A Song in the Night Page 4

  Rosie groaned, but she knew better than to argue. Beth had a passion for books. Ciaran had once remarked that Beth took in old books like some people take in stray cats.

  From the outside, it was clear that the bookshop was well cared for. The window casings and door were painted in a clean magnolia, and the lettering in the sign above the shop was picked out in a strong brown, shadowed with gold. ‘Good Quality Second-Hand Books – Prop. T.W. Frederick’ read the calligraphic letters. Beth was almost beside herself with excitement. “This looks a bit classy!” she grinned as the bell on the door tinkled to signal their entrance. The inside of the shop had a distinct smell; something like the archive section of a public library, but laced with the sweet, nostalgic scent of pipe tobacco. Beth scanned the shelves, not knowing where to start. Rosie stifled a smile as she observed her. Beth looked like a kid on Christmas morning. Rosie wasn’t sure where to start herself. It wasn’t really her kind of shop. Not that she didn’t like books; it was just old books she wasn’t crazy about. Still, there must be something in here that wasn’t fusty and full of mildew. She set about trying to spot it.

  Thomas Frederick was pleased. He’d had an hour sifting through a newly donated batch of stuff that had been delivered early that morning. It had come in three lots; two fair-sized boxes, both crammed with books, and a small, battered case which had clearly seen better days. He’d smiled when he’d seen the case. It reminded him of the one he’d used as a small boy in the war, when he’d been evacuated from London. For a few moments he’d toyed with the idea of taking it home as a souvenir, but he’d thought better of it. Poor Mary put up with enough of his junk, and the cottage really wasn’t big enough. His attention had turned then to the boxes. To his delight, he’d found a number of first editions and some very nice volumes of poetry, all in pristine condition. They’d obviously belonged to someone very discerning. It was a pity the lady who’d dropped them off hadn’t left any contact details. Having gone through the items, Thomas would have got in touch and positively insisted on sending her some payment; the books were certainly worth it. But she’d been in something of a hurry to get to another appointment. No sooner had Thomas managed to unload the boxes from her car, than she had sped on her way, declining to take so much as a penny from him. The books hadn’t been her own, he was fairly sure. She’d brought them in as house clearance, only too glad to find a decent home for them. As far as Thomas could see, that was the end of it. In his heart, he thanked the mystery benefactress and wished her well.

  Beth’s arms were beginning to ache. It always happened when she came anywhere like this. Ciaran would no doubt roll his eyes and ask her where on earth she was going to put them all. It was always the same.

  Rosie approached her softly. “Do you think you’ve found enough yet?” There was the merest hint of sarcasm in her whispered voice. “We’ve been here nearly forty-five minutes.”

  Beth gasped. “We haven’t! Oh heck, I got carried away … .” She made her way to the counter, almost staggering from the weight of the books she’d amassed.

  The old shopkeeper smiled, his grey eyes crinkling. “My my, you have been busy. I do hope you’ve come in a motor car.”

  “Oh yes,” Beth bubbled, “and my friend here will help me carry everything to the car park, won’t you, Rosie?” There was a flash of mischief in her eyes.

  Rosie responded with a satirical smile. “Actually, I was rather thinking of trying to flag down someone with a wheelbarrow.”

  Beth paid for the books. As she was putting her purse back into her bag, she stopped. “You don’t happen to have any sheet music, do you?”

  The old man thought for a moment. “As a matter of fact, I do. I got some in only today, as part of a house clearance lot. I’ve been going through the stuff this morning. There were some smashing books. Hang on, I put the rest under here.” He reached down and lifted the old case onto the counter. On one of its side panels was a worn, yellowed label that read ‘MUSIC’. He fumbled at the rusted catches. “It’s a bit tricky to get into, I’m afraid.” There was a sudden clicking sound and the lid snapped open. Beth’s eyes lit up. The case was packed full with musical scores. Thomas Frederick thumbed wistfully through the top few. “I haven’t bothered to go through them. I’m not a musician. Can’t read a note, I’m sorry to say.”

  Beth leaned over and gazed thoughtfully at the case. “How much do you want for each piece?”

  The old man beamed. “You can have the whole lot for nothing. I was only going to throw it away. Not much call for stuff like that these days. People tend to buy new. As I say, I can’t do anything with it, ’cept use it to light my fire on a morning. Anyway, you’ve been by far my best customer this week. Take it with my blessing. And let me find you a box for all your other stuff.”

  Beth grinned. “Thanks, that’s very kind of you.”

  Thomas smiled as the two young women struggled out of the shop with their loads. He watched them as they made their way down the lane, and then went back to his books. So far, it had been a very good day.

  “I’ve just remembered a good place where we could have lunch,” Beth announced enthusiastically. They found a bench by the side of a small stream and settled there to eat their picnic. Despite being late October, the air was warm, and the sky, a deep, reassuring blue. It seemed hard to believe that winter was just around the corner. Beth sighed contentedly. “Ah, this is the life! You enjoying yourself, Rosie?”

  Rosie was on the verge of making a facetious comment about the length of time they’d spent in the bookshop, but she checked herself. Somehow Beth looked too happy.

  After lunch, they took the picnic things back to the car. They could see the village church from the car park. It took them about five minutes to reach it. From the road, they entered through a small, wooden gate and walked up a narrow path which cut through the sprawling graveyard. Ancient-looking headstones, like silent sentinels, rose up out of the neatly cropped grass. By the south side of the church was a large yew tree, and nestled beneath it, a few stones which were so old and weather-beaten, Rosie found it impossible to decipher a single word chiselled upon them; just a series of intriguing marks that had once been letters, but now held their secrets in tight-lipped decay. How old was this place, she wondered? The outer walls of the church were pale grey flintstone, and slender lancet windows betrayed the building’s medieval origins. As they arrived at the arched wooden door, Beth stopped. “Hope we can get in. These days some churches are kept locked when they’re not in use. Wouldn’t that be a pain?”

  She pushed slightly and, to their relief, the door swung open. A combined smell of incense, furniture polish, and old hymnbooks wafted over them as they stepped inside. To their left as they entered the building, Rosie noticed a beautiful trailing flower display, and next to it a sign, printed in the form of illuminated manuscript. She read it out. “Welcome to the Church of Saint Ethelbert.” Her face broke into a grin. “Ethelbert, eh? That’s one rockin’ name.”

  “I seem to think the guy was pretty big round these parts at one time,” Beth whispered knowingly, feigning an air of erudition.

  Their eyes scanned the interior of the church. The stark white walls gave the place a light, airy feel, while the timber roof and wooden altar were striking in their simplicity. Simplicity seemed to be the key at Saint Ethelbert’s. There were the inevitable features; a pulpit, a font, and a couple of memorials, but otherwise, ornamentation had been kept to a minimum. The only tokens of extravagance in the décor were a number of stunning flower displays placed in strategic locations throughout the church.

  “I’m going to have a sit-down,” Beth said quietly. “You have a look round if you want.”

  Rosie walked over to a large oak table on the back wall of the building. On it were a number of publications; a ‘History of Saint Ethelbert’s’, a book on the life of Saint Augustine, several small pamphlets on subjects such as prayer, adversity and bereavement, and the Parish Magazine. She picked up the latter
and began to look through it. It seemed to belong to another world; a 1950’s world of bell-ringing, and homemade jam and pickles. Though it amused her, there was something strangely appealing about it. Even the advert for ‘Good Quality Second-Hand Books – Prop. T. W. Frederick’. The memory of the bookshop made her smile. There’d probably be a photo of Beth in the next edition of the Parish Magazine. At the back of the table was a rack of large postcards showing various scenes from the village of Applemarket and its surrounding countryside. There was one particular picture which caught her eye. It was a photograph of Saint Ethelbert’s in winter. The sky in the scene was grey and dramatic, streaked with slashes of pale winter light, whilst the church, the graveyard, and the tops of the headstones were shrouded in snow. Rosie found it a striking image. All at once, her mind was seized with a powerful longing. It happened so fast, she was caught off guard. She felt a sudden sense of ancient identity; a strange thrill at the thought of the endless cycle of seasons that Saint Ethelbert’s had weathered down the centuries. Yet, at the same time, she felt an almost painful yearning for something beyond that dark sky, as though its slits of light were enticing her to break through the cold winter veil and enter into them. As quickly as it had come, the intensity of the feeling disappeared, and Rosie stood there wondering what to make of it. She turned round and saw that Beth was sitting in a pew halfway down the church. She sidled in next to her, the aftershock of her strange experience still playing in her mind.

  Beth turned and smiled. “It’s weird, y’know. I’ve just been thinking; it’s years since I was in a church.”

  “Same here.” Rosie ran her hand over the smooth wood of the pew.

  “I thought you Irish were supposed to be very devout. Your brother excepted of course.” Beth’s tone was inscrutable. Rosie couldn’t tell if her remark was serious or tongue-in-cheek. She decided to give her the benefit of the doubt.

  “I’m sure a lot of ’em are. But not me. When you’re born into a family with a Protestant father and a Catholic mother, I guess you’re born sitting on the fence. Fences aren’t the most comfortable places to sit. Eventually you jump off and make a run for it.”

  Beth laughed. “Twice bitten, twice shy, then?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.” Rosie attempted a smile, but suddenly she didn’t feel like laughing. Thoughts of her parents always affected her like a cold shower. In truth, she doubted that either of them had bequeathed her so much as a slither in the way of spiritual inclination. She tried to collect herself. “Anyway, what about you? I thought your parents were religious.”

  Beth nodded thoughtfully. “They are. And my brothers.”

  “So, infidel. What happened to you? Don’t tell me you’re the only one of your family that hasn’t set foot in a church for years.”

  Beth shrugged. “I used to go all the time when I was young. Sunday school, children’s camps – the lot.”

  “What happened? D’you get kicked out for bad behaviour?”

  “Nah, nothing like that.” Beth sat forward and gazed towards the front of the church. “I guess I just got too busy. In my early teenage years, I was working my butt off trying to get to music college. Once I got to music college, I was working my butt off to make sure I stayed there. Being away from my family, such a different environment – and then meeting your brother of course – I just seemed to carve out a totally new life for myself. Suppose you could say God was the casualty. There just didn’t seem to be room for him.”

  Rosie was curious. “What did your mum and dad say to it all?”

  Beth sighed. “Not a lot really. They never tried to pressurise me. I guess they were sad. I dunno, I try to avoid the subject these days. A bit of guilt, I suppose.”

  Rosie frowned. “You still believe in God?” She wasn’t even sure why she was asking the question.

  Beth was quiet for a moment. “Yeah. If I’m honest, I guess I do. What about you?”

  Rosie looked down at her knees. “I dunno. I’m not sure what I think. And does it matter anyway? In the end, I’m not sure it makes a whole lot of difference.”

  They fell into silence, their words hanging open in the atmosphere between them. It was an uncomfortable topic of conversation for both of them, and neither knew quite how best to follow it. Rosie was trying to figure out a way of changing the subject when she suddenly perceived movement at the front of the church. Straining to see better, she caught sight of a white butterfly flitting around the flower display at the base of the altar. Glad for the distraction, she tapped Beth and pointed. They watched as the creature hovered around the gorgeous array, alighting from time to time on several of the blazing autumnal blooms. At one point, it left the display and ascended high into the roof space above them. For a while they lost sight of it, until it suddenly descended again and moved out towards the main body of the church, fluttering around as though in some delicate dance. Then, quite unexpectedly, it landed on Beth’s arm.

  “Wow, this little chap’s a late one,” she said softly, turning her head to get a better view. “I thought they’d all died off.”

  “Serves you right for coming out in a bright pink jacket,” Rosie hissed. “Probably thinks you’re a carnation.”

  The butterfly was in resting position. From time to time it flexed its wings, but it remained there for several minutes nevertheless.

  “It seems to like you,” Rosie smiled after a while. “It’s in no hurry to leave. Are we still off to Whitstable in a bit?”

  “Course we are,” Beth affirmed, still in hushed tones. She turned her head to the side again. “See you, little friend.” She blew softly. The butterfly flicked its wings a couple of times and then it was off, climbing higher and higher towards the roof until they saw it no more.

  “Well, I reckon that’s our cue to go.” Beth stood up and stretched her limbs. “It’s been nice seeing the old place again. If we get a move on, we can be in Whitstable in time for tea.”

  Rosie followed her down the aisle to the door of the church and they stepped outside into the afternoon sunshine. A flurry of russet leaves swirled across the path as they walked through the graveyard.

  “Well, that’s that,” said Beth decisively. “Au revoir, Saint Ethelbert’s.”

  They spoke very little on their way to Whitstable. Beth put on a CD of Vaughan Williams’ Fifth Symphony, and the atmosphere in the car was almost meditative. Rosie thought about the postcard with the winter scene and found herself remembering the powerful emotion she had experienced in the church. What had all that been about? Yet somehow, she knew it was something she wouldn’t forget in a while. They arrived in Whitstable at just after five.

  “Is it fish and chips all round?” Rosie asked as Beth switched off the ignition.

  Beth shook her head. “I’ll just have a fishcake if they do them. I can still feel my lunch. We did eat pretty late, after all.”

  “Just a fishcake – are you kidding?” Rosie pulled a face. “Well, pardon me for being a greedy pig, but I’m going for the full deal.”

  They made their way to Harbour Street and bought some there. After they’d eaten, they decided to walk down to the harbour itself.

  “I remember coming down here when I was about ten,” Beth reminisced. “We came on holiday to Whitstable. Funny, I never thought I’d end up living so nearby.”

  When they got to the harbour, they walked down the South Quay. Already the sky was turning a deep red, dappled and streaked with gold, one of Whitstable’s famous sunsets. They stood on the quay and looked out to sea. There was an almost surreal calm about the water. Faint ripples glowed pink in the evening light, and the air was filled with a stillness that was almost tangible.

  “Who says there’s no God?” said Beth thoughtfully as she gazed out towards the horizon. As if she had heard the seriousness in her own voice, she turned and winked at Rosie. They watched in silence as the sun dropped lower and lower into the west. Rosie found herself thinking that it was one of the most beautiful sights she had ever witnesse
d. As a little girl in Southern Ireland, she’d been surrounded by nature in all its magnificence, and her present situation near Streatham Common was not without its aesthetic high points. Yet there seemed something almost otherworldly about this evening in Whitstable. Standing on the simple harbour; watching as the sun, like a dying red giant, sank majestically beyond the horizon. It dropped to a thin rim on the edge of the sky as the wash of soft waves seemed to usher in the twilight. And then it was no more.

  Beth looked at her watch. “Guess we should think about getting back, Ros.” They strode back up the quay, a light breeze whispering through their hair and touching their lips with salt. “I’ve really enjoyed today.” There was an air of satisfaction in Beth’s voice. “Can’t wait to look through my books. Hey, not to mention my case full of treasure!”

  Rosie smiled to herself. Old junk more like. But she said nothing. When they got to the end of the quay, Beth suddenly stopped and looked back out to sea.

  “We must remember that sunset, Rosie. It’s the end of British Summer Time – the clocks go back tonight. From now on we have to get used to the dark.” She pulled a spooky face and they both started laughing. Night was coming.

  Chapter 3

  It was Monday tea-time. Beth closed the front door and wearily peeled off her coat. She’d been out doing private tuition since just after lunch. One sweet, housebound old lady with a burning desire to play an ancient violin left to her by a neighbour; that had been a double session. And an hour-long lesson with a young boy who’d been off school three weeks with a broken leg. Neither pupil had been at their musical best that afternoon, and Beth’s powers of encouragement had been stretched to the limit. Added to that, three sickly bus journeys, and suddenly she felt more exhausted than she could ever remember. She didn’t feel particularly hungry, even though she’d only managed an iced finger since breakfast time. The vague queasiness she’d felt all day had taken the edge off her appetite again. At least Ciaran wouldn’t be in to check up on her. He was going to be heavily involved in an inter-schools music marathon for the next fortnight, and she wasn’t expecting him in until at least ten that night.