though Mel had made her promise to stay in touch, Rosie knew deep down that their relationship was coming to its end. There was little to keep them together. Their lives had crossed for a few, brief years, and now they were going their separate ways. There seemed little point in pretending that it was deep friendship that had bonded them. It had been convenience; a mutually advantageous arrangement that, for the most part, had worked well. But as Dan’s car wended its way towards King’s Cross, Rosie couldn’t help feeling that in her dealings with Mel, she had wasted her cynicism on someone worthy of sentiments far more noble.

At the station, the three of them stood on the platform waiting for the train to arrive.

“You make sure you get someone to help you with all this lot,” Dan said firmly but kindly. “You’ll give yourself a hernia if you try and do it yourself. You did say Beth’s dad was coming to meet you at the other end, didn’t you?”

Rosie nodded. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry. I’ll look round for a porter when I get to York.”

Mel’s face lit up. “Look out for a hunky one – and flutter your eyelashes like mad. That’s the way to do it!”

Rosie shook her head with a smile. Coming from Mel, it seemed an appropriate piece of advice to part on.

A few moments later the train rolled in. Dan loaded up the luggage while the two girls said their goodbyes. Mel’s eyes were brimming with tears as they hugged each other. “Hope everything works out for you, Rosie. You deserve a nice life – really you do.”

The sincerity of her tone brought a lump to Rosie’s throat. She smiled awkwardly. “And I hope everything works out well for you and Dan. You two are good together.”

She couldn’t help feeling that Mel was a more deserving candidate for happiness than
she
would ever be. But minutes later, as the train began to slowly pull away, Rosie found herself thinking about her friend’s words. She stared out of the window at the passing landscape. As the train gradually picked up speed, she suddenly had a surreal sense that London was releasing her into a new, unknown chapter; surrendering her, as a child come of age, into the hands of some force far greater than herself. It was a scary feeling, and yet somehow exciting. She couldn’t help hoping that Mel was right. If ever Rosie had been ready for a slice of nice life, it was now.

Mendinghem June 11th 1917

At present I’m in No. 46 Casualty Clearing Station. I’ve been here three days apparently, though I didn’t fully regain consciousness until yesterday. Funny, Em – one of the first faces I saw was Jimmy’s. He was in here with a bit of a shoulder wound, but he’s gone back to join our lot now. Don’t know when they’re going to let me back. I’ve spent today trying to piece together the early hours of Thursday morning.

As I recall, we spent most of Wednesday near Zillebeke, not far from Battersea Farm. A lively day, shells flying over thick and fast (from both sides, I might add, though I think our boys definitely gave them a worse deal of it). As dusk fell, our unit set off for the line with our officer, Captain Mackie, and our new platoon sergeant, Albert Bandy. We made it to the assembly trench in plenty of time, with, as far as I know, no losses …

The day had been long and noisy. The heavy bombardment had continued relentlessly, and with the increased sense of activity throughout the whole area and the preoccupied expressions on the faces of the officers and those in the know, there was a decided feeling of apprehension amongst the men. Sergeant Bandy looked over his platoon grimly. Some of these lads seemed so young. He had a boy at home not much younger. Thank God he was only fifteen. This war had to be finished by the time he was old enough to join up. He checked his watch. Three hours to go.

In the next bay, Sam had just made himself something that only vaguely resembled a cup of tea. He’d long since got used to the acrid taste that seemed to accompany all things edible at the front. He glanced over at Boxer. Boxer was writing a letter, quietly humming something Sam recognised as a hymn. A couple of yards away, Jimmy was dozing against a sandbag. A wave of gentle laughter sounded out as the shells fell quiet for a brief moment. All through the trench men were trying to rest up before the battle ahead, even though the big guns were still going at it as they had been for days. Sam shook his head with a wry smile. All hell breaking loose around them; zero hour looming closer and closer. Yet men could still sleep and laugh and sing. The resilience of the human spirit. He found himself thinking about Twinny Two. That was what happened when a man’s spirit broke. The thought of his friend made him suddenly sad and he closed his eyes. Perhaps that was why the army had little sympathy for such casualties of war. If every soldier went down like that, the thing would be over.

Sergeant Bandy’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Listen up, lads!” He gestured for everyone to gather round. “Right. Zero hour’s fixed for 3.10 – so I want you all to double-check your equipment and make sure you’re ready. If everything goes off as planned, you won’t ‘alf have somethin’ to tell your grandkids about.”

Someone made a bawdy comment and a ripple of laughter went through the trench. The sergeant chose to ignore the remark. “We go over in the third wave, so we sit tight till we get the signal. You all got that?” Satisfied that everyone knew what they were doing, Sergeant Bandy moved off to the next bay to continue his briefing.

Sam tried to focus his mind on the sergeant’s instructions. He thought of the times he’d gone over the top before. Funny really, there weren’t too many. It all depended on where you happened to be placed at any one time. If your unit found itself posted to the front line right in the middle of a major offensive, then going over the top was part and parcel of the thing. But most of the time, life in the trenches was just plain, hard work. Nerve-jangling and fraught with danger to be sure – death was always on the lookout for victims. But very often, it was danger with the element of surprise. The stray shell, the sneaky sniper, the poison gas that seemed to appear from nowhere. Going over the top was different. A man had to steel his nerves and switch off his brain to walk into the jaws of almost certain destruction.

For the next hour or so, the strafing continued, hot and heavy. But sometime after 2.00 a.m., for the first time in days, the home guns fell suddenly quiet. It wasn’t long before the Germans stopped firing too.

“Bet they’re glad for a break,” Sam grinned to Boxer. The two of them looked up into the June sky. It was clear, with a bright, full moon, one of those early summer nights when the darkness never fully takes hold. It would have been beautiful in any other circumstances.

Jimmy came over to them and slouched against the trench wall. “Wish we could just get on with it.” Irritably, he flicked a louse from his hand and trod it into the ground. “I hate this waiting. ’Specially when you don’t know what’s on the way.”

Sam smiled sympathetically. He knew what Jimmy was trying to say. Before a battle like this, you had no idea what was ‘on the way’. You just followed orders and hoped you’d come out at the end of it all. And tonight, there was no denying the feeling in the air. Something big was about to happen. How big was anyone’s guess. It certainly wasn’t for the likes of them to know the picture in advance. The officers might have all the details, but for the ordinary chap in the trench it was a case of being filled in with the necessary information and no more.

A gale of low guffaws rang through the night air. No doubt some of the boys were telling their dirty stories again. They usually did that when they were nervous. A kind of defiant bravado perhaps. Sam wasn’t sure. He’d never had eyes for anyone but Emily.

Boxer clapped a hand on Jimmy’s shoulder. “Don’t fret, pal. You belong to Jesus now, remember? Nothing’s on the way that he doesn’t know about already. He won’t leave you, Jimmy. He’s got you right in the palm of his hand.”