A Song in the Night (60 page)

No,
Rosie thought resignedly.
Being around Molly seems a much better use of my time.

On their way home on Friday, Rosie felt particularly quiet. Jonathon tried to draw her into conversation.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Just tired I guess.”

“How’s it going with Molly?”

“Better. I think we’re getting somewhere.”

“I knew you’d do it, Rosie. I had every confidence in you.” A slight pause. “I’ve missed seeing you in the staffroom.”

She quickly glanced at him, but his eyes were fixed on the road ahead. She felt a stab of pain at his words. She’d missed
him
more than he could know, but in every way differently to the way he’d missed her. It hurt like crazy.

“Doing anything nice this weekend?” He pulled up at traffic lights and turned to look at her.

Rosie shrugged. “Nothing planned as yet. You?”

The lights changed and Jonathon pulled out. “I’m away for the weekend. Going off tonight if I can throw some things together.”

Rosie’s heart sank. She tried to sound bright. “To see Lauren?”
Might as well face facts.

But Jonathon shook his head. “Lauren’s just flown to South Africa for three months – research trip. No; I’m off to see my parents.”

Aren’t you the lucky one?
Rosie nodded but said nothing. She didn’t want to come out with anything petulant. It wasn’t Jonathon’s fault that he seemed to have everything. Parents that actually wanted to see him. A doting girlfriend who just happened to be dead brainy too.
Whereas I,
thought Rosie grimly,
could probably disappear from the planet and be gone a fortnight before anyone noticed.
She knew it was self-pity raising its ugly head, but she’d stopped counting the days since Ciaran had blown up at her.
He
obviously wasn’t missing her company. And
he
was about the only family she had.

As Jonathon pulled up outside Oak Lodge, he turned to her. Somehow today he looked tired, and Rosie found herself wishing she could touch his cheek and say something to him. Even tired he looked beautiful.

“Have a good weekend, Rosie. Pick you up Monday.”

They said goodbye and he drove off. Rosie walked slowly up the path and went into the house. Ed was just coming out of the kitchen. When he saw her, his face furrowed with concern. “You alright, Rosie? You look a bit peaky. D’you want a cuppa?”

“Please. I’ll take it up to my room. Think I need a lie-down. This week’s really knocked it out of me – don’t think I’m back to full strength yet.” It sounded plausible, even to her own ears.

She watched as Ed made the tea. His thick fingers and heavy wrists seemed at odds with the detailed and beautiful paintings his hands produced. And yet, she conceded inwardly, like Cassie’s, they were special hands. Rugged and gnarled, yet loving. Father’s hands.

A few minutes later, Rosie sat by the window in her room and stared out over the garden. It looked pretty in its springtime adornment, as did the sea of farmland that rolled out beyond it. The whole scene was bright and charged with new colour; life after death, freshness after decay. Everything shouted that summer was just around the corner. But as Rosie gazed at the sight, nature’s cheerful statement just added insult to injury. Her life was falling apart again. Her emotions had been so wrung out over the last few months, she hardly knew what to expect next. The Jonathon thing felt like the last straw. She was fast coming to the conclusion that getting the job at Paddock Hill had been a huge mistake. Maybe even coming up to Yorkshire had been too …

A horrible wave of loneliness swept over her. She had no idea where she belonged any more. Here she was, living in the house of a couple who were tacitly pretending to be her parents while she went through a rough patch. Her own brother hadn’t spoken a civil word to her in goodness knows how long. Her best friend was dead. And the guy she suddenly realised she loved was already spoken for. She didn’t have a home to call her own. Even her job was borrowed from someone who’d been stupid enough to bust herself up doing a parachute jump. What did her life count for any more? Had it ever really counted for anything anyway? A surge of anger rose up in her throat and she glared at the sky.

Oh, God! Don’t you see anything that goes on? What am I supposed to do with all this mess?

Her hands trembled with emotion as she stared out. At that moment, even a thunderbolt from heaven would have been better than the silence that enveloped her. But nothing changed. The sky was still seaside blue; small patches of cumulus still drifted across it like picture book clouds. Life looked beautiful – and suddenly Rosie hated it like she never had before.

It was over an hour later when she awoke to hear someone knocking lightly on her door. For a few moments she struggled to come round. She couldn’t even remember lying down on the bed.

“Rosie? Am I alright to come in?” It was Cassie.

Rosie tried to sit up. Her head and limbs felt heavy, as though she’d been injected with something. “Yeah, sure.”

Cassie put her head round the door. “Just letting you know, love, dinner will be about quarter of an hour.”

Rosie straightened. “Oh, I’m sorry … I meant to help you with it. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” She rubbed the back of her head in frustration. She felt bad at the idea of Cassie waiting on her hand and foot. It was embarrassing. But Cassie didn’t seem in the least put out.

“You must have needed it, Rosie. You’ve done well to get through a whole week after being so poorly.”

Poorly? That’s just the half of it,
Rosie thought gloomily as Cassie disappeared downstairs. She stood up and went back over to the window. As her head began to clear, everything came flooding back. Gulping down the lump of hopelessness that was threatening to clog her throat again, she knew she had to do something. She did some quick reckoning in her head. Twelve or thirteen weeks until school broke up for summer. Lydia Vardy might or might not be fully recovered by then. But that was immaterial. Come July, her own obligation to Paddock Hill would be over. She would get in touch with her old nursery, see if there were any jobs going down there, try and find a little bedsit. One thing was sure; she couldn’t stay in Ridderch Standen much longer. She’d imagined that coming up here would be the answer to everything. A little piece of paradise; an impregnable fortress in a lousy world. But now she knew that even a place like this was no defence against the storms that raged inside her own heart. After all, hadn’t even Mickey managed to turn up and sully the place with his presence? Surely that should have been a warning. Nowhere was safe. It had all been a fantasy. Oak Lodge had been no more able to protect her than anywhere else. And now with the torment of seeing Jonathon day in, day out, she realised she had no choice but to leave. In fairness to Bev Carradine, Helen Walker, and especially little Molly Guest, she would give the next three months her best shot. After that she was out.

When she’d tidied her hair and straightened her clothes, she made her way downstairs for dinner. She wouldn’t say anything to Cassie just yet; that would seem ungrateful. And besides, she didn’t want to run the risk of being talked out of her decision. As her foot touched the bottom step, she remembered something else. The diary. She needed to get that finished and e-mailed. After that, contact with Jonathon must be kept to a bare minimum. Journeys to and from school; the occasional exchange in the staffroom. Anything else was too painful.

As she turned towards the dining room, she almost collided with Ed carrying a tray.

“Just takin’ this up to your brother.”

Before she had time to think, Rosie reached out and took the tray from him. “I’ll take it. You go and get your dinner.”

Ed shrugged. “Okay, love.” He hesitated for a moment. “You might need to bang a bit. He’s not so good right now. Just sits there rockin’ half the time. Cass goes up to him a lot, but she can’t get him to eat much.” He turned back towards the dining room.

Rosie felt guilty as she climbed the stairs. She and Ciaran hadn’t spoken in almost three weeks. In fact she’d hardly seen him. Just the odd fleeting glimpse of him around the place, the occasional nod if they’d passed on the landing. But even then he’d seemed in a complete world of his own. She wondered if the brother she’d grown up with really had died with Beth. And she couldn’t help feeling bad about Ed and Cassie; going through the tragedy of losing their daughter and having to put up with a pair of dysfunctional wrecks living in their home.

She tapped lightly on Ciaran’s door. Feeling suddenly awkward, she was tempted to put the tray on the floor and hurry downstairs before he had chance to answer. But remembering Ed’s words, she waited a few moments before knocking again. There was a slight shuffling sound from inside the room, then the door opened. Rosie was shocked at what she saw. Ciaran’s face was so thin now, she wondered if he’d eaten at all since they’d last spoken. His dark eyes seemed somehow darker, his wild hair wilder. His whole appearance was that of one wretched with grief. She noticed his hands were shaking as he took the tray from her. The sight of him hurt her so much, she wasn’t sure whether to smile or cry. She did neither.

“Try and eat something,” she muttered in a low voice before turning to go back downstairs.

“Rosie …!”

The cry was so faint, she only just heard it. She swung round to see Ciaran still in the doorway of his room. He had put the tray down and was standing with his arms hanging helplessly by his sides. As his eyes met hers, he reached out towards her.

“Sorry, Rosie.” His voice was hoarse as he clung to her. “I’m just hurting like hell. I’m so sorry.”

“That’s okay. I’m sorry too.” Rosie could barely hold back the tears. As they held each other, she could feel Ciaran’s whole body trembling. She was sorry alright. Sorrier than he could know, about more things than he could possibly understand. Right now, she felt sorry for just being alive. Yet somehow, just saying the word relieved a little of the pain.

After a few moments Ciaran loosened his grip on her. “You’d better go for your dinner, Ros.” He wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “Thanks for bringing mine up … and for being there for me.”

She nodded. “Just make sure you eat it. I’ll be checking on you.”

He smiled the faintest of smiles. But to Rosie it was like an unexpected birthday present.

____________

Poperinghe July 18th 1917

At last it begins. Our preliminary bombardment started up a couple of days ago, and what a show, Em. There’s hardly been a break in the firing since it began – our boys are sending them over thick and fast. It wasn’t long, of course, before the German guns took up the tune. So here we are, a right old fight going on and the real battle hasn’t even started yet. I don’t suppose the Tommies at the front will be getting much of a night’s sleep. As for us, we’re still back here for the moment, camped just outside Pop. There’s a lot of speculation as to when we’ll be on the move, but no one seems to know anything for sure. No news yet as to when the offensive is due to kick off properly, but when it does, you can bet the PBI will take the brunt of it.

Poperinghe July 27th 1917

A week on and still here, Em. There’s nothing much to report. Still no news of anything definite, though the rumours are that zero hour could be any time now. The bombardment goes on relentlessly and the ground shudders with the force of it. One wonders how, after three years of this, there’s anything left to shell.

I received a parcel from home today. There was an embroidered bookmark, three letters – one each from Father, Mother, and Kitty – and a fruit cake that Mother had baked for my birthday. I was glad to receive it, especially as last year’s birthday package never arrived. We were at the Somme then, and I can remember wondering if everyone had forgotten me. It wasn’t until I went home on leave that I found out that Mother actually had sent me a cake, though I never did find out what happened to it. Blown to pieces probably or diverted by some hungry Tommy. Well anyway, this year’s got here safely, and Boxer, Jimmy and I have been thoroughly enjoying it!

Ypres August 1st 1917

Well, the offensive officially began in the early hours of yesterday morning. We’ve been on the move most of the day and now find ourselves in Ypres. As we get closer to the action, we begin to have some idea of the scale of the push. Ypres is swarming with troops; men like us on their way to the front, and men who have been there throughout the bombardment, now on their way out. They look completely exhausted, much too weary to celebrate that their stint for the moment is over. I could rather envy them tonight, Em. Tomorrow we will be out there, facing who knows what. I can’t help feeling anxious about it all, though I could never tell anyone but you. Perhaps it’s because I’ve just had my birthday. I find myself plagued with thoughts that this will be my last. That next year, Mother will have no boy to bake a cake for. Listen to me, Em! How terribly gloomy I sound. Perhaps it’s nothing more than this dismal weather that’s dampening my spirits. After a steady drizzle in the early part of yesterday, the rain has suddenly become quite torrential. I can’t think it will make for easy traversing when we get going tomorrow.

Hooge August 2nd 1917

Weather abysmal today. Earlier, we left Ypres and came along the Menin Road. What a sight met our eyes! The rain has turned the whole front into a sea of mud and we saw men trying to wade through the stuff, up to their knees or higher. At one bit, we passed a provisions wagon and a couple of mules that had got stuck in a really deep patch. It was most distressing to watch, Em. The creatures were struggling to free themselves, their eyes rolling in utter terror. But there was nothing anyone could do to help them. In the end their driver shot them both. When we looked back a few minutes later, there was barely anything left to see. The whole lot had practically disappeared under the mud.

The noise of the firing was simply terrible. From our position on the road we could see the explosions going off all around; no break, no pause – quite, quite merciless. Tramping along, knowing you’re heading straight into something like that, is the strangest feeling. Somehow it doesn’t seem real. You have to shut your mind off and let your feet carry you forward. You can’t afford to think about it too much. Neither can you get windy or give in to your nerve. That would be disaster. No; each man must do his best, as he expects everyone else to do. Though after the scenes we’ve witnessed today, Em, I think we all feel exhausted and dispirited already. I can’t imagine how we’re supposed to win a war in these conditions. Still, I suppose we have the consolation of assuming that the Germans are in the same stew.