The Orphan Choir (18 page)

That will mean taking Joseph back to Cambridge twice during the hoildays.
No. No. I’m not doing it
.

‘It’s because the chaplain’s retiring. It’s kind of like a leaving thing for him. Anyway – in view of the Christmas Eve rehearsal and Christmas Day service, I don’t think there’s much point in our coming back here in between, is there?’

‘Yes, there is,’ I say quietly. I want to be emphatic but I can’t get my voice to carry. ‘I’m not going back to Cambridge twice. Neither is Joseph.’

‘Don’t be silly, Lou. All right, if you want to come back in between, we can. I suppose it’s only an hour and a quarter’s drive, isn’t it? Some people do that twice a day to get to work and back. We can drive back here on the evening of the twenty-first, then back to Cambridge again on Christmas Eve morning. Okay?’

I nod and say nothing, keen for Stuart to leave so that I can allow myself to cry. I’d have liked to stand firm and say no to this extra Choral Evensong – that I’m sure we have never been told about before,
that I suspect Dr Freeman of hastily scheduling with the sole aim of destroying my composure and my plans – but I don’t want to be unreasonable. Stuart backed down from his initial suggestion that we stay in Cambridge from 21 December until Christmas Day; as soon as he saw how much I hated the idea, he withdrew his proposal. I need to prove that I’m willing to compromise too.

When he finally gets into the car and drives away, I say to myself, ‘Right, it’s safe to cry now,’ and find that I’m unable to. I go inside, close and lock the glass doors and sit down on the sofa. I will remain calm, I promise myself, and deal with this sudden feeling of doom in a rational way. I am not Louise Beeston of 17 Weldon Road any more; I am Louise Beeston of The Boundary, Topping Lake, Swallowfield Estate. I must act and think differently, just as I have furnished my home here differently.

I look around me at the brand new chairs and sofas: all contemporary, bright colours, all bought in one go from Heal’s in London and delivered last Friday. No one who saw this room and my lounge in Cambridge would believe that the two might belong to the same family. The furniture in our Weldon Road house is old and shabby, some of it antique, much of it fairly battered from having been dragged by me and Stuart from house to house over the years.

But I’m at Swallowfield now, I remind myself, which means I must be capable of thinking brand new thoughts. I have been up until this point, and I must force myself to continue, since I was doing so well. I have all the natural light I need, fresh air instead of builders’ dust, peace and quiet …

Telling myself all this makes me feel a little calmer.

Nothing has really changed. It’s only one extra trip to Cambridge, and won’t even involve an overnight stay. It won’t make any difference. It’s the idea of Dr Freeman being able to reach into our Swallowfield life and pluck us out of it at will that has disturbed me, and I’ve already thought of a solution to that: I will have a word with him at the beginning of next term and tell him that he’s not to contact us when we’re at Swallowfield – ever. This is our retreat; he must learn to respect that.

I stand, take a deep breath and make my way across The Boundary’s huge open-plan living space towards the kitchen. I am starting to feel hungry, which means that Joseph is bound to be. He could be back any second, demanding the lunch he was so dismissive about half an hour ago.

The kitchen component of our living area is relatively small, but it doesn’t matter because the room itself is so vast. I can watch the action on the lake as I prepare food, and there is always some action
to watch, whether it’s birds hovering, swans gliding, or simply patterns made by light on the gunmetal-grey skin of the water. I can hardly take my eyes off it for long enough to chop a vegetable.

I open the cutlery drawer to pull out my favourite knife. That’s when I hear it.

Boys.

Singing.

O come, O come, Emmanuel,

And ransom captive Israel,

That mourns in lonely exile here

Until the Son of God appear.

Rejoice! Rejoice!

Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.

O come, thou Wisdom from on high,

Who orderest all things mightily;

To us the path of knowledge show,

And teach us in her ways to go.

Rejoice! Rejoice!

Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel …

No boys in sight. These are the same voices I heard in Cambridge. This is the same choir. I don’t know how I know this, but I do.

O come, thou Rod of Jesse, free

Thine own from Satan’s tyranny;

From depths of hell thy people save,

And give them victory over the grave.

Rejoice! Rejoice!

Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel …

I shut my eyes. No point looking out of any window for what I know I won’t see.

O come, thou Dayspring, come and cheer

Our spirits by thine advent here;

Disperse the gloomy clouds of night,

And death’s dark shadows put to flight.

Rejoice! Rejoice!

Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel …

I put the knife back in the drawer and close it. Go back to the sofa. Sit very still, waiting for Stuart to come home.

Stuart closes the lounge door behind him. Leans against it. ‘Right,’ he says. ‘I took him up a sandwich and a drink, and I’ve started him on FIFA on the Xbox. We should be safe for a while.’

What he means is that Joseph will be safer in a part of the house that doesn’t contain his crazy mother. He’s right. I don’t remember Stuart making a sandwich, and yet I must have been here when he did it. I can see the bread, butter and cheese still out on the countertop, the smeared knife. I haven’t moved since Stuart got home.

I don’t feel safe. I did until recently – here; only here at Swallowfield, not in Cambridge – but I can’t remember the feeling. And so, although I have an idea about what I need to do in order to recreate it, I don’t believe it will work. It is hard to imagine myself being able to tap into any kind of calm, ever again.

‘Lou—’

‘Before you start on me … I know it wasn’t real.’

Stuart’s eyes dart from left to right. Is he looking for clues? A prompt? He wasn’t expecting me to say that. He thought he would have to convince me. Now he sees that he doesn’t, he has no idea what to say next.

I tell him what he was about to tell me, because I want it to be out there, explicit: the only possible truth. ‘Justin Clay’s miles away, in Cambridge. Even assuming he could get past the security and break into Swallowfield, there’s no way he’d go to all that effort. He might hate me, but not that much.’

‘I doubt he does.’ Stuart moves away from the
door, perches on the edge of the sofa. ‘Hate’s too strong a word. Minor irritation’s probably more like it, assuming you feature in his thoughts at all. It’s over from his point of view. He’ll have turned his attention back to making money and getting pissed and stoned. You blasted him with loud music, showed him you were his equal, and he caved. What did he say? “Point taken”?’

‘“Point made and taken.”’

‘There you go, then.’

I nod. ‘Pat Jervis was right. Apart from the “Best of the Classics” CD that one time, he’s only ever played pop music. In his basement. Never played choral music, never anything through the bedroom wall. He doesn’t have any CDs of boys’ choirs singing. That was all …’ I break off. ‘It
felt
real, so real, but … it can’t have been. I see that it wasn’t, now. It was all in my head.’

Stuart looks uncomfortable. He’s probably wondering whether and when to agree; not too readily, given that he claimed to be able to hear the boys’ voices too. He always made sure to say that it was barely audible, he could only just hear it. I understand why. It was his idea of a compromise: supporting me a little bit, while at the same time being fair to Mr Fahrenheit by insisting that the non-existent choral music couldn’t be said to constitute a noise nuisance.

It was the opposite of what I needed. He should have given me a shake and said, ‘Louise, there is no music playing. None. You’re imagining it.’ If he’d done that, I might have pulled myself together sooner.

‘You never heard it, did you? The choral music.’

‘Not really.’

‘Not at all.’ It’s important that we be precise.

Stuart shakes his head. ‘Sorry. I only lied because I … well, I believed you. At first – until the stuff about Fahrenheit starting off loud and then turning down the volume at the exact moment you woke up – that’s when I started to wonder if it might be some kind of paranoid delusion. Before that, I just assumed you could hear it and I couldn’t. You’re more sensitive to noise than I am.’

‘So because you thought I was right and you were wrong, you pretended to hear what I heard?’

‘It was the middle of the night, Lou! Every time you asked me! I didn’t want to argue, I just wanted to go back to sleep.’

He thinks I’m angry with him. How can he imagine that this is what I want to discuss: his dishonesty, his level of culpability? I don’t care that he let me down again. I don’t care if every single word that comes out of his mouth is a lie; that’s his problem. My only concern at the moment is for my own sanity. If I’m mad, I can’t look after my son,
and that’s all that matters to me: Joseph is the only thing that counts.

‘I’ve thought about it and it all makes sense,’ I tell Stuart. ‘I was fine at Swallowfield, absolutely fine, until you told me Dr Freeman had phoned. That’s why I heard the boys’ choir again. It’s a reaction to stress. It must be – some kind of weird … psychosomatic aural hallucination.’

Stuart is nodding. ‘I’ve thought so for a long time,’ he says.

Thanks for being too gutless to mention it.

‘I’m glad you can acknowledge it. There’s no shame in it, Lou.’

‘I’m not ashamed.’
I’m frightened
.

‘Stress can do strange things to a person. And, look, now that you’re aware it’s not real, it’ll probably stop happening anyway.’

‘No, it won’t. Not unless I make some changes.’
I’m scared you won’t let me. You have to let me
.

Stuart says, ‘You’ve taken the most important step already – admitting it’s an illusion. It can’t have any power over you once you’ve seen through it.’

‘Can you stop spouting vague platitudes?’ I snap. ‘It’ll happen for as long as there are things in my life that I can’t live with. I need to eliminate those things.’

Stuart frowns. ‘I don’t get it,’ he says. ‘Didn’t we just agree that Mr Fahrenheit—’

‘This isn’t about Mr Fahrenheit. It’s about Dr Freeman.’

‘Dr Freeman? What’s he got to do with anything?’

I stare down at the floor, thinking that I shouldn’t have to spell it out; it should be obvious. And whatever Stuart thinks or wants, or used to think or want, he should be willing to do whatever it takes to make me feel better again. If I can see that I can’t go on like this for much longer, why can’t he?

I’ve never felt more alone in my life.

‘Oh, God.’ Stuart sighs; it goes on for a long time. I hear no concern for my welfare in the sound he makes. ‘Lou, please don’t say what I think you’re going to say.’

The stinging sensation beneath my eyes has returned: just a prickle at the moment – barely noticeable, threatening worse.

‘I want to take Joseph out of Saviour,’ I say. ‘Out of the school and out of the choir.’

‘No. No way.’

‘There’s a reason why I’m hallucinating choral music, Stuart.’

‘You said it yourself – you were stressed about Mr Fahrenheit!’

‘Yes, but not only about him. And this music I’m hearing that isn’t real – it’s not Queen, is it? It’s not “Don’t Stop Me Now”. It’s boys. Boys in a choir,
singing the kind of thing Joseph might sing at Saviour –
has
sung.’

‘That doesn’t mean—’

‘Yes, it does!’ Inside me, a dam bursts; desperation gushes out, filling me to the brim. ‘What else could it mean? What do you think made me hear a boys’ choir again today, if not your news about Dr Freeman’s call, his plan to snatch Joseph away for this extra Choral Evensong? It’s completely bloody obvious what it means that I keep hallucinating the voices of boys I can’t see, and feel as if I’m being tortured – it means I
hate
not having Joseph at home! I can’t bear it! And if I don’t get him back, if I don’t take him out of that school, I’ll lose my mind! That’s what it means!’

‘Louise, can you please get a grip?’ says Stuart. ‘Shouting’s not going to do anyone any good.’

He’s wrong; I feel better for having expressed myself without any element of calculation for once – with no fear of the effect my words might have. ‘If you don’t want a wife who’s a wreck, you’ll let me take Joseph out of Saviour,’ I say quietly, to prove to Stuart that my tone is irrelevant; however I deliver the message, he won’t accept it. ‘If you want me to go back to work, and be able to cook meals and pay bills and drive the car … if you care about me
at all
, you’ll agree. Please, Stuart!’

‘This isn’t fair, Lou. You said Joseph could stay at Saviour. You admitted he was thriving there—’

‘I’m not thriving.’ I cut him off. ‘Joseph needs a mother who can function. If only in the school holidays,’ I can’t resist adding snidely.