The Sound of My Voice

by Ron Butlin

  ‘What are we to make of this? That . . .’ Again you had to talk through another Bowen interruption.

  ‘That,’ you repeated firmly, ‘our first priority must be appearance. In short, leave the biscuit to the bakers and the rest to us. Straightforward so far?’ You looked at your two colleagues. Bowen seemed to be about to interrupt again, but didn’t. Lowestoft was looking at his hands and paying close attention to what you were saying. You proceeded.

  ‘The important thing is that . . .’

  Suddenly you wanted a drink. More than anything. Your mouth had gone dry; you swallowed but there was nothing there. On the desk stood a jug of water – it rattled against the rim of the glass when you poured. A little spilled out. But you kept talking. On the ball as ever.

  ‘The important thing,’ you repeated, raising the glass to your mouth. The three of them were watching: you sat at your desk holding the glass to your lips.

  If only you could have opened the window for longer – it seemed to be getting even hotter. There was sweat on your brow, on your palms. You took a small sip – then another – slowly, gently. They would have to wait for you. You tried to swallow. There was water in your mouth now, but your throat wouldn’t engage. You could feel a small trickle beginning to run down at the side. Carefully you reached to wipe it away with the back of your hand – your free hand. You put down the glass. Then, having finally managed to swallow, you wiped your lips again and repeated into yourself: ‘The important thing is,’ – a silent rehearsal before continuing aloud: ‘The important thing is to keep in mind what Turner once said to us: “We must never forget that we are selling biscuits.” Remember?’ You paused, then glanced at each of your audience in turn before proceeding: ‘Biscuits, note – not colours, typeface and the rest.’

  More water.

  ‘No one’s arguing with that,’ Bowen said abruptly.

  ‘I think what Morris is trying to get at is . . .’

  Lowestoft looked at you questioningly.

  You motioned slightly with your hand to stop him – you could explain yourself quite well enough. You were speaking clearly now, and with confidence.

  ‘We are divided into separate parts,’ you continued. ‘Design. Sales. Promotion. Research. And so forth. Each more or less autonomous, and yet with one aim in common: to sell biscuits. Majestic biscuits.’

  ‘Come on, Morris,’ Bowen began.

  Another drink of water.

  ‘But,’ you looked at him, ‘but that is simply not the case at all, is it? We forget we’re selling biscuits. We hardly ever see a biscuit, do we? Any of us. Do you eat Majestics at home? No, and neither do I—’

  ‘Morris,’ interrupted Bowen firmly. ‘You carried yesterday’s meeting. Well done. And because of that I’m a very busy man today, a very busy man. I’ve got a great deal of work to redo. I haven’t time to sit here and be lectured at. If you’ve got something to say then say it.’

  ‘And that’s just the point,’ you explained eagerly, sitting forward in your seat. ‘That is just the point. All we’re interested in is who will carry the meeting. Am I going to win? Is he going to win? A whole lot of separate departments fighting with each other when we should be on the same side. We are on the same side.’

  ‘I’m off.’ Bowen stood up.

  ‘Listen, Larry. I’m not getting at you—’

  ‘You’re not getting at anything, Morris. And I’ve got a lot of work to do. Bye, Dan.’ He left.

  Lowestoft then said something to Katherine; she also got up and left. There were just the two of you now.

  ‘What I want to—’ you began, but Lowestoft interrupted.

  ‘It’s not that I disagree with you, Morris. You’ve got a point there. A good point, in fact. But considering the circumstances, hardly one to call a meeting for. You really put him through it yesterday – and he took it. He saw the sense of what you had to say and let you overrule him. Not many would have been so reasonable.’

  ‘It’s exactly what—’

  ‘Let me finish, Morris,’ Lowestoft continued. ‘That was yesterday. This is different.’

  More water.

  But there was none in the glass.

  You needed to open the window. You needed more water. You needed to stand up and open the window for some fresh air. You needed to pour more water into the glass. Lowestoft was still talking. You stood up, slid the window open again.

  The lorry had driven away from the loading bay, and the men were now enjoying a rest before the next one appeared. Suddenly, as you watched them, you remembered the foreman telling you they called it ‘a full house’ when the exact number of boxes on the trolleys had filled a lorry. The trolleys opposite were all empty. You wanted to turn and interrupt Lowestoft’s flow of well-intentioned platitudes with the phrase ‘A full house’, then point out of the window. All he would have seen, of course, was a few men leaning against trolleys, but in reality you knew the whole scene was charged with greater significance: A full house. You wanted to explain this to him, to let him know something about the real workers at Majestic’s, to open his eyes a bit. You knew what was going on, you were still in touch with the real world. The foreman was called Stan – and on the days when you drove to the office you usually gave him a wave as you parked the car. Though it was many years since you had spent that first week there, he remembered you all right.

  You sat down. Lowestoft was still talking, and you still wanted a drink. But not water this time – unless it was aqua vitae. And some Schubert. Or possibly something less romantic – a Haydn symphony? No, you decided you would rather have something clear, light and sunny: the Dvorak wind serenade. Dvorak and Courvoisier. What syllables! Dvorak and Courvoisier.

  ‘Well, Morris?’ Lowestoft had concluded at last.

  ‘Fine, fine – I’m fine,’ you replied.

  He was looking at you closely.

  ‘Everything’s fine, Dan,’ you reassured him. Then you said more slowly, ‘Really, no problem,’ and met his gaze.

  It was time to stand up, you realised. Time to shake hands and show him the door.

  ‘Morris, I think you should go home,’ he urged.

  He got to his feet – now you only had to steer him in the right direction.

  Lowestoft continued: ‘You’ve been overdoing it a bit recently. Why not take—?’

  ‘I’m fine. A good meeting yesterday, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Well, then? I’m fine, I tell you. I’ve enough work and enough energy to keep me going until—’

  ‘That’s not the point, Morris.’

  You started walking towards the door, knowing he would follow.

  ‘I’m fine, Dan. Believe me.’

  A moment’s pause. Then a serious and sincere look.

  ‘Thanks for your concern,’ you added. Thanks and goodbye. Almost there.

  ‘Okay, Morris, okay. If you feel that – But remember, if you need—’

  ‘Sure.’

  A handshake, and he was in the corridor.

  ‘I’ll look after myself. Don’t worry about me – concentrate on the biscuits!’

  ‘Goodbye, Morris.’

  ‘Bye, Dan,’ giving him a see-you-again-soon smile.

  You closed the door. Time for the immaculate and invisible ocean. For Dvorak and Courvoisier. You could sit and watch the men load the next lorry while drinking to a full house.

  A full bottle for a full house.

  The lights were on in the loading bay and Dvorak was done. Long done. You were going to be home late. Not yet, however. You weren’t home yet. But you would be – when you were. When you were – then you would be. Late. Not as in dead but as in dead-drunk. Dead-drunk, late sober. That’s what you would be: not late and drunk, but late sober.

  Would Mary have understood that? She understands everything else. But understanding’s not enough, is it? (Though she doesn’t understand that.) Nor love either. Nothing is enough – that’s all. All and nothing. When one drink is too
much the rest are never enough. Never.

  No longer a full bottle either. Nor full marks. You remembered: in some exams at school you’d start off with full marks, with twenty points, and each time you made a mistake you lost a mark. You were given twenty points and the chance to lose them twenty times over. That’s what it felt like: twenty points when you were born – and in no time at all they marked you down to next to nothing. Like themselves.

  These days you’ve forgotten you ever had anything more, and expect nothing better.

  But sometimes, especially when you’re drunk, you remember what it was like to have full marks, and to lose them. Then, instead of remaining at near-zero as usual, you hammer straight through into the negatives. Hard drinking is hard work, but you keep at it. Practice makes imperfect. That evening as you sat in your office with Dvorak and Courvoisier you must have reached minus twenty. At least. You could feel the sense of loss as never before. You seemed to be going further and further away – but from what? You had no idea; only that the more you drank, the harder, the more painful it became; and that the distance seemed to measure the grief you felt. But – grief about what? Again you had no idea. It hurt, though. Terribly. And so—

  Coat. Closing the office door and out through the open-plan, the lift, the plate-glass doors, the drive and the main gate.

  The off-licence just in case. Just a case, you nearly said to the man, almost laughing aloud. Then down the narrow lane towards the station without touching the path, but holding the brick wall steady on the one side and the metal railing on the other.

  The platform. The train empty enough to toast absent friends.

  Then home. The light on in the bedroom. Unlock the door and up a flight of stairs that buckled from side to side in the summer evening heat. Towards a door smeared with colour sliding over and over: that familiar TV screen, the horizontal hold gone.

  The ceiling slowly starting to carousel.

  Mary?

  She was already in bed.

  ‘Are you all right, Morris?’ she asked.

  Of course you were all right. A kiss would prove that heaven and hell were in the same place, you tried to tell her. You kissed her. Then talked about love for ten minutes, holding her so tightly the bed spilled you on to the floor.

  Steadying the ground, your feet apart like standing on the centre of a see-saw. Not moving forward, but balancing the room exactly as it was. When Mary sat up, you took a step backwards to compensate, and at the same time held your hand out towards her to give her reassurance.

  ‘Sallright, Mary,’ you told her. ‘Easy does it.’

  Never had you sensed so fully the nature of balance – and the balance of nature, you said aloud – that holds everything together. An inattentive gesture or remark could have brought down the whole building, or, at the very least, cracked the walls from side to side. Never had you had so much confidence in your ability to hold all this together: as if you had reached out and were touching everything in the world at once.

  You stood utterly still; in the distance a train whistled.

  ‘Even that,’ you said to her, ‘even that is part of what I feel for you.’

  ‘Morris?’ she began.

  But you wanted to explain how everyone started life with twenty points – and now that you had reached minus twenty, only the minus sign was keeping you from full marks. If you could erase the minus sign, you told her, you would have full marks once again. It was so simple, so very simple, you insisted.

  ‘Come to bed,’ she urged.

  She was being understanding. All at once you felt that sense of loss, that terrible grief returning.

  Mary folded back the sheet.

  ‘Please, Morris, come to bed.’

  Finally you undressed and got in beside her. For a few moments you lay quite still. She would probably expect you to put your arm around her, so you did. But she didn’t move.

  ‘Do you want the light off?’ she asked.

  More understanding.

  You didn’t answer. Instead, you slipped the shoulder-strap of her nightdress down, you began to brush the skin lightly with the tips of your fingers: backwards and forwards, while pressing yourself against her.

  ‘You feel nice.’ You kissed her cheek. Her hair tickled your face slightly – and when you turned away the room turned slowly with you.

  Sliding her nightdress lower at the front, you began to stroke her breasts. You were feeling very drunk. Then to kiss them. You grew more excited every moment, and imagined being inside her, thrusting as hard as possible. You licked each nipple in turn, then slid your hand down her body in a long slow caress.

  Still she didn’t move. You paused, keeping your hand where it was. Was she angry? Bored? You had no idea. You were unsure about going any further, yet unwilling to stop completely and turn over. You tried to see the expression on her face, but were afraid to meet her eyes. You held your breath; then several moments later her legs parted, and you relaxed.

  You began pressing yourself even closer to her, your fingers moving inside her.

  ‘Is it good?’ you whispered.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered. Her breathing had become louder.

  A moment later she grasped your prick – but despite the desire that filled you, it was quite soft. You could feel her stroking it, pulling it, drawing back the foreskin – trying to coax some life into it. She kissed you, she was encouraging you – doing her best to help you.

  Your excitement began to give way to panic. You tried to picture other situations, other women. With her hand on your prick, on its limpness, its uselessness, you imagined her saying, ‘Jelly, it’s jelly.’ But she hadn’t; she was still kissing you, and seemed to be dandling your prick like a baby’s finger. ‘Don’t let it go,’ you thought to yourself, ‘or you mightn’t be able to find it again,’ you almost laughed aloud. You continued caressing her breasts and stroking inside her as though trying to rediscover your desire somewhere in her body. You knew that whatever you said or did was of no real importance, however, for everything had come down to the simple fact that you could not get hard. Nor even pretend to. In your desperation you felt each caress she gave as a punishment for not responding.

  Then all at once you realised you had begun to stiffen. She continued rubbing your prick.

  ‘Mary . . .’ you said. She was hurting you.

  ‘Yes – yes,’ she urged.

  She was rubbing it from the tip down to the base, pulling roughly.

  ‘Yes, Morris, yes – that’s good.’

  Your prick was quite erect now, but immediately she’d spoken you could sense it faltering.

  ‘No,’ you protested, ‘don’t . . .’

  ‘Don’t what?’

  ‘Don’t – don’t praise me,’ you managed to say.

  ‘What do you mean, Morris?’ Momentarily her hand stopped.

  No more understanding. You didn’t want that. It felt like theft. By being understanding she robbed you of what you really were. Already your prick had begun to slacken.

  ‘Mary,’ you whispered. ‘Take me as I am – just as I am.’

  No understanding, you told her, no hoping – nothing, just you. The drunkness, the fear, the cowardice.

  ‘No, Morris, no,’ she interrupted. ‘You’re not like that. No.’

  But you couldn’t stop now. You were confessing to the pain. As you spoke you felt as if, piece by piece, you were being relieved of a great burden, the need to pretend to her – and to yourself. There was a sense of overwhelming release, the possibility of rest.

  ‘No, no,’ she insisted. ‘You’re not like that – you mustn’t believe it. I know that’s not true. You’re good, Morris, you really are.’

  She continued caressing you, kissing you, holding you close – her voice soothing, comforting.

  But you longed for her to dig her nails into your skin – making you draw breath at the sudden pain – to let the poison out, the self-disgust.

  She was trying to calm you, stroking your hair
, saying it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered so long as you loved her and she loved you – that was the most important thing, she said. She kept repeating the word ‘love’ over and over again.

  If only she could have clawed her way into you, reached to the suffering deep inside, to touch it, to accept. Only that pain could have affirmed what you were then – not her words and caresses, her love without action.

  ‘Mary,’ you began, ‘it’s not just love – that’s at the beginning, the easy part. It’s the rest as well, the—’

  But all at once you knew you were going to be sick. Violently you wrenched yourself out of her grasp and turned just in time, spraying vomit on to the edge of the blankets and the floor.

  For several moments you hung over the edge of the bed.

  A basin appeared.

  ‘I got that for the carpet, not for you,’ Mary stated, then left the room, slamming the door behind her.

  You remained staring down into the basin, into the mess of colours, breathing in the stink and being sick until there was no more sick to come. Afterwards you lay back on the bed, exhausted.

  She might at least have switched off the light on her way out, you thought to yourself, but didn’t laugh. Instead you pulled the sheet up to cover your face, closed your eyes and hoped you’d soon pass out. You wanted to cry, but couldn’t. Not alone.

  9

  Next morning was beautiful. No hangover. A gift. You woke a few minutes before the alarm clock, so with a pat on the head you sent it back to sleep. Then, lying wonderfully at peace, you let sunlight flood into the room to colour everything naturally – even the extravagance of Mary’s Japanese dressing gown. She, also, was still asleep, but a pat on the head would have woken her, so, gently, ever so gently, you raised yourself up from the pillows and eased yourself out from under the blankets. Inch at a time, gradually modulating horizontal into vertical. Then you saw the basin.

  A clean basin stood at the side of the bed. You couldn’t remember putting it there. You looked at it again. The usual basin. At least you hadn’t been sick: it was still clean. You couldn’t remember much after coming home, except that it was late and Mary was already in bed. You’d been at endless meetings to rethink the new wrapper, followed by some desk-work. Hardly a memorable evening. You must have felt sick though – and brought the basin on your way from the kitchen. Luckily you hadn’t needed it. You felt fine now. A false alarm. No need to false-alarm Mary, however, so you decided you would take the basin with you when you went downstairs.