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 24 th 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
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 24 th 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
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