by Chris Simms
Sing Me to Sleep
A ghost story
by
C. R. Simms
Prologue
The men stared at the hole in grim silence.
She turned away from the hushed group to gaze across the dull field at a finger of bright snow. It clung stubbornly to life in the shadow of a dry-stone wall. She realised, wrapping her shawl more tightly about herself, it was the last visible evidence of the brutal storm from a fortnight before.
From below their feet a disembodied voice called out. ‘OK, carry on!’
The firefighter holding the winch started turning it once more, winding in a length of rope that dropped like a plumb-line into the dark cleft.
The heads of his colleagues stayed bowed, as did those of three policemen, a man in an overcoat and a vicar. A funeral, she thought. It looks just like a funeral. But no body was being buried. The reverse, in fact.
A yellowish glow broke the blackness at their feet. She looked on impassively as the dirt-smeared head and shoulders of a man rose slowly out of the ground. In the harsh light of day, the lamp on his miner’s helmet was suddenly useless. His arms came into view. They were cradling something loosely wrapped in blue plastic sheeting.
She knew exactly what it was.
The man had now been winched high enough to get a knee on the brick-lined rim. He held the bundle out. Reluctantly, a policeman took it. Without looking at it properly, he laid it on the wiry turf and backed away.
All eyes went to the man in the overcoat. After sending an uncomfortable glance in the lone woman’s direction, he crouched down and tentatively lifted the corner. A collective jolt passed through the group and the vicar’s legs suddenly folded. He sat down in the long, cold grass and started to claw at his dog collar, only stopping when his shirt was torn open. Moaning weakly, he turned in the woman’s direction.
But she was already striding away, shawl now pulled over her head. A veil.
Chapter 1
The doctor crossed his legs and the folds in his corduroys reminded her of the undulating land surrounding her new home. ‘So, tell me about this…dream of yours.’
She hesitated before replying. Was it his tone? He just didn’t feel very doctorly. From somewhere outside his surgery came the shrill sound of a startled bird. She glanced nervously at the frosted glass before looking back at the doctor. Bushy brows formed an unbroken crest above his narrowed eyes. She felt pinned by his unblinking stare.
The window behind him glowed with late autumnal sunlight. It caught on the thick hairs protruding from his ears. Like antennae, hanging there in space. Antennae not very well attuned to more delicate thoughts and feelings, she suspected.
Her right hand lifted and fingers moved slightly as she began to speak. ‘It feels so similar to the one I used to have.’
He reached for her medical notes, causing her words to falter and stop. She thought: he surely read the top sheet before I opened his door. Any good doctor did that. So he knew the basics. The surface detail. Laura Wilkinson, thirty-nine years old, five feet eight, excellent physical health, no allergies, blood type O, a shade over nine stone.
As she’d first stepped inside, he’d half-risen from his chair, directing her to the empty seat beside his desk with a flash of palm. His eyes touched her face in a cursory sort of way. Then they’d returned for another look.
She’d often been told she was attractive – though why people said that she never could fathom. She liked her hair. Long and pale and windblown when she let it hang loose. Combing it and arranging it had always given her so much pleasure – always, ever since she was very young. But she was convinced there was too much of a gap between her eyes and she found the bones of her face harsh. When she closed her lips, she could see the swell of her teeth behind them.
Her husband, Owen, had assured her many times that her bone structure was beautiful. Sometimes, she just sensed her skull when she looked in the mirror. Lurking there. Waiting, one day, to show itself.
‘Carry on, I’m listening,’ he prompted, leafing back through the pages. There were lots. ‘Your dream...’
‘It feels so similar,’ she tentatively repeated. But eye contact had gone, and with it the feeling he was taking her words in. She persevered. ‘A tunnel. Narrow, dark, cold. Horribly cold. The same sense of abandonment, of needing warmth and comfort – but being so alone. This time though, the child – it’s too indistinct to tell if it’s male or female – isn’t lying at the end of the tunnel. And it’s not curled in a foetal position, either. It’s nearer –’
‘This previous dream. The one from six years ago?’
‘Yes.’ His head was still down as he studied the pages. She could see her previous doctor’s handwritten additions. The elegant, neat letters somehow conveyed how kind she was. Dr Ford added something in a harsh scrawl.
‘The time when you and Owen were trying to start a family?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you began to feel anxious and unhappy when that proved unproductive?’
There it was again. Unproductive. How tactless of him, she thought, considering whether to lean forward and yank one of the monstrous hairs from his ears. She wondered if he’d yelp. ‘That was all prior to the series of fertility tests I underwent.’
He looked up with a questioning expression.
‘There was nothing wrong with me, you see. That wasn’t the problem. Which means – you know – that the reason I couldn’t conceive...that was down to Owen. His sperm count.’ Introducing Owen into the equation seemed to unsettle the doctor slightly, judging from the way he shifted in his seat. He looked down at her notes once more.
Twenty-three years, she thought. The age difference between Owen and me. It had seemed so utterly irrelevant when they’d first met. Back then, the attention of an older man – and one widely tipped for greatness – had, if anything, been a thrill. Her mother had her reservations. Gentle hints about the long term which Laura – made giddy with love – had blithely swept aside
Her eyes drifted to the bright pictures on the wall above the examination couch. Images from fairytales, placed there to make younger patients feel more comfortable. Her favourite was right in the middle. Snow White. Rabbits gambolled at her feet and birds fluttered about her head. Before the witch appeared and ruined everything.
‘And when you made the decision not to have children, the dream faded away of its own accord?’ Doctor Ford asked.
Faded? Of its own accord? It was obliterated, she wanted to yell. By the drugs they pumped into me. And we didn’t make the decision not to have children. Owen decided for both of us when he refused to undergo any tests. ‘I went to see a dream therapist. My previous doctor – Helen Evans – she put me in touch with him.’
He sat back. ‘A dream therapist?’
‘Yes.’ She wondered if it was his accent that made him seem so...unfeeling. The northern gruffness.
‘Down in London, was this?’
She nodded. ‘He said the image of the curled-up child – its position in a cold, dark passage – that was my mind trying to represent not being able to get pregnant. The passage was my womb, the lack of warmth my perceived infertility –’
‘Well, I’d prefer not to conjecture on the symbolism of dreams. If you feel that you need to be referred for some counselling, I’m sure –’
‘No.’ The word came out with too much force. ‘Sorry. No. I feel fine. Happy. The whole thing about having babies doesn’t bother me any more. I mean, I’m thirty-nine. It would be silly.’
‘But this dream bothers you?’
Her fingers started to flutter once more. She saw his eyes intently tracking their movement. The psychiatrists used to do that, too. She placed her hand back in her lap. ‘Yes. It’s
similar, not the same. The figure – I’ll call it a him because I sense its male – is much nearer to...to what I can tell is the opening. The way out into the world. But his position is all awkward; the knees are apart, an elbow is jutting out. One hand is bent back behind the head. Like he’s jammed. He can’t move. It’s a horrible image.’
She heard the thin whistle of air passing up his nostrils. It must, she thought, be hairy up there, too. ‘Have you discussed this with your husband?’
She shook her head. ‘No – the dream has only started recently. The last month. Since we moved into Lantern Cottage. I’m not sure if it isn’t related to the funny noise that I’ve been –’ His eyebrows twitched and, for the briefest instant, she spotted something in his eyes.
‘What noise?’
‘It’s like a bird singing. It comes and goes. Owen hasn’t heard it yet. But I have. It’s not unpleasant – it’s too beautiful for that. But it’s started to frustrate me.’ She paused. ‘No, the fact I can’t figure out where it’s coming from has started to frustrate me. It seems to float.’ His eyes were moving about and she realised they were following her fingers. She thought: I’m motioning again. Reaching for thistledown, as Owen calls it. ‘It’s always too indistinct to pinpoint. I can’t tell if it’s in the house or not.’ She glanced at his computer terminal. ‘I had a look on the internet.’ She laughed nervously. ‘You don’t think it could be tinnitus, do you?’ The thought of developing the affliction filled her with dread. ‘Sufferers usually hear whistling, hissing or buzzing. But apparently people hear other types of noise, too.’
He picked up a pen and tapped it quickly against his notepad. She guessed it must be so frustrating to be a GP. Everyone coming to their appointment as an armchair expert.
‘You’ve just moved to rural surroundings. From the edge of London. I think you’ll find the sheer range of sounds up here overwhelming at times.’ He smiled. Patronising. ‘During the summer, the dawn chorus can get to be quite a nuisance.’
She contemplated telling him that Richmond Park also had a healthy bird population. Including wild – and very raucous – flocks of parakeets. ‘At night?’
‘Sorry?’
‘This birdsong often happens when I’m lying in bed trying to get to sleep. It’s not a nightingale, charming as it is. Not in November.’
He was silent. From the waiting area beyond his door came a cough. It seemed to rouse him and he glanced at his watch. ‘I’m very sorry, we’ve run over. You need another appointment if you want to discuss a second issue. Just book in again at the reception; when you come back I can examine your inner ear, check for infection or a build-up of wax. In the meantime, try a hot milky drink directly before bed. Perhaps a bath, too.’
She tried to hide her sense of disappointment. She hadn’t the chance to broach the other issue that was bothering her. She hadn’t had her period. It had been due within days of moving into the cottage. And her cycle had run like clockwork all her adult life. The word she dreaded nudged its way to the forefront of her mind. No, she thought, forcing it back. Not that. Too soon for that.
He gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Laura, you’re in totally new surroundings. There is bound to be a degree of feeling unsettled. Owen – he’s back on familiar ground. Maybe that’s why he can’t hear anything. How are his rehearsals going, by the way?’
‘Fine.’
‘It must be very exciting for him, to be conducting the Hallé. And in the Bridgewater Hall.’
She reflected on the reasons behind their move. With Owen’s appointment as Senior Fellow of Composition at the Royal Northern College of Music was a commissioned piece. Its performance was to form the highlight of a concert in just six days’ time. ‘He’s certainly looking forward to it,’ she replied, reaching for her shawl; the part of the appointment concerning her was clearly over.
‘Do tell him my tickets are booked. I can’t wait.’
‘I will.’ Her smile felt tight as she stood.
‘And for you? Give it a few days and see how things are. If sleeping really is a problem I could...’ He gestured at his prescription pad.
‘No,’ she said, waving a hand, astounded he was even offering her pills. It was all the proof she needed. He hadn’t read her notes properly. He hadn’t a clue what she went through six years ago.
On the way out, she paused at the rack in reception and removed a leaflet entitled The menopause.
Chapter 2
The road rose steadily, taking her away from the river the little village sat beside. She glimpsed the Cheshire Plain below her. In its middle, the massed buildings that were Manchester. It was a still afternoon and a hazy brown band wreathed the city. She wondered if its residents were aware of what they were breathing in.
Disquiet flared. Owen’s forthcoming concert meant he had become a virtual commuter since their move. His chest could get bad enough in winter without the aggravating effect of air pollution.
A terrace of cottages now obscured her view. Squat things with poky windows. Half-way along was a little row of shops, including a butcher’s run by two brothers. She pulled over and reached for the cotton shopping bag on the passenger seat. The leaflet on the menopause was next to it. She shoved it into the glove compartment, telling herself she’d read it later.
‘Afternoon, Mrs Wilkinson, enjoy this nice weather while it lasts.’
‘I am, don’t you worry,’ she smiled back, surveying the trays of meat beneath the counter.
‘What can I get you?’
She couldn’t decide. The chicken looked pale and insipid. Perhaps it wouldn’t on a warm summer’s evening, but it did now. From the rear of the shop came a heavy thud. David, she thought. The younger, more flirtatious brother. Dismembering something substantial, by the sound of it. ‘Not sure, Matthew. Maybe something dark?’
He gestured to a couple of skinny corpses hanging from the hooks behind him. ‘Some nice wild rabbit there.’
‘Oh no.’ She could feel the grimace on her face. ‘I couldn’t. Poor little things.’
He held his hands to his chest and bunched the fingers in. ‘That’s not what Mr McGregor said when he saw the state of his vegetable patch.’ His nose twitched up and down.
The reference to Beatrix Potter suddenly clicked and before she could stop it, a deep belly laugh burst out. She clapped a hand over her mouth.
David poked his head through the doorway of the backroom, a mixture of surprise and amusement on his face. ‘Was that you?’
She gave a demure nod.
He grinned. ‘I bet that gets you into trouble.’
‘What do you mean?’ she replied, knowing full well the effect her laugh could have on men.
Also smiling, Matthew looked down at the counter display. ‘How about a nice bit of venison? It’s local – from Lyme Park. Mushrooms, red wine, some roast potatoes on the side...’
She thought of the spinach Owen had recently put in. They were all big plants, several with leaves ready for harvest. ‘That sounds lovely.’
‘A pair of medallions?’
‘Please.’ He had her routine already. A month of living here, she thought, and he knows my name, where I live, and how much I’ll order. Such a far cry from London. As he wrapped her order, she noticed the collection box on the counter. On it was the face of a lovely little girl, marred by a tube coming from one nostril. Help Molly Get Her Operation, said the red lettering.
‘Who’s Molly?’ she asked, retrieving her purse.
‘Molly? Lovely little lass. Never sad, always full of sparkle. She lives not far from here. The doctors said she should be dead by now.’ He half-turned and tapped a thick knuckle against his sternum. ‘Rare kind of lung condition. Such a little fighter. But the only treatment is in America and – of course – it isn’t cheap.’
She gazed at Molly’s smiling face, amazed at how fierce the seed of life was, once it took hold. She felt her thoughts slowing, deepening. Could I still deliver a baby into the world? It wouldn’t matte
r how it turned out, my love for it would be...
‘Anything else?’
She turned to him. ‘Anything else? No. Thank you.’ She extracted a ten-pound note for him and a twenty for the collection box.
Matthew sucked air in through his lips. ‘That’s very kind, Mrs Wilkinson. Her dad will really appreciate it.’
‘It’s nothing,’ she said, taking her change and heading for the door. ‘See you soon!’
Driving up the steep and narrow lane to Lantern Cottage, she regarded the hawthorn hedge close on both sides. So thick, she thought, it trapped the lane in perpetual shadow. Its dark depths made her think of the barrier of thorns surrounding Sleeping Beauty’s castle.
Then she was out, into the rolling farmland surrounding her home. The views across the Cheshire Plain were now unbroken. Like termite mounds on the savannah, a cluster of tall pale buildings marked the centre of Manchester. Lights were starting to speckle the darkening landscape and, on the horizon’s far edge, the sun was sinking behind the purpled hills of Wales.
A few of the closest lights were by the church on top of a nearby hill. They’re still there, she thought, working away on all fours in the grass by the graveyard. Some kind of excavation was taking place and, once again, she told herself she really must pay a visit to see what was going on.
Owen’s shock of white hair stood out in the fading light as he appeared round the corner of the cottage. A mallet was swinging from one thin arm and he was not looking happy. She turned the engine off and climbed out.
‘Bloody badgers,’ he announced in her direction. ‘They’ve got in at the far corner. Menaces. The vegetable patch has been completely stripped.’
‘No,’ she replied. ‘Everything? Including the spinach?’
‘Spinach, curly kale, winter cabbage, the lot. If I had my way, we’d be allowed to bloody shoot them.’
Crestfallen, she looked down at the shopping bag containing the venison. She had the feeling there were some broad beans in the freezer.
