The Sound of My Voice

by Ron Butlin

  You let the tape play right to the end, however, and comment to yourself afterwards, ‘That was good.’ The mud is still around you – but now you’ve managed to smear some of it over a Mozart sonata as well.

  A brandy-coda and you’re ready for a walk to the car park. Goodbye to the open-plan, the lift, the potted plants and low tables. The plate-glass doors, a breath of fresh air, the car park, the sea-green car with its sticky lock. Unstick it. Unlocking the seat-cover smell, the heat smell. Opening the window and switching on. First time. Anchors aweigh and, smoothly, faultlessly, sliding out of port despite an awkward kerb-nudge. Steady as she goes. Saluting the harbour master, then bearing hard to starboard into the main lane of a three-lane stretch, watching the centre lane marker buoys, the lighthouse beacons, the badly parked rocks and reef banks.

  Heading homewards: you and Boccherini with the wind behind you. The biscuit-box closed for the day. Full speed ahead: pass one, pass another; port, starboard, and round the desert island. A flotilla leeward. Let them know you’re coming: a Boccherini-beat upon the horn, some heavy headlight-Morse, and all’s clear.

  You’re through them, through the small fry heading for home. The world’s in your wake and can’t catch you up – not now, not ever. Port, starboard, and round another island – almost leaning over for that one.

  Soon be there. Flick on the signal light, hard to port, ninety degrees and ease upstream. Mind the natives. A short-cut. A short one-way – never been caught, not yet, not ever – and there’s the white cliffs of home. Children on the quayside. Step ashore, an arm round each and hornpipe to the kitchen.

  The galley and the galley-slave. A joke, honest. A sea-nymph. A mermaid.

  ‘You’re drunk.’

  One of the oceanides.

  Staggering back against the far wall in mock horror, leaning forward again: towards the tilting galley floor or else the slippery egg-yolk, oil, and a breaking baking-bowl of red, green, yellow across the chequered tiles.

  ‘You’re drunk. Watch, Morris, it’s all over—’

  ‘Mary,’ leaning towards her affectionately. Instead, her Medusa-hair and claws.

  ‘Oh, Morris, Morris.’ Repeated sound-waves hammering you against the wall. Then forward once again with feeling – but there’s a full tide forcing you back against the shore. To slide on to the sand. The restful sand. Resting there, glancing up at the distant noise, at the sound-waves crashing harmlessly far above you.

  Enter the accusations wanting to hornpipe again. You’d like to – but it’s far more pleasant on the sandy ocean-floor. Too pleasant to rise.

  A sea-shanty instead. You’re clapping the off-beat: Hearts of Oak, Arethusa, full blast. Tom and Elise singing and jigging in time while the Medusa looks on. Doesn’t she like music?

  Up on your feet to catch the beat, and faster. Keep clapping then tapping it out on pot lids, on sideboards. Young Tom’s arm – round and round, Elise – a twirl, now Tom again. Catch the beat and keep it; hammer it on cookers, on fridges, on hands and knees to check the chequered tiles are black-stroke-white from wall to wall, keeping perfect time: a through-bass to dance upon.

  Which is fine except for looking up afterwards. Raise your eyes and your stomach rises. Swallow hard. Look down. Keep looking down. The black-stroke-white bending this way and that, arching backwards then forwards as the smell of onion-smear on the cutting board, the heat, the cooking-fat heaviness . . .

  ‘Daddy’s being sick.’

  You’ve reached the sink at least. Head above the brandy-sick, the wine-sick. Again.

  Rest. Listening to the hall clock strike six.

  Hold on to the stainless steel rim. Hold tight. The metal feels cool against your forehead. Rest there. Rest – from the journey, the thirty-four-year journey to reach this one moment’s peace.

  ‘Morris – Morris!’ The anger, the exhaustion in her voice. The pressure of her hand on your shoulder.

  There is no need to say anything. Not yet. Mary is standing far beyond the sense of coolness, of rest. There is no need to go to her, not yet. When you are ready you can reply, but for the moment draw this peace out from the metal and take it as deep into you as you can, let it flood into you.

  Her hand has pulled away. ‘What the hell do you mean by—? And the kids . . . and—?’

  You can feel her voice drawing on other moments, poison-moments. You are tensing and gripping the rim tighter. Can’t she see that you—?

  As though every moment you’ve ever lived . . .

  Holding tightly on to the sink, as on to the whole kitchen, the house, the surface of the Earth itself . . .

  As though letting go the stainless steel would be letting go your only grasp upon the world. Can’t she see that everything depends upon . . . ?

  Suddenly she’s turned and walked out of the kitchen, taking Tom and Elise with her. You cannot go after her, nor go away. Every moment you have ever lived . . .

  As though, even now, you are still standing outside the lounge door, terrified to enter the room your father is in, and yet unable to tear yourself away.

  Instead: remain here for as long as you wish, letting the metal’s coolness soothe you. Then, when you are ready, splash some water on your face – it feels good. Refreshing. Take a drink of cold water to rinse out your mouth. Slowly, slowly. There’s no rush. Now dry your face.

  Mary has gone, but no doubt she will be back in a short time with her patience, pity and understanding. Probably she will smile and reach for your hand – so be ready to take it, and to return the affectionate squeeze she will give. Meanwhile, run the taps for a few seconds to clear the sink – no damage done, in fact you’re beginning to feel better already. Take a deep breath – she will be back at any moment.

  It must have been raining earlier in the night, for when you open the window the room is filled with the scent of wet grass. You have been standing here for several minutes staring out into the darkness. The downstairs clock has just struck three. Do you realise how tightly you are gripping the wooden casement?

  In four hours the rest of the family will be getting up. You will be with them: taking your place at breakfast, passing the toast and marmalade, pouring the tea, giving everyone your morning greeting and smile. You will know what to do then. But for the moment, however, there are only the darkness, the wooden casement, and the scent of wet grass – will that be enough until you are sitting at the kitchen table?

  Once, when you were very young, you were playing on the floor of the living room when someone passed outside. You looked up.

  ‘Is that me out there?’ you asked your mother.

  ‘What a silly question!’ she replied, laughing. Then she picked you up and kissed you.

  ‘A silly, silly question,’ she repeated between more kisses and tickles. She leant towards you and then away with each kiss, with each repetition of ‘silly, silly question’.

  Over her shoulder, when she leant backwards, you could see the silhouette at the window. A man’s. You were holding on to her dress. She was making you laugh; the more you laughed the more she tickled and kissed you. ‘Silly, silly boy,’ she was saying as you kept trying to ask: ‘Is that me?’ but couldn’t because of laughing. When the figure vanished, presumably to continue his walk along the street, you felt as if a part had been torn from inside you.

  But the tickling and the kissing continued – forcing more laughter. You stretched out your hands to where the figure had been – and, in doing so, let go your mother’s dress and almost fell from her arms. You sensed her fear instantly.

  What do you feel now as you stand by the window holding desperately on to whatever’s nearest to hand, staring straight ahead in terror? As though the texture of the wooden sill and the scent of the wet grass were parts of yourself already slipping from your grasp?

  Until a moment ago you could hear the faint noise of traffic on the main road, a goods train clanking in the distance, a window being slammed shut further down the street—

  Abruptly t
here is complete silence.

  You have nothing to hold on to any more, not even your fear.

  ‘What could you possibly know about love?’ your father once demanded. Afterwards you longed to pull all the world’s darkness into yourself to hide the unbearable shame he had thrust there. That was many years ago – yet now, as you stand alone at the window, you sense that same darkness, like mud, spreading everywhere around and inside you. Soon it will overwhelm you. Listen:

  Yesterday you witnessed a stranger’s death and felt it to be your own, in part. Tonight you stand here terrified that wherever you look you will see only yourself staring back.

  You have reached a moment quiet enough to hear the sound of my voice: so now, as you stare out into the darkness, accept the comfort it can give you – and the love. The love.

  11

  The alarm clock – has stopped ringing. Lie still. Relax for a few moments before getting up. Let the sunlight colour in the room – that’s its job, not yours. Relax. Kiss Mary. Say: good morning, Mary. And smile. This is the first day.

  Getting dressed now. Talking with Mary: the day ahead, the weekend ahead. Another kiss – and already she’s closed her eyes. If you want to, pause for several seconds to look at her. She is falling asleep again. Even in that short time she has fallen deeper into herself than you have ever gone, or ever imagined going.

  Say her name, touching the back of her hand gently to waken her. Remind her it is time to get up.

  You are trembling – listen to the sound of my voice. It is time to wash and go downstairs; to prepare the breakfast. To stand for a moment at the back door looking out across the lawn – the darkness, remember? The trembling will pass. Trust me. The ocean reaches from here to the far horizon – the present moment. No need to drink it dry. No need for anything.

  Except for breakfast; for conversation and Clementi. No need for Courvoisier. If you’re trembling – stir the tea and save energy! Trust me – it will pass. Every time it happens, it will pass. This is the first day.

  A glance at the clock. A kiss and goodbye.

  The walk to the station. I am with you. It is all right. Everything is. A day at the office, then home again. I will be with you. Trust me. The platform, where the colour white flutters in front of the train to slow it down, then tangles in the wheels to bring it to a dead stop.

  It’s over. Perhaps you will imagine this every time you stand here. But don’t worry – it’s all over. That will not happen to you. Trust me.

  You are sitting in the carriage. It is crowded. There is a newspaper on your lap. It is hot in here, stifling. Although the windows are open you can hardly breathe. The carriage is already full, but more people clamber in at each stop. The distance between stops is getting longer. The people next to you press closer; those standing near you stand closer. You can feel the heat from them, the sweat, the mud. You stare at the page in front of you but cannot read.

  More and people clamber in, pressing and jostling. You can smell them, taste them almost. You want to get to your feet and denounce them. For what? For the mud you see caking the sides of their eyes, the mud dried up in the corners of their mouths, the mud in the lines of their hands, under their nails, smeared under their clothes; the mud seeping out from their armpits and crotches. You are breathing mud.

  As the train approaches each station, you think: ‘This time I will get out,’ but you remain in the corner, unable to rise from your seat; unable to say aloud, ‘Excuse me, excuse me,’ as you press your way through to the door. You will have to touch them, their heat, their body-slime. You will have to place your hand on their arms, on their shoulders; you will feel their mud-breath in your face as they turn to let you pass.

  The train is slowing down now. Your stop. With the paper still in your hand you have stood up.

  ‘Excuse me, excuse me,’ you say. You are halfway between your seat and the door. Take your time – only a few feet to go. Not far.

  ‘Excuse me, excuse me.’ In a moment you will be in the fresh air: another step, then turn the handle – and out.

  Is the train starting again? You can feel it shuddering into movement. You have grasped the door handle.

  ‘Wait, wait!’ you cry out as you throw open the door and stumble on to the platform – almost falling over. The train is quite stationary. Other passengers are still getting out of the carriages. The platform is crowded. You struggle to one side, to stand clear of the rush, and breathe deeply.

  And more deeply.

  This is the first day. One moment at a time. Stand still for one moment. Quietly. Quietly enough to hear the sound of my voice once more. You lost touch with me in the carriage when the mud began seeping in. In your panic you thrust me into the background as far as you could. Now the mud is rising inside you.

  Gently, Morris. You cannot keep it down. Not by yourself. Gently, gently.

  Go past the barrier and out of the station – one step at a time – across the car park and then the road. One step at a time. One moment, one step.

  Trust me. The narrow lane leading to the main gate. I am with you. The mud is rising into your chest, choking you. It’s all over the path, and you can hardly keep your feet any more as you slide from side to side, colliding with the metal railing, then with the wall.

  But you must keep going. One step. Then grasp at the railing and hold on to it. Rest for a moment to gather your strength, letting the mud settle where it belongs – on the ocean floor, not here. Letting the colours of the grass, the flowers, the bricks and paving-stones return, and the path steady itself until even the slightest sunlight is held perfectly in place. Feel how delicately this moment is poised. Then, when you are ready, we’ll go together into the next. Trust me.

  Leave the railing and hold instead on to the sound of my voice. Listen: one step at a time.

  One step towards the main gate. One step, another. One-step, two-step, another. Good.

  Good. One moment, two, three, four – this is the first day. The main gate, the drive, the plate-glass doors, the lift, the open-plan, ‘Good morning, good morning’.

  Your office.

  Pause, then: briefcase on the floor, coat on its peg. Pick up the briefcase to place it on the desk. Crossing the floor slowly. Then sit down. Relax.

  Swivel and relax. For several moments. Your desk. The files Jan–Mar, April–June, the multicoloured graphs, the Mondrian. Relax.

  Stand up. The window. The sky. For several moments stand and look at the sky. The ocean. The loading bay. For several moments. Good moments, bad moments.

  Gently, Morris.

  Gently. One Courvoisier – and the mud would settle where it belongs. You could open the filing cabinet: one glass and one bottle for one drink. One drink to clear the mud.

  But for you, one is no longer a number. For you, there cannot be one drink – just drink itself. From now on every day is the first day, and the first drink will be the final one. Trust me: flip the intercom instead.

  ‘When you’re ready, Carol.’

  ‘Right away, sir.’

  A glance outside at the clear blue sky.

  Carol enters. She smiles at you.

  ‘Lovely day today,’ she remarks as she sits down.

  You agree.

  ‘Letters first?’ she asks.

  ‘Let us first what?’ you enquire with a smile. Playful. A good moment.

  She raises her eyebrows questioningly and then laughs. She has a sense of humour.

  While you are in the middle of dictating a letter on projected sales trends you get up and walk over to the window. There are two lorries at the loading bay; you can see the foreman talking to crop-head. This is the first day. You continue speaking and Carol continues writing. There is a pause as you consider what to say next.

  12

  Saturday has barged into the room with shouting and whooping from Tom and Elise:

  ‘Happy birthday, happy birthday!’

  This is the second day – and still the first.

  T
hirty-five today, hooray. Halfway already.

  Kisses, cards and presents. The whole family smiling and teasing. Breakfast in bed. Affection. You’re trembling – it’s with excitement, you tell them. Shaking and grinning – with excitement. But they must go in a minute to let you get dressed, you add. Hold on to my voice until they’ve gone.

  Thirty-five years past – and thirty-five to come. And so – up, wash and brush your teeth. Hold on to the sound of my voice until the shaking, the trembling goes. It will. This is the second day – tomorrow you’ll be rising from the dead!

  Downstairs for the birthday celebrations.

  A picnic. Surprise. A birthday surprise. Jokes, laughter and confusion. You have to get ready. Jacket and walking boots.

  Ready?

  You drive, they say.

  Mary smiles and you smile back.

  Birthday-boy behind the wheel.

  Jokes, laughter and confusion.

  Tom and Elise in the back seat waving bye-bye to the house, then to the garden, the gate, the street, the city. You’re taking them for a day in the country, for a picnic. A family outing.

  Out on the open road. Then the motorway. Trembling inside. You’ll soon have to stop, you tell them. For petrol, an oil check. The lanes on either side crisscross inside you – you can feel them cutting deep. Lacerating every sense and nerve to get to the sound of my voice – to silence me. You know Courvoisier would straighten them. A single glass. Trembling. You’ll have to stop soon, you tell them. Gripping the wheel tighter. This is the second day – and still the first. From now on every day will be the first. The trembling will pass; the crisscross lanes will straighten by themselves. Trust me. Pull in for a few moments – for petrol and an oil check.

  Back on the road, then a side road. A few miles. A parking place, then stop.

  Begin the walk. A few steps. You’re walking on the ocean now, letting it support you. Courage, Morris!

  You’ve left the Thermos. Back to the car. Alone. Trembling. Listen to the sound of my voice. The second day, the twelfth hour. Every day, every hour is the first. But you are not alone now, nor will be again. The sun is colouring in the trees, the grass, the sky, the car you are leaning against. All that colour is flooding into you, its warmth saturating you – how could you possibly believe you are alone when you are part of all this? Pay attention, Morris – pay attention! The trembling has already passed – and you didn’t even notice. Let’s get the Thermos and get walking!