A Song in the Night (61 page)

August 3rd 1917

We’re part of reinforcements moving up towards Glencorse. Rain and more rain. At this rate we’ll be swimming the rest of the way.

Sanctuary Wood August 8th 1917

Weather’s dry at last, though I think it will take some time before the ground begins to recover. Still pockets of flood water all around, compounding our discomfort. This place has been shelled so many times, it’s little more than a quagmire anyway. ‘Wood’ is far too grand a name for it. It’s hard to imagine the green and pleasant sight it must once have presented. Now it’s mud and holes, skeletal trunks and ripped off branches. Hardly the place for an afternoon’s outing. Still, at least now that the sun’s out we’re not cold and dripping wet all the time. We’re expecting to see some action soon.

Sanctuary Wood August 11th 1917

I spoke too soon. The heavens have opened once more and we’re soaked to the skin again. Of course I’m sure that will make little difference to the overall battle plan. After all, the chaps doing the planning are hidden away in their nice, dry headquarters. What would they know about standing up to their thighs in shell holes full of water?

Soon there is to be an attempt to take Glencorse Wood. No mean feat when we hear how stiffly fortified it is. Already today I narrowly escaped being ripped to pieces by a shell fragment which found its way over here. It came whistling down within a yard of me. The fellow behind me wasn’t so fortunate. It sliced him in two – right across, just under the shoulder blades. When I looked at his severed head lying in the mud, his face still bore the most awful look of surprise. I confess I felt quite sick for a moment, Em. I begin to think there’s little chance of our coming out of this.

Sanctuary Wood August 13th 1917

Emily, I am more sick at heart than I can say. Jimmy is dead. Our own pal, Jimmy. I can hardly bring myself to believe it. It happened on a burial party of all the wretched ironies. We’ve had a fair number of losses recently with things being so lively in the area. Albert Bandy had sent a few of us out to see to the poor fellows who’d copped for it. It’s a rotten job at the best of times, but I have to say, it seems rather pointless in our present situation. What with the mud and the shelling, a body’s not in the ground two minutes before it’s blown out again. It’s quite terrible. Even the mud itself seems to ooze with blood. It’s a good thing the folk back home don’t see the vile indignity of it all.

Well, this is how it happened. At just after ten o’clock we were right on the edge of Sanctuary Wood, between the wood and Stirling Castle, when we came in for some very heavy shelling. We’d just dug a hole to bury a fellow when there was the most tremendous explosion and I found myself absolutely covered in thick sludge. I was so stunned, I remember thinking, ‘Well, no doubt that’s ruined all our night’s work’. But when the smoke cleared, I could hear Boxer yelling to me. Jimmy had taken a bad hit and was bleeding profusely from a stomach wound. We managed to drag him about a hundred yards or so until we found a little mound to hide behind. There were no stretcher bearers to be seen, and there seemed little point in trying to shout for one because it was obvious Jimmy was slipping away fast. Boxer cradled Jimmy’s head in his arms and started to say something to him. I couldn’t quite make it out at first because of the din, but when I bent closer I heard him saying these words – “When my father and mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me in”. He just kept saying it over and over again. Jimmy lay there staring up at us as the lifeblood spilled from his wound. I’ll be honest, Em, I felt like crying. But do you know, as Boxer spoke, I began to see a faint smile on Jimmy’s face. When his eyes started to flicker and we knew it was all but over, Boxer bent very close to him and said, “Soon be home now, Jimmy. You’ll soon be home.” And then he was gone.

We dug a hole behind the mound and buried him there. Boxer did a little service as I’ve seen him do so many. But this was very different. How could we have known we’d be burying our own mate before the night was out? Both of us were quite heartbroken, and it struck me that this was perhaps the first time that anyone had shed tears for Jimmy. The thought affected me with great sadness.

Somehow we managed to carry on with our dreadful task, though I don’t know how. Before we left to go back, I went to check that Jimmy’s grave was still intact. It was – but who knows for how long? I can’t bear to think of him being shelled out of it. I wondered if we should have buried him further back. Boxer seems to take a rather different view of it all. He tried to reassure me and told me I shouldn’t fret; that God had sent his angels to collect Jimmy the moment he closed his eyes. His body, he insisted, was nothing more than a pile of old clothes now.

Of course, I realise that what he says is sound common sense. But Jimmy was like a brother to us, and I think that knowing we’re the only family he had, I feel a sense of responsibility towards him.

It’s almost three in the morning now and I’m more miserable than I can ever remember. We’ve a big one coming up soon, and I feel sick with unhappiness. I don’t know that I have any fight left in me.

Rosie had no idea how long she’d been there. An hour – maybe two? Her eyes stung from squinting at the tiny writing and her neck was knotted with the effort of her concentration. She stretched for a few seconds then looked back down at the notebook. There was only one more entry. Her eyes strayed across the first few words but then she flipped the book shut. Somehow in that moment, she didn’t want to know how it ended. One thing she felt sure about. There would be no happy ending. Nothing ended happily; she knew that now. Jimmy hadn’t lived to find himself a wife. Ciaran had found one, only to lose her again within the space of a few years. She tapped in a brief message to Jonathon then closed down her computer. For the rest of the evening she did little more than watch telly.

____________

Jonathon didn’t mention the diary as they drove to school on Monday morning. Obviously he hadn’t checked his e-mails since getting back from his weekend away. Rosie decided not to mention it either.

“You’ve had your hair cut,” she commented, just for something to say.

Jonathon grinned. “My mum does it for me. She always half scalps me, bless her. It’ll be alright in a few days.”

Rosie pretended to go along with his self-ribbing. In truth, she thought it made him look more handsome than ever. His blue eyes seemed bluer and the line of his jaw smoother and more defined. Her heart hurt at the sight of him, but she steeled herself not to let it show. “Football club today?”

“Yep. One of these days we’re gonna surprise everyone and bring home a cup.”

Rosie nodded.
According to Chrissie Havers, so you keep saying.

When she arrived in the classroom, Molly seemed to be waiting for her. As Rosie approached the table, the child bent forward and slightly moved the empty chair that was next to her.

“Thank you, Molly. That’s very kind of you.” Rosie sat down, touched by the little girl’s gesture.

Lessons during the morning went well, and though Molly didn’t participate vocally, she seemed to listen attentively. Rosie was pleased to see that the pieces of work she managed to produce were of a good standard. Towards noon the weather broke and it began to rain. While the rest of the class went off to the dining hall, Rosie and Molly ate their packed lunches in the classroom as usual. But it wasn’t long before the other children began to drift back in. It was too wet to go outside. Helen Walker came in looking flustered. “Just what I didn’t need today,” she growled. “I had some lesson planning I needed to do.”

Rosie thought for a moment. “Perhaps we could get them all to draw something … give them coloured pencils or crayons. Make it like a competition – maybe give a little prize to the child we feel has put in the most thought. I could sit near the front with Molly and supervise everybody. And you could sit in a quiet corner and get on with what you need to do. So long as they behave themselves you don’t have to get involved.”

Helen smiled gratefully. “Are you sure, Rosie? You do seem to be working above and beyond the call of duty this week.”

Rosie grinned. “How hard can it be?”

While Rosie was settling Molly at a table near the front, Helen addressed the class. “Right everybody, Miss Maconochie’s going to tell you what you’ll be doing. I’ll be working at the back, so it would be lovely if everyone could be nice and quiet.” She winked at Rosie and Rosie stood to her feet.

“Okay. I’d like you all to draw a picture; it could be a person, or a place, or an object. It could be something that makes you happy, or sad – or scared or excited. Anything that’s special or important to you. You can use colours if you like, but you don’t have to. Just think about your picture for a few minutes, then see what you can do. We’ll collect the pictures in and have a look at them. Tomorrow, the child we think has tried the hardest and put in the most thought will win a bar of chocolate.”

If she’d had any doubts about the bargaining power of the potential prize, she needn’t have worried. A buzz of excitement ran around the classroom. As she handed out the blank sheets of paper, Rosie couldn’t help smiling to herself. Had there ever been a time when the prospect of a bar of chocolate would have affected
her
with the same cutthroat determination to win. Had she ever been so young? If she had, it seemed an awfully long time ago.

Later, when school had finished, she laid the pictures in rows across the class tables and studied them with Helen.

“A lot of effort has gone into these,” Helen commented ruefully. “How do we pick a winner?”

Looking at the collection, Rosie was beginning to wish she’d never come up with the idea. Though it was clear that some children were significantly more artistically gifted than others, the prize had been offered for the most thoughtfully produced picture, not necessarily the most aesthetically impressive. And, Rosie had to concede, despite the young age of the artists, almost all the subjects were at least identifiable. This decision wasn’t going to be easy. At that moment the door opened. It was Jonathon.

“Hi, Rosie. Just came to see if you were ready.”

Helen seized the opportunity. “Jonathon! Just the person we need. Be a love and tell us which one of these you think deserves a prize.”

“The one that shows the most thought,” corrected Rosie.

Jonathon looked over the pictures for a while. “What’s the prize?” he asked at last.

“Chocolate bar.”

Jonathon nodded. “D’you know what I’d do? I’d award first prize to this one –” He leaned forward and picked up a brightly coloured picture of a seaside scene. “Because it really is brilliant. But I’d buy a couple of bags of snack-size chocolate bars to share round everyone else. Looking at these, I think they’ve all tried hard.”

Rosie smiled wryly. “Very diplomatic.”

“Very expensive,” retorted Helen. “You and your bright ideas, Kirkbride. Good job I haven’t got a class full of kids with allergies.”

Jonathon grinned. “Just telling you what
I’d
do.”

Rosie began to collect up the pictures. “Sounds fair enough to me. Don’t worry, Helen, I’ll buy the extras seeing as it was my idea to do a prize.”

Helen pulled a face. “I’ll go halves – so long as you promise not to do it again.”

That night as she lay in bed, Rosie went back over the day. Her mind teemed with a riot of coloured images; characters and scenes of every description, a collective cornucopia of favourite things. Or not so favourite in some cases. Her thoughts went back to one particular picture. One she hadn’t managed to get out of her head. Helen hadn’t seemed to notice it. And if Jonathon had, he hadn’t said anything.

It had been a simple enough drawing; in many respects typical for the age group. Four people. A man in a turquoise outfit, brown hair, smiley upturned mouth. A woman with huge, blue eyes and yellow hair, flicked up at the bottom. Between them, in a pink dress, a smiling little girl with stick arms and legs. And towards the far edge of the paper, a second man; dressed in black, with black dots for eyes and a straight line for a mouth. In the top corner, in oversized letters, the picture was signed
‘Molly Guest.’
But Rosie could have picked it out without its signature. She felt terribly sad for the little girl. Family divided. Uprooted from home. Forced to share a house with a man that wasn’t daddy. Poor little kid. She knew how it felt. Maybe she could get Molly to talk about her picture; at least get some of her feelings out in the open. Resolving to try, Rosie soon fell into a fitful sleep.

____________

“Got your snack bars?” Jonathon asked as she got into the car next morning.

Rosie patted her bag knowingly. “Wouldn’t dare go without them. Helen’s given me the job of announcing the winner.”

“Perhaps my suggestion will save your skin then.”

It was raining heavily and Jonathon seemed to be concentrating hard as they drove along. They lapsed into silence. For a while, the only sounds to be heard were the drumming of raindrops on the windscreen, the hum of the engine, and the swish of the wipers on full speed. Rosie stared out of the window at the bleary countryside and stifled a sigh. Whenever she was around Jonathon these days, her heart ached. She found herself longing for the end of term.

“Hey, thanks for the e-mail by the way. Didn’t open it till last night.” They were about five minutes from school and Jonathon was leaning forward as he tried to focus his gaze through the driving rain. “Poor old Jimmy, eh? I was gutted about it.”

Rosie breathed out slowly. This seemed as good a time as any to tell him. “There’s only one more entry.”

Jonathon shot her a split-second glance. “Really?” He didn’t attempt to conceal his disappointment.

Rosie tried to pretend she hadn’t noticed it. “Don’t know if my eyesight will ever be the same again. It’s been hard work.”

Jonathon didn’t reply. He looked thoughtful as they continued their drive. When they pulled into the car park, he switched off the engine and turned to her. “You’ve done a great job with it, Rosie. Beth would have been proud of you.”