by Chris Simms
‘Oh.’ She knew the Halls were an older couple, but she didn’t realise that old. Maybe having William so late in life had been a contributing factor in the lad’s health problems.
‘Her husband – Roger – didn’t cope with his wife’s death so well. In fact that, and looking after William on his own, proved too much. He had a breakdown and is now in full-time medical care.’
She frowned. Mark Scott must be talking about psychiatric care. The breakdown was obviously severe. ‘Gosh, that’s terribly sad.’
‘Was the letter for him? I have the name of the relative who has power of –’
‘It was for the son, actually. William.’
‘William? It was addressed to him?’
‘Not to him specifically. I opened it not realising who it was for; it was from the Primary Care Trust. About his travel arrangements.’
‘I see. That’s obviously an admin error. Just return it to sender, if you could.’
‘I already have.’ She paused, wondering how to turn the conversation to William. ‘What if I get any other bits and pieces for him –’
‘I’ll give you the address of this relative.’
‘Why would it be an admin error about William’s travel arrangements?’
‘He doesn’t need them any more. It’s a very unfortunate situation, but he had to go into full-time care. A specialist facility.’
‘He’s disabled?’
‘No. I mean, yes. He’s not in a wheelchair. I don’t know the correct terms, sorry. It’s mental, not physical. He’s like a young kid; he can’t look after himself.’
She thought of the empty box of raisins from the garden. A snack for a young child. She realised she was staring at the kitten. It looked nervously back. ‘So he had to move away from the area?’
‘Not far. He’s in a place called the Skylark Trust. He used to go several times a week; hence the travel arrangements. But it went to full time when Mr Hall became ill.’
She stood. The place Martin Flowers mentioned. The one always needing volunteers. ‘What a sad state of affairs.’
‘I know. But the care he’s receiving – and his dad, too – it was what they both needed.’
‘OK. Thanks for explaining.’
‘That’s fine. As Becky mentioned, post should be getting diverted to this relative. But if it doesn’t, have you got a pen?’
She jotted the address down: Norwich. Miles away. Once the estate agent hung up, she placed the phone on the side and looked across to the church. She sensed her abrupt departure had caused a few raised eyebrows, but she didn’t care. Canaries had been bred in the cottage. She needed to know more.
Once the laptop booted up, she went on the internet and thought for a moment. An inner window appeared: new mail, including another from Tamsin Harper over in America.
She clicked on the message.
Hi Laura, I hope you’re well. I don’t want to pester, but I haven’t heard back from you. Have you been experiencing any more episodes? Many in the medical profession – on both sides of the Atlantic – are poorly informed about tinnitus. I’d hate for your GP to have misdiagnosed you. If you want to share any concerns, please, please contact me whenever you want. Warmest wishes, Tamsin.
She clicked back on the internet and Googled, ‘Lantern Cottage, canary breeder’. The old property listing by Gasgrove Hepman topped the screen. Nothing about canaries. She tried searching, ‘Coal mining, Oldknow, Derbyshire.’ A couple of historical websites. One detailed the Mellor family, who built the limekilns in Oldknow. They had also paid for branches off the Peak Forest Canal to be dug that led to the kilns. The other site talked about the family’s mines, including Derbyshire record office diagrams and grid references of the various, now disused, shafts.
A bird landed on the windowsill. A robin. She realised she’d forgotten to restock the bird table that morning. Part of her wanted to carry on the internet search; part of her was uneasy about what it would unearth. She looked away from the screen. A viral infection of my ear is causing sound effects in my head, she told herself. That was the GP’s diagnosis. Plain and simple.
Sighing, she got off the stool and walked over to the back door. The box of bird seed was on the shelf to the side. As she opened the door, she heard light movement near the travel case. The kitten was bolting across the flagstones. She shut the door just in time to prevent it from getting outside. It looked wildly about.
‘Hey,’ she said gently, ‘what’s up with you?’
It glanced up at her and meowed. A horribly mournful sound. Laura bent forward, wanting to stroke it; to reassure it. But the kitten shied back.
‘OK,’ Laura stated. ‘That’s OK. But you’re not allowed out yet. Not for a few more days. Now let me feed these birds and I’ll come straight back in.’
But as soon as the door began to open, it flew at it again. She swiftly closed the crack. This was the strangest cat she’d ever come across. ‘You’re not allowed.’
She wasn’t sure how to get out now. Something told her if the kitten got into the garden it would never come back. It sniffed at the base of the door, turned round, and stalked back to its case. Bizarre. After closing its flimsy wire door, Laura slipped out into the garden.
Birds darted away to a safe distance. The lower part of the pole which supported the bird table had a few more scratch marks. Splinters of wood stuck out in places and she wondered whether the badgers had tried to chew into the wood with their teeth. Maybe to fell it like a beaver would a tree.
After sprinkling a fresh layer of food across the platform, she went back inside. The kitten was watching from behind its bars with baleful eyes. Laura opened the door to the travel case and waited. It didn’t come out.
Laura looked through the kitchen window. The birds were tentatively closing in, sparrows leading the way with encouraging chirrups. A fat chaffinch landed on the highest point of a waist-high shrub. She was wondering whether it would be first to the table when a streak of silvery grey hurtled in from the side. The finch didn’t even have time to spread its wings before talons picked it off. A few rapid wing-flaps and the bird of prey vanished. Laura stared at the scene in astonishment. Did I just see that? But for the few small feathers showing among the shrub’s upper leaves, she would have been tempted to believe she hadn’t.
Everything had seemed so lovely: then death struck and was gone. The other birds were nowhere to be seen. How long would it be before they dared come back? She needed them out there. Something else occurred to her: it could have been the kitten. If it had been out on the grass, would the hawk have taken it? She glanced at the travel case. It’s not safe for you out there. Not yet, at least.
A few chirrups from outside. The sparrows were back! For some reason the sight of them filled her with intense relief. Life continued as, of course, it had to do. One let out a fresh burst of sound and Laura realised what she should have been searching for on the computer. Swiftly, she typed out two words: canary song.
A host of sites came up and she skimmed the text for one that mentioned audio files. The most promising-looking site was American, written by a breeder. The introduction described how canaries were first brought by Spanish sailors to Europe. Monks bred them, selling the males who became sought after for their exquisite singing. Popular song canaries were Spanish Timbrado, Malinois and American Singer.
A highlighted phrase further down jumped out. Canary in a coal mine – a person or thing that provides early warning of an impending crisis.
At the side of the screen was a menu. Her mouth felt dry as she clicked on the audio file for Spanish Timbrado. A small inner box opened with a time counter in the corner. The clip was twenty-six seconds long. She moved the cursor over the play button but didn’t click on it. What if this song is the same? What if it’s the one I’ve been hearing? What would that mean? The thought made her feel slightly sick. But she had to know. She clicked play.
Three seconds of silence ticked by. She was beginning to wonder if the
machine’s volume was turned down when, without warning, a sudden burst of notes filled the kitchen. Her vision immediately blurred. It was precisely what she’d been hearing. There was no difference, none whatsoever. She tried to blink back tears. The song billowed out, such incredible joy carried within it. She was crying. But they weren’t tears of happiness. How can I be hearing canary song?
The clip came to an end and, silently, she continued to weep. Did it mean she was getting ill again? She didn’t want to get ill again. She thought that part of her life was past. She didn’t want to hear things. She didn’t want to start seeing things again, either: water as milk, abandoned soft toys, lumps in the duvet concealing a slumbering baby. Do I want a baby? I don’t, do I?
The kitten shifted in its case. Laura’s head turned. Did I get it because some part of me – buried deep inside – still craves motherhood? Am I being guided by emotions I can’t even feel? She screwed her eyes shut and wiped at her runny nose. What I’ve been hearing is canary song. I’ve heard it several times. And I heard it before knowing canaries were even bred here. How can that be?
She brought up Tamsin’s email and typed a reply almost before she knew what she was doing.
I don’t know what’s happening. I can hear things and I don’t know if they are real. I’m so very scared.
Chapter 18
By the time Owen’s car pulled up outside she was confident she looked normal. Cooling gel had reduced the puffiness around her eyes and a few carefully applied touches of liner concealed any redness. She’d tied her hair up, but with several strands hanging down to distract attention away from her face.
She checked her emails again: nothing back from Tamsin. As the front door opened, she closed the laptop. When he walked into the kitchen she had a smile ready. A pasta bake was in the oven and it smelled good. He looked like someone who’d just given blood; pale and unsteady.
‘What a day –’ his eyes settled on the kitten’s travel case, its basket and litter tray.
‘I bought a kitten,’ she announced cheerily. ‘It’s the sweetest –’
‘A kitten.’
The comment was flat. Dead. It was not even a question.
‘Yes, there was a notice in the post-office window. Free to a good home. I couldn’t resist.’
‘Free?’ He dumped his leather satchel on the side. ‘So they won’t charge to take it back?’
The comment was so harsh, she didn’t reply.
He looked at her with an ugly frown. ‘What did you expect me to say?’ He spread his palms. ‘You decide to get a cat. Just like that. No discussion, nothing. Do I want a cat? You know I don’t like the things. Never have.’ He glanced dismissively at the travel case.
A flush of irritation rose about her ears. ‘You’re never here. It’s just me, on my own, day after day. I got her for some company.’
He stared at her, but she refused to look away. He couldn’t deny it. He slumped into a chair, turned his head and regarded the empty basket. ‘But the concert is only three days off. I’ll be around so much more after that.’
‘It’s not just company. This cottage: it needs livening up. An injection of...’ She tested the air with her fingertips, ‘...I don’t know. Energy.’
‘Flowers didn’t do the trick?’
She looked briefly at the bouquet of lilies. Waxy white petals were just beginning to force apart their green casing. She thought of the ones upstairs, stalks blackening, flower buds dead.
He thrust his feet out. ‘OK. I take your point.’
His expression had softened and so hers did, too. ‘Really?’
He nodded. ‘Who’s the homemaker here? Certainly not me. If you think that’s what it takes...’ He regarded the basket once more.
His sudden acquiescence surprised her. Did that mean he felt it, too? The cottage’s coldness?
‘Where is it, anyway?’
‘She seems to prefer the travel case. She’s in there.’
He leaned forward in his chair and tried to look inside. ‘Nervous, is it?’
‘Just getting used to her new surroundings.’
Earlier, she’d put a bottle of red on the table. He held it above the two glasses. ‘Would you like one?’
‘Please.’ She got off the bar stool and reached for the oven gloves. ‘Are you hungry?’
‘Not massively.’ He raised his glass toward the travel case. ‘Cheers. You’re not the only one suffering from nerves around here.’
Rehearsals still going badly then, she thought. If he hasn’t resolved the issue with the choir, he’s cutting it fine. She decided against asking for details. ‘It was a child’s skeleton, up near the church.’
He took a moment to answer. ‘The archaeological dig?’
‘Yes.’ She placed a couple of spoonfuls of food on his plate. Cherry tomatoes and lumps of chorizo added colour to the pasta. ‘They’re all very excited.’
‘I should think so. You went back, then?’
‘I just popped across. The police were there – like you said.’ She put the plate in front of him.
‘This looks nice.’ He used his fork like a plough, digging it in and turning the food over. ‘Laura, I can understand if you’re lonely. But soon, we’ll have more time together.’
She took her wine and retreated to the breakfast bar, knowing he had more to say.
‘What I mean is, you don’t need to be getting involved with a bunch of old archaeologists and a trendy vicar. I know it’s on your doorstep as such, but –’
‘They’re not old.’
‘Aren’t they? I had assumed they were retired – they’re up there each day.’
‘Why does being retired make them old? They’re not geriatric.’
‘I didn’t mean…are any of them your age?’
Are you my age? She wanted to say it. Because they’re the same bloody age as you! He looked at her and she saw a hint of discomfort in his eyes. Had he guessed what I was thinking?
‘Why don’t you come into Manchester with me tomorrow? Have a day out; there’s the Art Gallery on Whitworth Street. Pre-Raphaelite paintings. All the museums. You could catch the tram out to Salford Quays and look around the Lowry. There’s probably an afternoon performance on in the theatre there.’
She imagined herself in Manchester. It made her realise how isolated she’d become. He’s right, she thought. I should push out; explore. Not linger here on my own.
‘Especially with that stuff yesterday – you deserve a day out after that scare.’
She thought how great it would be just to drift around, have a coffee, watch the world go by. But what about the cat? She looked over at her travel case. Would it be OK to just leave her here all day on her own?
‘It’ll be all right.’ He’d followed the direction of her gaze. ‘It’s not a dog. Cats are happy on their own.’
‘I don’t know,’ she murmured. ‘The little thing’s still so unsettled. You know, some kind of bird of prey swooped down earlier and took this little finch?’ She clicked her fingers. ‘Gone. Just like that.’
‘Where?’
‘Right outside the window. Near the bird table.’ He looked at the black panes.
‘A sparrowhawk, I should think. They’re surprisingly common round here.’
‘Would it attack a small cat?’
He shook his head. ‘Doubt it. Have a think about tomorrow. There’s this great restaurant up the road from the college. Middle Eastern – really fresh ingredients. I’ll treat you to lunch.’
She gave him a half-smile. ‘I’ll think about it. I spoke to a chimney sweep, by the way. About clearing any birds’ nests blocking that chimney in the lounge.’
‘Can he come round?’
‘Yes. But not until Monday.’
‘Monday?’ His voice had taken on a distant quality. ‘The concert will be over by then.’
‘You won’t know what to do with yourself.’
‘You should ask if he can put those anti-bird cowls on.’
&n
bsp; ‘Exactly what I thought.’ She watched as he finished off his meal.
‘That was lovely, darling, thank you.’ He put his fork down. Looking inquisitively at the travel case, he reached for his wine. Then he tipped his head to the side and said in a shrill, cockney accent, ‘I wish to complain about this kitten what I purchased.’
Monty Python. She couldn’t stop the laughter erupting. It gushed out, rocking her in her seat.
Owen’s eyes were twinkling as he looked at her. ‘It’s been a while since I’ve heard one of your belly-busters.’
He’s right again, she thought. I haven’t been laughing enough. It feels so good to just laugh.
Chapter 19
As usual, Owen was immediately asleep. She envied him that ability. No matter how stressed he was, contact with a pillow sent him unconscious in seconds. Anaesthetic couldn’t work much better, she thought, settling down for a long wait.
She lay on her side and tried to clear her mind. Exactly why she chose not to tell Owen about the fact it was canary song was still unclear to her. He’s got enough on, she reasoned, with the concert. But she knew that wasn’t entirely why she kept quiet.
To tell him she’d identified the noise – and that, in the century before last, a canary breeder had lived in this house…he’d worry. Who wouldn’t? He’d see it as symptoms, she knew he would. The creeping tendrils of her illness taking hold once more.
But she didn’t feel ill. Not like before. When things got out of control before, she didn’t know that’s what was happening. Everything had been totally real; the smell of talcum powder, the sense of her baby just out of sight, sleeping in the next room. This time, a calm, rational part of her was looking on from the outside. She knew that to hear a canary singing wasn’t right. But she couldn’t change the fact she’d heard it.
She opened her eyes, thinking Tamsin might have got her email. It was tempting to go downstairs and check. Owen wouldn’t wake up: not now. It would be three in the afternoon in San Francisco by now. Tamsin was bound to have –