A Song in the Night Read online

  She made herself a coffee and went into the bedroom to change. Five minutes later, sitting cross-legged on the floor listening to Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto in E Minor, she felt like a student again. Her mind sank back into the memory of it all. The endless round of music college life with its early mornings and taut, demanding schedule. The battle as she’d set about beating her body into subjection. The aching arms, the strained fingers, the blistering weariness of working towards assessments. Even as a child, she’d always taken practise seriously. But this had felt like practise to the point of torture. One day she’d broken down, battered by self-doubt and wondering if she’d taken leave of her senses, ever imagining she could make this her career. Her tutor, Mr Kapowski, had instructed her to put away her violin for the day. ‘Go for a walk,’ he’d said. ‘Ask yourself what you really want to do with your life. Do you really want to be a musician? You’ll only make it, Beth, if you want it so bad that it hurts.’

  Walking through the college grounds that December day, she’d thought long and hard about things. There was no doubt about it, being a music student was tough. And she missed her family desperately. Sometimes the urge to jump on a train and go home was almost more than she could bear. And yet …

  Suddenly, her eyes had been drawn to a small sapling trembling in the cold air. Its branches were grey and skeletal, and the handful of leaves still clinging to it so brown and brittle, they looked as though the next gust of wind might rip them from their tenuous hold and send them flittering into oblivion. She’d known then. Without her music, she would simply shrivel up and die. It would be a slow death too. A lingering torment of ‘if onlys’, a creeping paralysis of disappointment and gnawing regret. Life might be hard, but mere existence would surely be unbearable.

  She’d gone back into college, her mind made up. She would do it, even if she went crazy in the effort. And later that night, sitting in the common room, her hands cradling a steaming mug of hot chocolate, she’d had her first conversation with the gentle, dark-eyed Irishman who, less than three years later, was to become her husband.

  She hugged herself as she remembered. That day had been a turning point, though at the time she could not have known it. It was hard to believe how far she’d come since.

  As the CD continued to play, her gaze moved towards a pile of stuff under the window. Of course … her new books.

  She’d had no time to look at them since Saturday. Shuffling across the floor, she reached into the cardboard box the bookshop man had given her. Her hand pulled out a small, beige-coloured volume; The Poetical Works of John G. Whittier. For a moment or two, she flicked through its gilt-edged pages, her eyes lingering on a few random sentences. Poetry was a strange animal. She had to be in the mood for it. She reached into the box for another book. ‘The Little White Horse’ by Elizabeth Goudge. The title wrapped itself around her mind like a warm blanket. She’d read the book as a young girl and been totally entranced by it. Her childhood copy had long since disappeared, but seeing this old hardback version in the bookshop had been like stepping back in time. She’d known immediately she had to have it.

  She spent the next hour or so sifting through the rest of the box. It was some time after eight when she straightened up and looked around. Books were spread haphazardly all over the floor, each one vying for her attention. She hardly knew which one to start reading first. Good thing Ciaran wasn’t here. He’d say she was mad buying all this old rubbish. She grinned to herself. She’d have to select one book to read and find a home for the rest before the thing turned ugly.

  It was then that her eyes fell upon the old case full of sheet music. She decided she might as well look through that too; she’d soon know if there was anything worth keeping. She pressed her small fingers against the catches which, at first, stubbornly refused to budge. Then, just as had happened in the bookshop, they suddenly flew open. Beth lifted out a pile of sheets and began to leaf through them. They were piano scores; a mixture of easy-listening music – some of them forties wartime songs – and popular classical pieces. There were even a few old hymns thrown in amongst them. She took out the rest of the scores and flipped through them. Nothing outstanding at first glance. But then, she reasoned to herself, she’d got them for nothing after all. She glanced back into the case to make sure she’d gone through everything. The bottom of the case was lined with a fusty, yellowed newspaper. On its top sheet, an archaic-looking advert caught her attention. A beaming, fifties cartoon lady smiled up from the page, the patter below her extolling the virtues of some kind of wondersoap Beth had never heard of. Finding the picture rather quaint, her curiosity was aroused. Surely there had to be a date on this thing. As she reached into the case to take the newspaper out, her thumb hit on something hard. Removing the newspaper, she realised it wasn’t lining the bottom of the case at all. Rather, it was concealing a strange array of objects. An old tobacco pipe half-swaddled in a greyish-looking man’s handkerchief. A wad of cigarette cards held together by a thin elastic band. A miniature Toby jug with laughing eyes and bright, grinning mouth. A small, shallow tin, tarnished and dull. And an old, dog-eared notebook. Beth picked up the cigarette cards and flicked through them. They were mostly famous cricketers of yesteryear. Her brother Josh was into cricket; he might like these. Looking next at the Toby jug’s manic expression, she couldn’t imagine anyone liking that. The pipe was nothing special either, but holding it to her nose for a moment, she could still pick up the faint, woody scent of tobacco. It made her think of her own late grandfather. She could still see him sitting in his chair, his stained fingers meticulously pushing and compressing a carefully constructed nest of pungent brown shreds, his lips working carefully to coax the thing to smoulder. The smell of it all had hung in his very being, and as a child she’d found it intoxicating. In those days, it had been a source of secret indignation with her to realise that little girls were not encouraged to smoke pipes themselves. She replaced the pipe and picked up the tin. It was a brassy colour, but dirty and rather dinted, not quite the length of a six inch ruler and about three inches wide. It was embossed with the profile of a lady’s face, on either side of which were some rubbed inscriptions which appeared to be capital ‘M’s. Underneath the woman’s face it read, ‘Christmas 1914’, and around the edge of the lid were the names of various countries. Beth eased the tin open. Crammed inside was a small New Testament. Bound in crazed black leather and inscribed with gold lettering, Beth could see that its dimensions marginally exceeded those of the tin which contained it. Its edges and corners had been bent and squeezed into its accommodation by someone determined to make it fit. She didn’t attempt to remove it. It seemed quite happy in there, and besides, she’d grown up in a house full of Bibles and rarely had the slightest inclination to read one. She flipped the lid down and put the tin back in the case. Her eyes moved to the old notebook.

  It too was leather bound, its battered cover a shabby, mottled brown. She lifted it out of the case and opened it. As she did, a folded piece of thin, yellowed paper fell to the floor. She picked it up and unfolded it. The paper was about A3 size, and she was surprised to see that it was filled with bars of music, written carefully out in pencil. At the top of the page it bore a title, ‘Chant du Rossignol’. Beth frowned as she hummed her way through the notes. It was just the bare bones of a tune, but whoever had written it had certainly understood the rudiments of music. After a few moments, she folded up the sheet and made a mental note to try it out sometime on the keyboard. She turned her attention back to the notebook. Flicking through it, she was amazed to see that it was almost completely full of writing. All but the last few pages at the back had been used. Though the book was obviously old – its pages browning with age and reeking of antiquity – the writing, though tiny, was in strong, dark pencil and still clearly legible. There were dates and strange place names. Beth frowned again. It appeared to be someone’s diary. She moved back to the first page. On the inside of the front cover was what seemed to be some kind
of dedication. Curious, she began to read.

  To my dearest Emily –

  Sweetest girl,

  Gentlest soul,

  My inspiration,

  My reason to survive.

  If I should perish,

  Keep these pages

  And know I died thinking of you.

  Beth gave a low whistle. Wow – what was all this about? Her eyes flicked to the first diary entry on the facing page. It was dated July 24th 1916. Well, at least that had made the decision easy for her. The other books would have to wait. This one was first in line now. She went and made herself another coffee, came back, and curled up on the bed.

  Franvillers (billets) July 24th 1916

  I wonder, Emily – do you ever think of me, your old friend, Sam? I hardly dare to hope that you might. And yet I have to tell you, though more than a year has passed since I last saw you, there’s not one hour goes by when I don’t picture your face …

  Sam chewed on the end of his pencil and closed his eyes. It was true. Emily’s face was never far from his thoughts. What would she think of him if she knew? He’d never spoken his heart to her before; he’d never dared. But his time out here had taught him a lot. His teeth bit hard on the pencil. He’d made up his mind. If by some miracle he should make it through this war, he would do what he should have done ages ago. He would take his courage in both hands and ask her to be his bride.

  The faint rumble of distant artillery rolled across the fields. There was no getting away from it, even behind the line. It had become an integral part of life. The dreary signature tune of their existence. Disagreeable it certainly was, but Sam had long since given up trying to remember what silence sounded like. He ran calloused fingers over the soft leather binding of his new notebook. Still so clean, unspoiled; a little touch of civilisation in this world of filth and noise. In truth, he’d had the book well over a month and had been carrying it around in his bag, still wrapped in its brown paper packaging. He hadn’t known what to do with it at first. His mother had sent it over; for his beautiful poetry, she’d said in her letter. Dear Mother. Had she any idea where her boy had come to? Hardly a place to inspire the sort of bucolic offerings he’d penned in peacetime. Maybe he’d been an idealist back then – something of a romantic perhaps. Whatever the case, those lyrical days seemed an awful long time ago, and war had a way of changing a man. His poetry had a somewhat darker tone now. Somehow Sam doubted his mother would find it quite so beautiful.

  Then suddenly it had occurred to him. He would use the book to write a journal. A record of these peculiar times. He would scribble down his thoughts and make believe he was sharing them with Emily. It would be like a letter. One that he would never send of course. Yet one that they might read together some day, when they were older and times were kinder. And if, heaven forbid, he should find himself among the fallen, at least she would know something of the lad who’d thought the world of her these many years. Of course, he’d have to be careful. It wouldn’t do for anyone to know what he was up to. The officers weren’t too keen on diaries and the like. Too much secret information should a chap be taken into enemy hands. Anything deemed sensitive material would no doubt be confiscated without a second thought. Still, it was worth a shot. This war had silenced too many already.

  On the mattress next to him, Harry Burton was trying to snatch a bit of sleep. Harry and Sam had been thick as thieves from the time they’d met at a training base in Kent and gone on to find themselves in the same platoon. That had been over a year, and many weary travels ago. Now their company had just arrived in new territory. They’d been drafted in from Bethune to help support the depleted 11th Battalion stationed in the area of the Somme Valley. After suffering heavy losses in recent action at Contalmaison, the 11th were being rested for a couple of days.

  “Rest …” Harry yawned, stretching his arms till his joints clicked. “I remember rest. That was when you had Sundays off and you could go to sleep whenever you felt like it. You didn’t have to worry about dodgin’ shrapnel or some blinkin’ sergeant barkin’ orders at you.”

  Sam grinned. “What’s up with you? At least we’re still here, aren’t we? Still here and in the pink, mate. That’s more than can be said for a lot of our lads.”

  He became thoughtful. Everyone knew about the horrific slaughter of British troops that had been going on in the area for the last three weeks. This so-called Somme offensive had begun with a massive preliminary bombardment of the German lines. The gunners had been full of it. They were going to smash the enemy front line trenches to smithereens, cut to shreds the barbed wire in front of them, and let the infantry stroll over and capture the German lines. “It’ll be a picnic for you lot by the time we’ve finished,” they’d joked. “The Bosch’ll come out of their ’oles beggin’ for mercy!”

  The initial bombardment had been planned to last for five days, but had been extended a further two because of bad weather. So terrific had the firing been, everyone had been confident that the follow-up attack would be a walkover. In the lead up to zero hour, infantry troops had been given the order that they were not to run, but to walk steadily towards the enemy front line. Word was going round that some had even been given footballs to kick through no man’s land, just to keep themselves focused.

  The big battle had begun just over three weeks ago, on the morning of July 1st. When the whistles had blown at 7.30 a.m., thousands of men had climbed the scaling ladders and gone over the top, believing the thing was as good as in the bag. They couldn’t have been more wrong. The British artillery bombardment had made little more than a dent in the enemy defences. What was supposed to have been a walkover had in fact been a massacre. German machine-guns had mown down wave after wave of advancing infantrymen. Sam wasn’t sure of the figures, but he knew it ran into thousands – and that just on the opening day. The slaughter had been going on every day since.

  He turned over on his bed. It was a discomfiting thought to imagine that they might be next. Still, there was no point brooding on it all. It wasn’t good for morale. He looked down the hut. The platoon had been reorganised since their arrival, and there were a number of new faces. Amongst a small group playing cards at the far end of the building were two lads who were identical twins. Sam gestured to Harry. “Reckon we’ll have some larks with those two.”

  “Yeah,” Harry nodded sleepily. “Thought I were seeing double at first.”

  Sam closed his eyes. At least they were still under Lieutenant Colton. Sam had a lot of time for him; decent chap, not afraid to muck in with the rest of them. His head began to swim as a regiment of faces marched through his mind. Company officer, Captain Brierley. Sergeant Jack Fogg, Foggy to his men. Poor old Corporal Wilkie wounded back at Souchez …

  Oh Emily, it doesn’t do to get too attached in this game. We’re back to the line tomorrow. Peake Wood – sounds glorious.

  ____________

  Beth rolled onto her back, her mind trying to digest the lines she had just read. 1916? Somme Valley? That could only mean one thing. This guy had to be writing from the Western Front. It was almost unbelievable. She read on.

  Becourt Wood July 29th 1916

  After limited action at Peake Wood, we moved here and have been in close support these last days. Two caught out by a sniper, one rather badly, I’m afraid. It’s not that we didn’t warn him …

  Sam had already told the boy several times to keep his head down. That was the trouble with these young ones. Far too scared of missing something. Things had been pretty quiet for the last couple of hours, and the lad seemed to be getting restless.

  “He’s a right twit that one,” Harry muttered, drawing on his cigarette. “You watch. Somebody’s goin’ to do for him if he’s not careful.”

  The boy shinned up onto the fire step. “D’you think they’ve retreated? They’re not making much noise.” His voice came out as a loud, rasping whisper. Harry looked over at Sam and rolled his eyes. Some of these new lads were just plain stupid. Suddenly,
the temptation was all too much for the boy. He bobbed his head above the parapet. Bang! A sniper’s bullet whistled through the air. The boy fell backwards into the trench, landing heavily on top of Sam.

  Harry was on the scene in a second. “Come on, you idiot –” He pulled the boy over onto his back. Slightly winded, Sam scrambled to his feet. He looked down at the lad who was screaming and holding the side of his head. Harry bent down to get a better look. “Keep still, will ya?” Knocking the boy’s hand out of the way, he swore. “They’ve taken his ear off. We’ve got to get him seen to.”

  Sam could see that the whole of the boy’s left ear had been blown away. An inch further over and he’d have been a goner for sure. “You’re alright, mate,” Sam tried to encourage him. “We’ll get you to the dressing station.” He pressed a piece of rag to the wound and they hauled the lad to his feet. They moved down the trench, dragging him, almost carrying him as he became weaker and weaker. It wasn’t long before the rag was dripping with blood. It ran between Sam’s fingers, down his wrist, soaking into his sleeve. The lad was near collapse. His war was over for sure.

  Sam found himself thinking about Emily again. Poor girl. She was nursing out here somewhere. She must see this kind of thing all the time. He hated to think of her exposed to such awful sights, even though he knew she had the courage for it.

  They stumbled round a bend into the next bay. The twins were there, counting out ammunition. They looked sympathetic as the injured boy staggered past them. Seeing their faces, Sam found himself remembering a funny incident from the day before.