The Voices

by F. R. Tallis

  ‘Very well, thanks. And you?’

  ‘Not so bad. I’ve been taking a look at the roof.’ The builder paused and his expression became sombre.

  ‘Bad news?’ asked Christopher.

  ‘Why don’t you come up here and have a look for yourself?’ Christopher climbed the ladder and joined his builder. The attic was much brighter than Christopher had expected. ‘Just walk on the beams, yeah?’ said Ellis. ‘If you put your feet anywhere else, you’ll go straight through.’ He chopped the air to make sure that his companion understood what would happen. Christopher followed Ellis like a tightrope walker, his arms extended, carefully placing one foot in front of the other. The two men arrived beneath a gaping hole through which slow-moving clouds were visible.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Christopher.

  ‘You need a new roof, really,’ said Ellis. ‘But I can patch it up if you want.’

  Christopher thought about his mortgage, his bank loans and the number of HP agreements he had signed recently. ‘Patch it up.’

  ‘All right,’ said Ellis. The builder pointed at an assortment of objects in a shadowy recess. ‘Do you want me to take this stuff down to the skip?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Junk.’

  ‘What kind of junk?’

  ‘Old junk.’

  ‘I’ll take a look at it first.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Ellis returned to the ladder. ‘I’m going to see how they’re getting on downstairs. Don’t forget to walk on the beams, eh?’

  ‘I won’t.’ The builder paused to have one more look at the roof, before vanishing through the floor.

  Christopher went to examine the discarded items. At first it was difficult to determine what he was looking at, because everything was covered in a thick layer of dust. The most conspicuous objects were four large boards lying on their sides. They were decorated with faded Chinese dragons. Christopher thought that they were probably the remains of an oriental screen, and wondered whether it could be reassembled. When he examined the panels more closely, he discovered numerous scratches and cracks. The screen – if it was a screen – was obviously beyond repair.

  In a cardboard box he found a collection of 78 rpm shellac records. None of the artists were significant and many of the discs were in fragments. He held one up to the light and read the label: The International Zonophone Company. Death of Nelson, sung by Mr Ernest Pike with orchestral accompaniment, London. The formality of the language amused him. There were some large mirrors – once again, broken – some thin wire on a reel and a lampshade. Another cardboard box contained a vintage camera. It was made from mahogany and brass but its bellows were torn. When Christopher turned the camera over some of the parts fell away. He didn’t bother to pick them up. By his feet, Christopher saw what looked like a framed theatre handbill. He crouched to take a look. A web of cracks obscured most of the text, but he was able to make out a few details: Mr Edward Maybury . . . secrets of the ancient world . . . automatons . . . manifestations and vanishings. At the bottom of the bill was some practical information: Every day from 3 till 5 and 8 till 10. Carriages at 5 and 10. Fauteuils, 5 shillings; Stalls, 3 shillings; Balcony, 1 shilling. Turning his attention to a heap of floral curtains, he tugged them aside. The action was excessively violent and he had to wait for the dust to settle before he could identify what he had uncovered. It was a traveller’s trunk made from brown leather and reinforced with metal trim. A tarnished nameplate near the lock had been engraved with the initials ‘E.S.M.’ Edward Maybury? Christopher lifted the lid and found himself looking down at a clock-work monkey, a spinning top, some lead soldiers and a mangy teddy bear, but the trunk was otherwise disappointingly empty. Ellis had been right. There was nothing here of value. It really was ‘old junk’.

  Christopher was about to close the lid, but hesitated. He picked up the clockwork monkey, half expecting it to fall apart like the camera. In spite of its advanced age – Victorian, Christopher supposed – the toy was in relatively good condition. The monkey was dressed in a military uniform and held two cymbals in front of its chest. Christopher turned the key and felt the mechanism engage; the mainspring tightened, and when he let go the key spun around and the monkey crashed the cymbals together with manic enthusiasm. The burst of activity was brief, but curiously engaging, if only for its freakish intensity. Stroking the creature’s nose, Christopher imagined the monkey, shiny and new, on a table in the drawing room downstairs, surrounded by girls in long bulky frocks and boys in sailor suits. He could almost hear their cries of wonder and delight.

  Would Faye find the monkey interesting?

  The idea of continuity appealed to Christopher. It was somehow pleasing to think of Faye having a connection with the children who had lived in the house before. Christopher closed the lid of the trunk and returned to the ladder, clutching the clockwork monkey and mindful of Mr Ellis’s advice with respect to the beams.

  May 1975

  Two vans were parked outside the house and men in blue boiler suits were unloading heavy packing cases. They worked in a leisurely fashion, often stopping to smoke or read the Daily Mirror. Consequently, everything was taking much longer than anticipated. Laura had positioned herself by the front door and she was directing each man as he came through the porch. She looked quite commanding, her expression made more severe by an Alice band that exposed her brow. When she wasn’t issuing instructions, she adopted a distinctive posture: hand on hip, lips pursed – almost belligerent.

  Christopher had moved his electrical equipment into the house the previous day. Now he was feeling somewhat redundant. Laura had already decided where everything should go and the final destination of the linen or the china didn’t really concern him.

  As Laura checked labels and directed the flow of traffic, Christopher wandered into the drawing room. He negotiated a low maze of cardboard boxes and proceeded to the French windows. After opening one of them, he stepped out onto the flagstone terrace and, surveying the overgrown garden, inhaled the cool air. It was suffused with fragrances that reminded him of vanilla and honey-suckle. For a moment his worries, most of which were financial, receded and he allowed his chest to swell with proprietorial satisfaction. He had purchased a substantial property in a very desirable part of London. It was a milestone, a reckoning point, something to be proud of. He could hear the removal men’s banter – the occasional expletive – and a car coming down the hill. The pitch of the engine changed and then fell silent.

  When Christopher turned to go back inside he was arrested by his own reflection. As far as he could tell, he could still be legitimately described as handsome (albeit in a lean, world-weary way) and the streaks of grey above his ears created an impression of mature distinction. He was tall and the passage of time hadn’t made him stoop. Through the transparency of his own image he saw Laura enter the drawing room. ‘Chris? Ah, there you are. Look who’s here.’ She swept an arm back to indicate a man clutching a champagne bottle and a woman wearing a short denim jacket and jeans.

  ‘Simon!’ Christopher cried. He advanced and welcomed his friend with a firm handshake. Then, turning to face Simon’s wife, Amanda, he added, ‘Good to see you. What a pleasant surprise.’

  Amanda tilted her head to one side, then the other, to accommodate the double peck of Norton’s continental kiss. ‘I hope we’re not intruding,’ she said apologetically. ‘It was his idea, not mine.’ Her eyes slid sideways towards her husband.

  ‘Of course you’re not intruding!’ Christopher laughed. ‘Although I’m afraid there’s nowhere for you to sit yet.’

  The four friends joked and talked over each other’s sentences. They were excitable and the tone of their conversation was resolutely skittish.

  Simon Ogilvy had been one of Christopher’s contemporaries at Oxford. His hair was thick and brushed back off the forehead, his nose large and aquiline. Like Christopher, Simon had also married a conspicuously younger woman. Amanda was fifteen years his junior, striking rather than beauti
ful: dark, full-figured and husky-voiced. She taught English at a further education college and also wrote poetry. Two collections of her sardonic verses had been published by Anvil, The Resourceful Goddess and The Hostile Mother.

  Drawing attention to the bottle he was holding, Simon addressed Laura. ‘Would it be possible to dig out some glasses?’

  ‘Certainly,’ Laura replied.

  ‘She’s been very organized,’ said Christopher.

  ‘I can’t promise champagne flutes,’ said Laura, as she glided to the door, ‘but I’ll be able to find something.’ She returned, triumphant, holding up four wine glasses as if they were trophies.

  ‘Oh, well done,’ said Christopher. Then, pointing towards the French windows, he said, ‘Let’s do this on the terrace.’

  They went outside and Simon whistled when he saw the wildly abundant vegetation. ‘Extraordinary. Like deepest Borneo.’

  ‘It’s going to be a massive job cutting that lot back,’ said Christopher.

  ‘I rather like it as it is,’ said Amanda.

  ‘Not very practical, though.’ Christopher sighed.

  Simon peeled the foil away from the neck of the champagne bottle and loosened the wire cage underneath. Amanda and Laura winced, tensely awaiting the ‘pop’. Holding the bottle at arm’s length, Simon waited. After a few seconds the cork shot over the bushes and a frothy discharge splashed onto the flagstones. When all the glasses had been filled, Simon proposed a toast: ‘To Chris and Laura.’

  As they sipped their champagne, Amanda, frowning slightly, said, ‘Where’s . . .’

  ‘Faye?’ Laura repositioned her Alice band. ‘Oh, don’t worry, we haven’t mislaid her.’

  ‘She’s with a babysitter,’ Christopher added. I’m collecting her later this afternoon.’

  ‘How is she?’ asked Amanda.

  ‘Fine,’ said Laura. The word came out rather clipped.

  ‘Delightful,’ said Christopher, ‘particularly when she laughs.’

  Amanda raised her eyebrows. ‘She’s laughing already?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ continued Christopher proudly, ‘she’s been doing it for months – terribly cute.’

  A removal man entered the garden through the side entrance. ‘Mrs Norton?’

  Laura, her face suddenly flushed – perhaps it was the champagne? – excused herself and went to see what he wanted.

  ‘Such a big house,’ said Simon.

  ‘Yes,’ Christopher agreed. ‘You should see the studio.’

  ‘It’s already set up?’

  ‘Yes. Come on, I’ll show you.’

  Amanda pouted. ‘What about me?’

  ‘You can come too,’ said Christopher. He guided them through the drawing room and they ascended the stairs together. On the first floor he showed them some of the finished rooms. ‘I’ve had the place virtually rebuilt. It was in a terrible state.’

  ‘Must have cost a fortune,’ said Simon.

  ‘Don’t ask,’ Christopher groaned.

  Eventually, they reached their destination and Christopher ushered Simon and Amanda into his studio.

  ‘Most impressive,’ said Simon, gazing at a wall of switches and loosely hanging wires.

  ‘Are you working on anything?’ Amanda enquired.

  ‘My agent called last week,’ said Christopher. ‘There could be a new project coining my way soon. A Mike Judd film – maybe . . .’

  ‘Mike Judd,’ Amanda repeated, uncertain. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen a Mike Judd film.’

  ‘There’s no reason you should have,’ said Christopher. ‘It’s not really your thing – dystopian futures—’

  ‘Dystopian futures? Isn’t the present bad enough?’

  Simon coughed, a little disconcerted by his wife’s directness, and raised his glass as if he intended to propose a second toast. The gesture proved to be merely ornamental. ‘I’m sure you’ll produce some very fine work here.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Christopher replied, but he was troubled for a moment by Simon’s smile, which lacked sincerity, and he disliked the substitution of the word ‘work’ for ‘music’. A general feeling of unease was clarified by an inner voice that declared: He doesn’t think you’re any good. Not really. Not anymore.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Amanda asked. Her eyes were searching.

  ‘Sure,’ Christopher improvised. ‘I just remembered another thing that I’ve got to do later.’ He made a concerted effort to conceal his discomfort and marched over to the window. ‘Come over here. Take a look. The view’s great.’

  April 1976

  Eleven months later

  Christopher was seated in his studio listening to a short piece of unfinished music. When completed, it would be incorporated into the soundtrack of the latest Mike Judd film: a low-budget space opera called Android Insurrection.

  An oscillator throbbed at a very low frequency below intermittent clicks and whirring sounds that suggested the operation of mechanical devices. A pure, inhuman soprano made a slow, steady ascent, and a ring modulator, shaped and filtered to sound like bells, supplied a celestial accompaniment. The music was clearly intended to evoke the future. But it was the future as imagined by a person living in the past, someone with a 1950s comic-book vision of life in the twenty-first century. Christopher favoured primitive, rather outmoded methods of sound production. Many of his most interesting effects were still achieved by playing tape recordings backwards and at different speeds, or by playing several loops of tape simultaneously. Although he owned three synthesizers – a VCS3, a Minimoog and an ARP 2600 – he hardly ever used them.

  After graduating, Christopher had received a bursary to visit the NWDR studio in Cologne and it was there that he came under the influence of Stockhausen: a cerebral, charismatic man, who even then was clearly destined to become the most controversial composer of his generation. When Christopher returned to England, he was feted by the avant-garde. His uncompromising pieces were rarely broadcast, but he was a frequent guest on radio discussion programmes. He could always be relied upon to deliver a spirited defence of new music.

  There was only one electronic music studio in Great Britain – the BBC Radiophonic Workshop – and Christopher managed to get a job there. He spent the next few years writing theme tunes and incidental music for science documentaries and experimental plays. After everyone else had gone home, he would stay behind in order to work on his own pieces, and colleagues would often find him the following morning, slumped over the OBA/8 mixing desk, fast asleep.

  His music came to the attention of a young American director and he was commissioned to compose the soundtrack for a B-movie called Parasite, which, surprisingly, became an international box-office hit. More film work followed and as soon as he could afford oscillators, modulators and recording devices in sufficient number to equip a modest home studio, Christopher left the BBC. The demand for his services increased and he was invited to LA. He acquired an agent who negotiated higher fees and Christopher enjoyed a corresponding improvement in his standard of living. The pieces he had been working on while he was at the BBC were never finished. His old tapes, neatly packed and labelled, were forgotten, and nobody referred to him anymore as the ‘English Stockhausen’.

  The oscillator faded and a beat of silence was succeeded by a delicate, high-pitched thrumming. This transparent, tonal haze was sustained for several seconds before the effect was spoiled by an intrusive knocking. The same noise had occurred in the middle of another piece he had been working on the day before but he had been able to salvage most of the material with some judicious cutting and splicing. Android Insurrection was a different matter. It was more densely textured and he suspected that he might have to scrap everything after the beat of silence.

  Christopher rewound the tape and replayed the offending passage. The knocking seemed to become louder as he listened more intently. It could only have been caused by a technical fault; however, the ‘strikes’ were resonant, as if they had been recorded in a natural setting with a microphone,
and there was something about the regularity of the rhythm that suggested human agency. Christopher jabbed the ‘stop’ button and got up from his seat. There was no point in continuing.

  On his way down to the ground floor he discovered Laura in their bedroom, her body half concealed by the soft, snowy cloudscape of a continental quilt. She was wearing a loose cheesecloth smock, baggy cotton trousers and a flimsy pair of leather sandals. Her eyes were open but she was so deep in thought that she did not realize her husband was standing in the doorway.

  ‘Where’s Faye?’ Christopher asked.

  Laura’s head rolled slowly to the side. She looked at him for a moment as though he were a stranger.

  ‘Where’s Faye?’ Christopher repeated, a little irritated by her failure to answer the first time.

  ‘Asleep,’ Laura replied.

  ‘I’ve got a problem,’ said Christopher. ‘I’m going to call Roger.’

  ‘OK.’

  Christopher went down another flight of stairs, picked up the telephone, and dialled Roger Kaminsky’s number. The engineer wasn’t very busy and said he could come straight over. Forty-five minutes later a dented Ford Capri pulled up outside the house and a young man wearing a Led Zeppelin T-shirt and patched blue jeans jumped out. Christopher greeted Kaminsky at the door and showed him up to the studio. He pressed the ‘play’ button and described the problem. After the beat of silence the thrumming began and the knocking followed. Kaminsky didn’t react.

  ‘There,’ said Christopher, pointing at one of the speaker cabinets. ‘Do you hear it?’

  Kaminsky tilted his head. ‘Knocking, you say?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Christopher. ‘Rat-a-tat-tat.’ He turned up the volume and rapped the mixing desk when the rhythm next occurred.