The Sound of My Voice

by Ron Butlin

  Just a glance – she’d get the message. She’d smile and put down her notepad, then come round to your side of the desk. There would be no need to say anything – she’d understand completely. Yes. Katherine. It wasn’t just sex, of course. That was no problem – you could have any of the typists you wanted. You’re the boss. They like you. Who else chats and banters with them? Gets on so well? No, it’s not sex, but affection. Real affection. That’s what you feel for her – and it’s returned. No doubt about that. No doubt at all, you decided.

  When you’d shown her the photographs of the Portugal holiday she had leant close to you, her hair almost touching the side of your cheek. She placed her hand very close to yours and pointed to one of the statues.

  ‘What’s that, Mr Magellan?’ she asked. Very interested.

  ‘A statue of one of the family,’ you replied with a laugh.

  ‘What family?’

  ‘Mine – who else?’

  ‘Yours?’

  ‘Naturally. Ferdinand Magellan, explorer extraordinaire! First man round the world and back again.’

  Katherine looked at you. She seemed puzzled for a moment, then she smiled. A delightful, hesitant smile.

  A few moments later she asked: ‘And that’s your wife, is it?’

  You nodded.

  ‘A nice hat she’s wearing,’ she commented. Then she glanced at you.

  You didn’t reply immediately but looked at her, into her eyes. That moment’s pause was your real response. She understood that your remarks about the weather, the beach, the food et cetera were just words. Everything was expressed in your silence. Katherine looked away, slightly embarrassed, but pleased. You almost kissed her then.

  Yes, you decided: a glance, a discreet touch, would be enough.

  The two men sitting opposite got to their feet and went to the door. The train was slowing down. Drunks – what did they know about it? You could see them under the table any day of the week. Bowen/Batemans the lot of them. Under the table with them, and you’d still take the biscuit at any wrapper rap. Drunk – they didn’t know the meaning of the word.

  When the train reached your station you got off and began to walk quickly home. There was nothing like a good day at the office to set you up for dinner.

  ‘He’s a fool,’ you were telling Mary.

  It was nearly eight o’clock: the roast was in the oven, the veg in the pot. The table was neatly laid: knives, forks, spoons – all shining; clean plates, glasses and serviettes. Mary was in her armchair, understanding as ever. You were in your armchair, working hard at the g-and-t and spattering mud over everything. The accusations were safely in bed.

  ‘Bowen’s a fool,’ you repeated, ‘a complete fool. He tries, I suppose, but he’s a sideways promotion – and knows it! Never stops. He’s heading for a crack-up.’

  You were telling her about the meeting, about you, about them, about who’s cracking up. You could feel the mud filling your mouth – and the more you spat out, the more there seemed to be. It was rising in you like sickness.

  If only Mary would interrupt you. If only she would say, ‘Morris, calm down,’ or, ‘I’m sure it’s not really as bad as that.’

  After six years of marriage you needed to alter, only slightly, the tone of your voice to lacerate her.

  ‘Do you agree?’ you taunted.

  She did not reply.

  You decided to wait for as long as you could before attacking her silence – like holding back when making love.

  ‘The pork must be nearly ready,’ Mary stated suddenly, and stood up.

  Everything that evening – the glass you were drinking from, the plates, even the knives and forks – seemed brittle. The dining room seemed certain to crack from side to side if you replaced your wine glass awkwardly. You drank to put yourself beyond this fragility, to reach terra firma.

  When you were a child you had a radio with a ‘magic eye’ – a green light that shone brightest when the signal was at its strongest; a little off the station and its brightness faded, as though with disappointment. That evening, with each glass of wine, you sensed your ‘magic eye’ shining brighter and brighter. Until finally the continuous interference, the mud that was all around and inside you, completely disappeared – and you could see everything exactly as it was. Then you could spy with your magic eye something beginning with—

  Mary looked at you, puzzled. You must have spoken aloud.

  ‘It was green,’ you explained.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Green. The magic eye in our radio.’

  ‘What magic eye? What are you talking about, Morris?’ she asked.

  You wanted to describe how it had shone so extraordinarily bright whenever—

  ‘Extraordinarily.’ In silence you enunciated these syllables into yourself without once faltering. But to speak them aloud – ah, your mud-mouth!

  You were standing by the sideboard; Mary was a few feet away. Elise and Tom were by the doorway. They looked half-asleep. Mary was wearing her dressing gown.

  ‘It’s all right, darlings,’ she said to the accusations, who were keeping very close together.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she repeated. ‘Daddy and I couldn’t sleep, that’s all. We’re sorry if we woke you. Let’s all go back to bed.’

  They went towards her, and she looked at you over Tom’s head. Before you could say anything, however, Elise asked: ‘Why have you got a piece of wood, Daddy?’

  You didn’t understand.

  ‘That piece of wood in your hand,’ she insisted.

  You looked down. In your right hand there was a piece of wood like a club. You were gripping it tightly.

  ‘I—’ you began, but stopped almost immediately and looked down at it again.

  ‘Because,’ Mary interrupted to cover your hesitation, ‘because we thought we heard a mouse. And you know how scared Mummy is of mice.’

  Elise giggled – then looked worried. ‘Was there one?’

  Mary managed to smile. ‘No, dear. Or, if there was, it’s gone.’

  Was that what you had been doing? Chasing mice? You were wearing your pyjamas and were in your bare feet.

  ‘Maybe it was – a burglar!’ Tom suggested in a sudden and frightening voice to his sister. Elise looked alarmed. Then he added quickly: ‘Or a ghost!’ and he raised his arms, ‘Whoo!’

  ‘Be quiet, Tom, and don’t be silly,’ Mary said sharply. ‘Whatever it was, it’s gone now – hasn’t it?’ she asked you.

  The three of them turned to you; you put down the wood on the top of the sideboard.

  ‘It’s gone,’ you agreed, ‘and it’s time everyone else was gone too – to bed! Come along. Chop-chop!’

  Having put the accusations to bed, the two of you returned to your room. Mary didn’t speak, and once you were both in bed she switched off the light. You lay for several minutes without saying anything. It must have been the middle of the night. Only then did you realise how cold you were. You reached for Mary’s hand and held it. After a moment you squeezed it, but there was no response. You could tell from her breathing, however, that she was not asleep.

  You longed to put your arm around her. Her hand felt quite lifeless in yours – but warm. You wanted to speak. You squeezed her hand again – and waited. Still there was no response. It occurred to you that this was rather like ringing a doorbell, but there was no one in. You almost laughed aloud. Should you try ringing again?

  ‘Go to sleep, Morris,’ said Mary abruptly in a clear voice.

  ‘Mary, I—’

  ‘Go to sleep. We’ll talk about it in the morning.’

  ‘About what? Mary, I want to understand what—’

  ‘You want to understand?’ she repeated scornfully.

  Then she added something, but too quietly for you to catch it.

  ‘Sorry?’ you said after a pause, ‘I didn’t quite . . .’

  ‘I said “Jesus Christ!”, Morris,’ she answered angrily. ‘Now go to sleep – and let me sleep.’ Her vo
ice was very firm.

  ‘Are you angry?’ you asked after a few seconds – and immediately wished you hadn’t.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Morris!’ Mary sat up in bed and snapped on the light. ‘Are you so drunk that—? Of course I’m angry!’ She glared at you.

  She was between you and the bed-light, and when she moved slightly the light shone directly into your eyes. It was very bright; you put your hand up to shield them. Mary backed away from you suddenly.

  ‘I’m not going to—’ You were shocked.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re going to do,’ she cried out, ‘and I don’t think you do either.’

  For several seconds the two of you sat staring at each other. She was angry and you felt bewildered. You couldn’t understand what was wrong – something had happened, but you had no idea what. However, to show that there were no hard feelings, and to demonstrate that you really did care, you placed your hand gently on her arm.

  She shook it off.

  ‘Don’t you touch me,’ she said fiercely. Then after a moment she added more calmly: ‘Let’s leave this till tomorrow. I’m very tired, Morris, very tired.’

  She didn’t smile; instead she reached to switch off the light. Before she did, you said, ‘Goodnight.’ She did not reply.

  The two of you were lying a few inches apart, in silence. That she had not said goodnight, you felt, somehow put you in the right. Your eyes were wide open and you were completely wide awake. It required an effort to resist the temptation to take her hand again. You wanted to. You knew it would make her angry – yet you still wanted to. You could anticipate her response, her snatching it away and shouting at you while you pleaded affection – which, of course, would only make things worse. You knew exactly what would happen.

  Before you could stop yourself you had said her name aloud: ‘Mary.’

  Without a word your wife got up. You watched as she put on her dressing gown and bent down for her slippers. Her silhouette moving in the darkened room, angrily. Without speaking. There was nothing you could say, not now. You heard the door close behind her.

  She had gone to sleep in the spare room. Even then you wanted to follow her, to apologise, to plead forgiveness, to make promises. Briefly you pictured yourself lying in her arms, reconciled, the two of you embracing each other lovingly – but then almost immediately you returned again to the moment of pleading, of begging.

  Having lain back down on the bed, you began going over everything that had just occurred, repeating each phrase again and again. Repeating her anger. Repeating those gestures of compromise you knew would push her to more anger.

  8

  The alarm clock kept ringing. Mary wasn’t there. You felt sick. Bright sunlight kept coming into the room. She was in the spare room. You were going to be sick. Downstairs, holding a piece of wood. Mary had gone to sleep in the spare room. If you got up immediately maybe you wouldn’t be sick. Your head hurt, and your stomach—

  Your head really hurt. A medicinal hair of the dog. The accusations had been in the front room as well. The middle of the night. And her anger. Her anger. A hair of the dog. In its kennel behind the wardrobe. But you weren’t up to whistling for it, not yet. Soon. The vertical was hard enough – keep the head down and you’d survive.

  Almost there. Good dog. Nice dog. Didn’t need to sit or beg, not for you. Didn’t need to wag its tail either. You’d do that yourself. ‘Cheers’ to the dog. To man’s best friend. Then ‘Cheers’ to yourself.

  Patting the dog once more to be on the safe side. Shower, then on with the biscuit-suit and downstairs to the kitchen.

  An empty kitchen. You decided to skip the Shreddies and Mozart that morning. No time. Work. Work. Biscuits.

  A quick note to the family: Have a good day, love and kisses – to show them everything was all right. Which it was. Another kiss to make sure, the clincher – you almost laughed aloud but managed not to. And out the door.

  An early walk, lovely morning. Luckily you brought the dog with you. A breath of fresh air. Patting the dog when no one was about. The station. Six stops. Another dog-hair before you arrived at number six. He was nearly bald by now, and so a slight detour was necessary – to call in at a friendly neighbourhood pet shop.

  Then the Majestic Main Gate, the drive, the plate-glass doors, the lift, the open-plan, the office, and a working breakfast for you and your four-legged friend. Another day, another slide through the mud.

  Katherine, letters, a report, going out every so often to the executive cloakroom to give the dog another pat – but privately. No pets allowed.

  Lunch, and back to the afternoon mud-trap.

  Katherine’s intercom voice:

  ‘Mr Lowestoft and Mr Bowen are here, sir.’

  ‘Very good, Katherine,’ you replied. ‘Show them in.’

  A social call? Should you remain seated behind the desk, or rise to the occasion? You hesitated. Before you could come to a final decision, however, your visitors had entered, greeted you, and sat down.

  ‘Dan. Larry.’ You smiled, nodding to each of them in turn. You stood up, then sat down again. A moment’s pause. Katherine came in and took her usual seat, with a writing pad on her knee. A formal meeting, it appeared. An anti-social call. Lowestoft was looking at you. Bowen was glancing round the room. Katherine was waiting for the meeting to begin. You also were waiting for the meeting to begin, waiting for them to explain why they’d come. More about the wrapper, perhaps?

  You were about to invite them to start when Lowestoft cleared his throat – and said nothing. Katherine looked up. Had she stenographed the cough? you wondered, almost laughing aloud, and the hesitant quality of the silence perhaps?

  ‘You were wanting to clarify a few points, you said,’ Bowen announced suddenly.

  You were? Then before you could reply, he continued: ‘Not that there can be much to add after yesterday. Unless you just want to rub it in. Ignore that, please,’ he added, turning to Katherine. He didn’t smile.

  Had you called the meeting? Were Bowen and Lowestoft there because you had asked them? And Katherine, to make the whole thing official? They were waiting for you. Let them. A glance at the Mondrian, then at the multicoloured graphs, at the well-ordered files running Jan–Mar; April–June; July–Sept. Blue files like the blue door. You picked up a pen and glanced at your visitors. Then at Katherine.

  ‘Are you ready?’ you asked her.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ came the reply.

  ‘Very good then,’ you nodded to her and shuffled a few papers that were to hand on your desk. You put down the pen and using both hands stacked the papers more neatly. Another glance at Lowestoft and Bowen. Then at the papers: expenditure chits.

  ‘Now,’ you addressed the two men.

  The noise of a lorry starting up outside. You glanced towards the window. It was a beautiful summer’s day. Hot. All at once it felt stifling in your office. A lorry was being loaded at the bay opposite. You imagined the men in their shirt-sleeves pushing trolleys stacked high with large boxes.

  Eight boxes is the most that can be carried in one trip. You remembered this from having spent a week in dispatch when you first joined Majestic’s. Quite a skill too – you had tried balancing the top one with your free hand, took three steps, and immediately dropped the lot. The men laughed at the junior executive, not at all unkindly, and helped you try again. You needed two helpers to reach the lorry. ‘Tacking because of high winds,’ you explained as you zig-zagged unsteadily across the loading bay with your extra crew. Everyone was laughing, you especially. You felt happy. The driver was called Bev – and while you were resting afterwards you watched him do handstands in the back of his half-empty lorry. He would hook his feet under one of the side supports, then lift himself up from the ground.

  ‘Before we begin, I’ll open the window slightly if nobody minds. It’s very hot in here,’ you announced.

  Lowestoft and Bowen looked at each other but made no comment. Katherine said nothing. You stood up and uncl
asped the snib to slide the window open. You could hear the men’s voices; there was a smell of baking and a draught of warm air. Another lorry started up, revving noisily. Too noisily. You reclosed the window immediately, then turned back to face into the room.

  The three of them – Lowestoft, Bowen and Katherine – were looking at you. Lowestoft, however, was now standing right beside you. Involuntarily you stepped back against the radiator. When had he stood up? Bowen was smoking a cigarette.

  ‘Are you feeling all right, Morris?’ Lowestoft asked.

  ‘Fine,’ you replied. Then repeated: ‘Fine. I just wanted a bit of fresh air – but there was too much CO out there!’ You laughed.

  ‘But—’ Bowen was about to speak when Lowestoft glanced at him and he stopped. You, however, noticed that at once. You were on the ball. As always.

  ‘Maybe you’d better sit down now, and we can begin,’ suggested Lowestoft.

  ‘Maybe we’d all better sit down now, and I can begin,’ you declared with emphasis. Back in control. You would show them now. These biscuit-men. Show them? You would eat them! You almost laughed aloud.

  ‘Okay, Katherine?’ you enquired.

  ‘Yes, sir, I’m ready,’ she replied.

  You were glad she was there: now she could see you in action.

  You paused briefly, then began.

  ‘Colours . . .’ you paused again for effect, then continued: ‘Colours – are they more important than biscuits? We have many elements involved here: the primary and secondary qualities of biscuits, as Locke might have called them. Locke with an “e” at the end,’ you added with a smile, turning to Katherine. ‘Colour, design, typeface, price, shape, weight and so on are all secondary qualities. The one that’s primary, the only one that’s primary in this Lockean sense, is the biscuit itself. Now . . .’ you continued, seeing that Bowen was about to interrupt with one of his sideways promotion ideas. ‘Now, only the consumer who has already tasted the biscuit knows the taste, that is, knows the real biscuit. It follows therefore that the secondary qualities alone must determine his initial choice.