The Sound of My Voice

by Ron Butlin

  You begin very, very gently to stroke Katherine’s hair. She does not pull away. When you hear the sound of a lorry starting up, you let the stroking of her hair become briefly the caressing of her cheek. Then almost immediately you step back a little from her and place both your hands on her shoulders. You smile now – not joyfully, but rather as one friend might smile to another.

  ‘All right?’ you ask softly. Affectionately.

  She smiles back, rather shyly at first, but then with more confidence. You want to kiss her now, but know it is too soon. Instead you draw her towards you, and, though hardly touching her, brush her forehead with your lips.

  You slide your arm around her back to give a tender, deeply-felt hug. She does not pull away – and you know you can relax.

  It is after three o’clock – time when you usually partake of the immaculate and invisible ocean. Some brandy and Bach, you’d planned on earlier; but instead you are sitting, staring straight ahead at that part of the wall where the productivity charts hang. From outside you can hear the lorries and the shouts of the men. But you do not turn your chair as usual to face the window and look up into the sky, into the clear waters. Are you aware of how anxious, how frightened you are?

  Katherine believed you. You held her in your arms until she believed every word you said. A success. Another one. Since she left the room, however, you have been staring straight ahead and holding on to the noise coming from outside. With all your strength. As though your life depended upon it.

  As you listen you keep trying to imagine the loading bay, the lorries, the car park, and the other buildings outside – trying to picture them in your mind, to fix them there. To be certain of them. You close your eyes, concentrating harder and harder.

  Unable to relax even for one second, you check off each familiar detail: the car park, the loading bay, the trolleys, the large wooden doors, the slate roof, the colour of the sky, the white clouds. But whenever you reach the colour white you stop and have to begin all over again. Everything must be included, and in the correct order, or – or what? You have no idea.

  You begin again: the car park, the loading bay, the trolleys, the large wooden doors . . .

  Suddenly you have got up from your chair and gone out of the room, passing Katherine’s desk – but she is not there. Then straight through the typing pool. No one pays any attention as you walk down the aisle between two rows of clattering machines, bent heads; then past the potted plants, the coat-hooks, and out into the corridor.

  The lift is on the ground floor, and so you press the call-button. You wait for a few seconds and again press the call-button. A few seconds later you have gone further down the corridor and taken the stairs.

  Three flights to the bottom, two steps at a time, then along another corridor with two waiting areas: curtains, easy chairs, low tables and magazines. Through the large glass doors and outside.

  Fresh air. A deep breath. Briefly you stand on the steps. One of the two men who pass greets you, but you pay no attention. The glass door shuts after him. You remain on the step, staring at the cars lined up in the car park.

  You walk in the direction of the loading bay. There are two lorries parked, and several men wearing overalls. The sun is shining – one of the men is stripped to the waist, he is very tanned. The men are shouting at each other. You approach them. Reggae music comes from a radio propped against one of the posts. You are about ten feet away when the youngest, a youth with his hair cropped very short, notices you. He looks aggressive.

  There are no steps leading up to the loading bay – you remember that they are at the side. It feels as though you are walking on the bed of a shallow harbour between large lorry-ships, looking up at the men standing on the quayside.

  Crop-head calls out ‘Stan!’ then nods in your direction.

  An older man carrying papers and a clipboard comes round from the back of one of the lorries. You recognise him as the foreman from that first week; he stands at the edge of the quayside and looks down at you.

  ‘Problem, is there?’ he asks.

  No friendly greeting – doesn’t he know you?

  You don’t reply soon enough, and, as it seems possible that you might not have heard what he said, he turns to crop-head: ‘Turn it off, Barry.’

  The radio is switched off. Silence.

  You remain standing still, glancing first at the older man, then at the others who by now have all approached the edge of the quay.

  ‘Is there something needing done?’ Stan asks politely. ‘We’re almost through with the loading.’

  Still, however, you don’t answer. Your arms are at your sides, your hands clenched. You are breathing heavily. Stan has given you an encouraging look: he is trying to find out what you want.

  ‘If there’s anything . . . ?’ he prompts again.

  Your right hand clenches tighter. You are about to take a step towards the quayside, but don’t. You remain silent.

  Suddenly the crop-headed youth laughs. The older men have begun to grin at each other. Stan glares fiercely at crop-head.

  ‘You!’ you call out suddenly, pointing at the youth. Your arm is trembling. ‘You!’ you repeat loudly. ‘What do you know about—?’ then stop uncertainly. ‘About—? About . . . ?’ But you are unable to finish the sentence.

  Crop-head stops laughing instantly, and looks over to the foreman.

  ‘Don’t – don’t you dare laugh,’ you continue, shouting – and take two steps towards him. You are very angry.

  ‘Don’t you dare,’ you repeat at the top of your voice. Your arm is shaking, but you manage to keep it pointing at the boy – emphasising each word with your finger: ‘Don’t. You. Dare. Laugh.’

  For a moment no one moves. You keep your arm outstretched. Then abruptly you let it drop, turn, and walk away.

  A few seconds later you can hear the boy saying: ‘I didn’t mean anything, Stan, honest. I didn’t.’ But you are walking quickly and do not hear the foreman’s reply.

  Halfway across the car park you look up at the main office building for a few minutes, trying to work out which is your window. A car has to sound its horn to get you to move out of the way. Then you continue. You go through the glass doors, take the lift the three floors to your office, where you turn the executive swivel round to face the ocean, reach into the drawer for a three-quarters full bottle of brandy, and put on the headphones. Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis.

  The descending solo violin introduction to the Benedictus was filling everything inside you. A stroll in the evening air after dinner, you thought to yourself. Yes, Mary might well suggest a stroll in the evening air. Not too far; to the park and back again. A matter of fifteen minutes at the most, after which you would return home to spend the rest of the evening quietly together. Conversation, listening to music, reading, TV or whatever.

  The Benedictus was growing louder. There was the taste of brandy, its reassurance; and then the creak of your executive chair-back as you heaved yourself laboriously to your feet.

  A fifteen-minute stroll, a breath of fresh air, a look at the night sky before—

  At the last minute you have steadied yourself against a small shelf beside the filing cabinet.

  You pause for a moment, but the shelf is giving way under your weight.

  There is the sensation of falling.

  You grasp at the books and files on the small shelf, and then at the papers stacked there.

  You grasp at the top of the metal cabinet, then the metal handles, then the soft blue carpet you are lying on now.

  Falling into a silence that presses down harder and harder. That reaches into you: your eyes that can’t stay open, your mouth’s saliva.

  Silence. Tape hiss. Time to go home. A refreshing siesta and now it’s time to go home, to replace the cassette, the books, the files and papers. A tidy-up at the end of the day. Four forty-five. Time to recatalogue the brandy and the glass. A glance out the window, straighten the tie and dust off the suit. To go home. To Mary.
The accusations are at her mother’s this evening. Just the two of you. All this evening.

  A surprise dinner then. Cooked by yourself. All your own work. You, and a couple of Corbieres to set it off. Or else a Beaujolais, perhaps.

  Coat, open-plan, goodbye, the lift, potted plants and low tables, the plate-glass door, the main gate, the lane, the station.

  Where the colour white flutters briefly as the train comes in.

  Six stops. The walk. The off-licence, the butcher, baker, veg, the front door, the key and in.

  The biscuit-day done, you’ve come home thinking what the hell. Dinner. But first things first: pick a toe-tapping Haydn quartet, chambré the wine, sharpen the veg knife to an Opus 33. Mary will be home soon – so move into overdrive.

  You’re well into the largo and reaching down for the mixed herbs when suddenly it begins to snow. Just a few flakes. You stand up straight again, stretch out your hand, and sure enough a few crystals lie there briefly. You taste them. Snow. The real thing. Melting on your palm.

  The rondo is just finishing when the doorbell rings. The doorbell rings again. It is Mary.

  ‘The key was in the lock,’ she states.

  You tell her she is looking very lovely, especially with her hair brushed back so differently. ‘Hairdresser?’ you ask.

  ‘You left the key in the lock,’ she insists.

  ‘A surprise. A dinner-surprise,’ you announce. And smile.

  ‘But—?’ She’s puzzled.

  You smile: ‘We don’t need explanations, but wine.’

  You give her a glass.

  ‘And music.’

  You turn over the record and drink to surprises. Then to dinner-surprises.

  You take her glass and place it on the sideboard.

  Your left hand in her right you lead the dance into a brisk allegro.

  She turns down the gas. She wants to help? Fine. As you wish to slip into something more comfortable you suggest she has another drink and stirs a pot or two.

  You won’t be long. You smile.

  Up the stairs three at a time. A quick burst of the Mass in B minor – the Gloria – to get yourself ready. Then it’s off with the day-clothes and into the en-suite for a shave and splash. And to finish – on with cologne and the informal evening wear.

  But first you turn up Bach to sing along.

  With the biscuits behind you it’s good to come home. The accusations gone, Mary downstairs, the dinner on – and Bach. You are filled with the sensations of soap, heat, steel, plastic, pastel colours, strip-lighting and your own reflection.

  Into whatever room’s left you cram the sound of choir, soloists and orchestra.

  Enough?

  You must choose a tie; you knot it well. You fold the collar down neatly.

  You run your hand over your smooth cheek.

  You turn the Mass up. Up.

  You choose two cuff-links and—

  ‘Are you deaf?’ asks the woman beside you whose lipstick is suddenly too bright. It is Mary.

  ‘I’ve been shouting to you for ages. The phone rang and they’re waiting for you.’

  ‘Yes, it is a bit loud,’ you agree.

  You switch the volume down as you pass – and into the emptiness left by the decreasing sound you pull this girl with long black hair.

  ‘Mary . . .’ you begin.

  ‘Hurry up, they’re waiting for you – on the phone.’

  And as you turn, snow begins falling once more. No longer just a few flakes, not now – but everywhere around you the colour white.

  You stumble out of the bedroom into the hall, grasping for the banisters. It is an effort to lift and place each foot each time. An effort to feel for each separate stair as you go down, step by step, into the thickly falling snow. Into deepening silence.

  You have reached the bottom stair at last: you must rescue yourself, placing each foot each time, taking care not to walk in larger and larger circles. Your namesake, you almost laugh aloud, has already circumnavigated the Earth. You must keep forcing yourself forwards, your hands stretched out in front. If the brandy won’t come to the stranded traveller then the stranded traveller, you almost laugh aloud . . .

  10

  Seven-o-one with sunlight seeping through the curtains. A beautiful summer’s day. A radiant green lawn. Red, yellow and pink flowers.

  You shower, get dressed: underwear, socks, shirt, waistcoat, trousers, jacket and very shiny shoes.

  In the mirror: a forty-a-year man if ever there was one, and well worth your weight in biscuits. You straighten your tie, smooth down your hair and leave, closing the door behind you. Halfway down the stairs you stop and go back to open the bedroom door a little. You will be calling Mary to breakfast in a very short time – so, no need to strain the vocal cords.

  Down the stairs again, across the hall and into the kitchen. Locatelli and a very quick Courvoisier to keep the morning mud at bay. Water on for tea, bread under the grill. A glimpse of the outside world. A breath of fresh air. Then back into the kitchen for Courvoisier number two. Next: the plates, the cups, the saucers, the spoons and bowls. A Rossini overture. Make the tea and butter the toast. A last Courvoisier, then call the family down. What timing! Masterful as always.

  An hour later you’ve driven Mary to the station, the accusations to school and yourself to work. To the office and the lovely Katherine.

  A quick glance round: the multicoloured charts, Courvoisier, the calendar, Mondrian, your desk. Time for a familiarising swivel before looking at the loading bay. The moment for feeling bad.

  The bad moment over.

  Another swivel, another Courvoisier, then flick the intercom switch. And smile.

  ‘Good morning out there!’

  An unfamiliar voice answers: ‘Good morning, Mr Magellan.’

  ‘Good morning,’ you reply automatically, then add: ‘Where’s Katherine?’

  ‘She’s off sick today, sir. I’m her replacement. Temporary. Miss Donahue.’

  The voice betrays some irritation, possibly at your abruptness.

  ‘Off sick?’ you repeat.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Miss Donahue pauses before adding with great deliberation: ‘Taken ill.’

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’ you ask.

  ‘I don’t know, sir. I’m temporary, that’s all.’

  Too embarrassed to come in, perhaps, after yesterday’s ‘romantic’ misunderstanding, you wonder. Or else . . . ?

  ‘That’s all right, Miss Donahue. Never mind. Could you come through in a few minutes, please?’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  You get up from your desk and go to look out of the window. Perhaps she’s complained. But no: there was nothing wrong. Nothing. Not really. You didn’t do anything wrong. It had been true. Everything you said to her. But it had come out all at once. You held her, told her your feelings. Your true feelings. It’s all right. She understood. She believed you.

  A Courvoisier while standing back from the window and staring at each of the vast biscuit tins in turn, reading each time the large letters:

  The Majestic Baking Co. Ltd.

  There are seven biscuit tins, eight including this one. The telephone rings: ‘Morning, Morris.’ It is Lowestoft.

  Some biscuit-banter. An arrangement to meet for lunch.

  You have begun glancing through the letters in the in-tray when Miss Donahue comes into the office.

  At once you get to your feet to welcome her, and to apologise for any sharpness in your manner over the phone.

  ‘A bit set in my ways,’ you explain with a laugh. ‘Too early in the day. The sound of an unfamiliar voice . . .’

  You complete the sentence with a vague gesture and a smile.

  She relaxes. You smile at her again, and by lunchtime you have worked your way through the letters and a report, through two short meetings, three short phone calls, and four long brandies. Her name is Carol. She enjoys going to discos and lives in a flat with three other girls. At the weekends she sometimes takes
a bus into the country.

  After lunch there is another meeting, more telephone calls and more letters. Carol plays badminton one evening a week. On Tuesdays. Her boyfriend works on the oilrigs. He’s away for two weeks every four but he’s not jealous. She has an attractive smile.

  You used to think of Mozart as eighteenth-century Muzak and could never understand what all the fuss was about. He seemed charming: like a shallow stream bubbling prettily through a well-planned garden. Clear water, but only a few inches deep. Then one day you heard a modulation into G minor: clear water certainly, but so deep that you sensed you would never touch the bottom. What else could wash away the mud that is choking everything around you this afternoon?

  Your office window is wide open and yet you can hardly breathe, your body is sweating. Already you have washed your hands and face several times, but you cannot stop this clamminess from seeping out through your skin. And so – Mozart.

  You swivel round and gaze into the almost colourless blue of a summer sky. The ocean, brandy, and a sonata for violin and piano. So fine, so passionate, and yet . . .

  Already your mind is wandering. The harder you keep grasping at the music, the more elusive it becomes. The more desperately you try to concentrate, the more your efforts come between you and the sound. You try to become weightless, to let the music support you as water would. As brandy does.

  You are thinking about Mary, about Katherine – you are certain she wouldn’t complain. A change of key catches your attention. Then the recent meeting, Lowestoft. Each time you become aware that your mind is wandering and chattering, you try to silence it – and that effort, too, drowns out the music.

  Carol’s hair, her smile, the colour white fluttering in front of the driver’s window, your plan for the weekend, the certainty that Katherine will not complain, the colour white, the noise from the loading bay outside. Eventually there is only the taste of brandy set against your persistent attempt at silence.