Sing Me To Sleep

by Chris Simms

  ‘Hello?’ she tentatively called.

  A youngish man – early thirties perhaps – with a head of thick brown hair stepped out. He was wearing a fitted jacket, jeans and brown leather shoes. As he looked at her with inquisitive eyes, he pointed to the mobile phone held to his ear. ‘That sounds splendid, Marjorie. Lovely. Yes. Absolutely. No, no – I think you’re right. Yes. OK, I really must – yes? No I agree. Marjorie? I –’ He rolled his eyes at her.

  She tried to suppress a smile: it was just like when her mum used to ring at an awkward time. No amount of polite hints could get her off the phone, either.

  ‘Splendid. That’s wonderful. See you then, Marjorie. OK. Thanks. Bye, then. Goodbye.’ The hand holding the phone to his face lowered and she spotted his dog collar.

  ‘Sorry about that; one of my older parishioners. She does like a chat.’

  She couldn’t think what to say: there were a whole load of reasons why she didn’t think he was the vicar. Age, good looks and nice dress sense, for a start.

  ‘Martin Flowers.’ He was holding out his hand and smiling. Nice teeth, too.

  ‘Sorry.’ She lifted her own hand and felt it grasped briefly. A firm grip, warm, smooth skin against hers. ‘Laura Wilkinson.’

  He glanced to the side. ‘Are you helping with the dig?’

  ‘The dig? No...is that what’s going on?’ She pointed a finger behind her. ‘I can see them in the field from my kitchen. We’ve just moved in…’

  He looked over her shoulder. ‘To Lantern Cottage? So you’re the new owners.’

  ‘Yes.’ She turned round and there, clearly visible on the hillside across the valley, was her new home. The sun was shining through scudding cloud; large blotches flowing soundlessly across the landscape. As one swept the cottage, the smile fell from her lips.

  She could see a dark figure up on the roof. He stood, stiff and sentinel-like, staring in her direction. Staring, she felt certain, at her. She turned to the vicar, confused and alarmed.

  He caught her eye. ‘Is something…?’

  She pointed her finger and looked back to the cottage. The cloud shadow had moved on and now the solitary building was bathed in bright sunlight. The figure had been replaced by the chimney. She frowned. ‘How odd.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The chimney – it looked just like a man up there on our roof. I thought we were being burgled.’

  He laughed gently. ‘Trick of the light, as they say. Such a pretty little place.’

  She checked the chimney again. The slightly flared upper part and rounded pot on the top had formed – for a second – the head and shoulders of a person. Funny, she mused, how I was so sure it was a man. ‘Yes it is,’ she murmured.

  From this distance, she was able to see the farmland rising up behind the cottage. She realised she didn’t even know who owned it. After a few hundred metres the carpet of rough fields stopped. As if an ancient farmer, confronted by the increasingly steep slopes, had swung his plough round and thought: enough. Any further is futile.

  The moor beyond was raw and untamed. Its surface had been divided up, true. But the dry-stone walls seemed little more than a network of thin lines scarring it. Interconnecting welts. Beneath them, the land’s solid bulk continued to dip and swell, buckling in places to rocky ridges. Above these high points, a few dark birds floated. They gazed silently down on the brooding terrain.

  ‘I’d been planning on dropping by and introducing myself,’ Martin said.

  She looked back at him. ‘Oh – that’s very kind. It seems a lovely area. I feel very lucky.’

  ‘Isn’t it? I only took over here a couple of months ago, but I’ve been made to feel incredibly welcome. Where have you moved from?’

  ‘Richmond – we lived in a place on the edge of the park.’

  There was a knowing smile on his face as he started slowly along the path round the church. ‘I grew up near Dulwich.’

  ‘Really?’ she asked, falling in beside him. She found his relaxed manner calming; a welcome contrast to her husband’s current tense state. ‘So what brought you to this part of the world?’

  ‘I was a student in Manchester. Here is just great.’ He nodded at the city’s massed buildings on the flat land laid out before them. ‘Manchester twenty minutes in that direction, the heart of the Peak District twenty minutes in the other. Perfect.’

  She found herself nodding. ‘It is nice, though the weather is a bit different from down south.’

  He laughed. ‘You mean wetter? Well, that’s true. So, the Archaeological Society has caught your interest?’

  They rounded the corner of the church. Visible in the field beyond the graveyard wall was a line of poles linked by fluttering white tape. Inside the perimeter, the grass had been mown short. Sections of the turf had been peeled back. Revealed beneath were swathes of rich soil. This, in turn, had been dug away in places. About a dozen people were gathered in one shallow trench, some kneeling, others lying on their sides.

  She just stopped herself from saying that things seemed all quiet on the Western front. ‘What are they doing?’

  ‘It’s an iron age hill fort. Aerial photographs revealed its presence in the summer: apparently rays of the setting sun caught on what was left of the foundations.’

  ‘That’s fascinating. What have they found so far?’

  He spoke out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Not much actually. Much to their annoyance. A few fragments of pots. One bit of metal which might be the tip of an arrowhead. I think they were hoping for something more dramatic. You know, King Offa’s last stand against the Romans or similar.’

  She giggled. ‘King Offa? You’re about a millennium out.’

  He clicked a finger in mock frustration. ‘Bloody hell, you had to be a historian.’

  Laughter was rising up and she tried to keep it down. What emerged was a throaty chuckle. She stole a glance in his direction. He wasn’t like any vicar she’d ever met.

  Suddenly, his hand went up. ‘Adrian? You have a visitor.’

  She looked back at the field. A stocky man in combat trousers and an orange cagoule was making his way over.

  ‘This is Adrian Moore – head honcho on the project. Adrian – Laura Wilkinson. She’s just moved into Lantern Cottage.’

  His eyes shifted momentarily to the side, but he avoided looking fully in the direction of her home. Then he leaned his forearms on the top of the graveyard wall and interlinked his fingers. ‘Lantern Cottage? We’ve seen the builders coming and going these past few weeks.’

  ‘Yes.’ The breeze had grown stronger and she smoothed a stray strand of hair, suddenly conscious that looking across the valley was a two way thing. We’d been a source of interest, she realised, before even moving in. ‘There were a fair amount of things that needed to be fixed.’

  ‘Well, it had been empty for some time.’

  She thought of the previous occupants; from what the estate agent had said, they were an older couple who had moved out when the cottage’s remote location had become a problem. ‘I’m just glad we found it before anyone else snapped it up. It’s so cosy and quiet.’

  He breathed in deeply through his nose. ‘Rain’s on the way.’ He turned his back on us and lifted his chin. ‘Thought so. Coming in off the Irish Sea.’

  Had he, she thought, smelled it on the wind? She looked across the Cheshire Plain: he was right. Moving inland from the west was an ominous band of grey cloud. Veil-like ribbons hung motionless below it.

  ‘Better get packing up.’ He ambled away, leaving her feeling like she had somehow offended him.

  ‘Man of few words,’ Martin quietly said. ‘A lot of the older men around here are. We could pop into the church hall.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she replied, watching Adrian’s retreating form. Was that really the reason he had suddenly walked away? ‘Are you sure you’re not too busy ...’

  ‘Only putting the kettle on for that lot,’ Martin replied. ‘Come on – you can even see that prize arro
whead.’

  There was a hint of sarcasm in his voice and she couldn’t help smiling. ‘Well, now you’ve mentioned that, how could I refuse?’

  Chapter 5

  ‘Your husband is, I gather, very respected in the world of classical music.’

  She stopped blowing into her mug of tea and looked up. ‘He is.’

  ‘A few older members of my congregation – they remember him being the church organist here,’ he explained. ‘One or two even remember him as a choirboy.’

  ‘I’m still getting used to the change from living in London. It’s so much more anonymous down there.’

  ‘True. But also rather lonely, don’t you think?’

  She met his eyes, wondering if it was a subtle reference to her past. She hoped the time when she’d become ill wasn’t common knowledge, too.

  ‘Big cities,’ he added breezily. ‘The sense of community can struggle to survive.’

  It was the first time he’d actually sounded like a vicar. ‘Yes,’ she responded, deciding his earlier comment had been an innocent one. ‘I couldn’t have named anyone on our street in Richmond other than our immediate neighbours.’

  On the wall in front of her was a row of three noticeboards, each one covered by photographs of the excavation. Pins in the pictures had been connected by lines of coloured thread to little squares of paper. Inner Rampart. External ditch. Six post holes. Raised platform. Area of vitrified stones.

  In a small glass cabinet, the various finds had been lined up. Martin was correct; not much to show so far. The rather hopeful question mark added to the label reading ‘fragment of arrowhead’ made the meagre display seem even sadder.

  ‘So, everyone knows all about Owen Wilkinson,’ Martin said, now perched on the edge of a table. ‘But what about you?’

  ‘Me? Oh, I don’t know…’ She hated talking about herself.

  ‘How did you two meet?’

  ‘He was conducting the orchestra. Hair flying all over the place, arms furiously waving around.’ She smiled. ‘He was a bit younger then.’

  So you’re a musician? Let me guess – flute or violin? No, I know: harp.’

  She realised her hand had been drifting about in the air. ‘Neither – I was a ballet dancer. It was a performance of Swan Lake. But no one can be a dancer for ever. It takes a terrible toll.’

  He nodded. ‘Don’t they say dancers die twice? The first time being when they have to give up their profession.’

  Every time she heard that comment it made her feel miserable. As if she were a cat, halfway through her allotted lives. She turned back to the display cabinet. That was miserable, too. ‘I was ready. Mid-twenties. It was time. There were so many other things I wanted to do.’

  ‘And what were those?’

  She kept her face averted. Start a family, she wanted to say. Become a mother, watch my children grow up. Not be…not be a spare part. A childless appendage to a successful man’s career. ‘Just live a normal life, I suppose. Stroll on beaches. Lounge in bed. Eat ice cream.’

  ‘Escape the regime of being a dancer, then. I take it you were pretty good?’

  She spotted a collection box on the windowsill. That little girl again. To avoid answering him, she walked over, lifted it up and read the sticker. ‘Help Molly get her operation.’

  The vicar sighed. ‘We’re getting there … slowly.’

  The collection box, she noticed, was almost empty. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Molly Maystock? She lives back towards the village. Her dad is a firefighter – he enters every running race going to raise funds for her.’

  Laura recalled that the butcher hadn’t mentioned a mother either. ‘Is he a single dad?’

  Martin nodded. ‘The mum walked out when Molly was still tiny; before the diagnosis. New husband now, apparently. Lives near Edinburgh.’

  Laura shook her head. How heartless. To abandon your baby like that, how could she? She stared into the little girl’s eyes. And someone so angelic, so beautiful. Whoever the mother was, she didn’t deserve to be called that. A mother should never, ever –

  ‘It wasn’t easy for her,’ Adrian added. ‘It was before my time, but I gather she had issues about the fact she had even got pregnant in the first place.’

  Replacing the collection box, Laura looked at Martin. ‘That’s no excuse.’

  He opened his mouth then closed it. Laura realised how much venom had been in her voice. The silence began to stretch and she suddenly knew he was aware that she didn’t have children. She could see the knowledge in his eyes. He took a sip of his drink and she did the same.

  ‘So, do you continue with any ballet? You look very…’ A hand was held in her direction. He struggled to find the appropriate word.

  ‘Thank you. I do yoga and Pilates – but just at home. Before moving up here, I taught part-time at a little prep school in Richmond. That certainly kept me on my toes.’

  He leaned forward. ‘Ballet classes?’

  ‘Dance in general – simple stretches, posture-related exercises. Music and Movement, I called it.’ She could tell he was thinking about something.

  ‘There’s a respite centre near here. In a big old farm out near Rowarth. It’s all been converted and modernised. There are even a few residential units. It’s for kids with disabilities – some quite severe. Molly?’ He gestured at the collection box by her elbow. ‘She goes there some afternoons. I know they’re always looking for volunteers – especially people who can offer forms of therapy.’

  Laura looked down at her drink. The children she’d taught had all been perfect little things. Princesses-in-training; that’s how she referred to them with Owen. All of them had wealthy parents, nannies – some even chauffeurs. ‘What sort of disabilities?’ she asked uneasily. ‘I don’t have experience of…’

  ‘Oh, trained medical staff are always on hand. That wouldn’t be a worry. Some are autistic, others have medical conditions. Quite a few are in wheelchairs. One or two need walking frames. The place survives on a shoestring budget.’

  A thought jumped into her head. ‘Why don’t I talk to Owen about a fundraising event? He could come here and do an organ recital – all proceeds to the...what’s the centre called?

  Martin’s eyes were almost popping out. ‘The Skylark Trust. Would he consider doing that?’

  ‘Why not? As you said, he was the organist here once, wasn’t he? The prodigal son returns.’

  He placed his cup of tea down and raised both hands. ‘Laura – they’d be queuing out the doors for that. Really – it could raise a huge amount of money. You really think he’d consider it? It’s the sort of thing the local papers would love. Even the nationals, probably!’

  ‘Why don’t I ask him? Leave it with me,’ she said flippantly, finishing off her drink.

  ‘This is…’ He fumbled excitedly in his jacket pocket. ‘Here, take my card. It’s got my mobile and landline.’

  A silhouette of the church and, in white lettering, Martin’s details. The church even had a website address and a Facebook page.

  Through the window she could see members of the Archaeological Society climbing through a narrow gap in the graveyard wall. With their different coloured fleeces and assortment of hats, they looked like a group of retired ramblers. ‘Thanks for the tea. I’ll make a break for it before that rain blows in.’

  ‘I’ll walk you round.’

  ‘No need,’ she replied quickly. ‘Besides – that lot will be wanting their tea.’ She pointed out the window.

  Adrian Moore was out there, standing next to a furred tombstone. He was staring at her through the window with an intense look.

  Chapter 6

  Laura let the music filling her car wash over her. Hey la, day la, my boyfriend’s back. She loved these girl groups from 50s and 60s America. The Chiffons. The Shirelles. The Ronettes. Joyful lyrics she sang along to if Owen wasn’t in the car. He said the music was naive and silly; she found its innocence a delight.

  He couldn’t understan
d why she never listened to the music she once performed to. The thought of Tchaikovsky made her shudder. She’d heard it was often the same with professional sportspeople when they retired: tennis players who never lifted a racket again, swimmers who forever avoided the pool.

  Hidden inside a CD case for Diana Ross and The Supremes was Never Mind the Bollocks by the Sex Pistols. She loved that music because it simply didn’t give a shit. She smiled: if Owen knew about that, he would have been absolutely horrified.

  She let the song finish then turned the engine off. The dispiriting sound of rain on the car roof replaced it. She looked at the dark windows of Lantern Cottage and wished she had left a light on inside; it was so horrid coming home to a cold, empty house.

  Once in the kitchen, she turned the central heating on then made her way round the ground floor, flicking on lamps. In the living room she looked at the protruding bricks of the hearth and thought of the chimney jutting out of the roof above. Had it been deliberately designed to look like a figure? It had certainly fooled her earlier on.

  She peered through the little window set deep in the thick wall. Strange spiders, with bodies like grains of rice and impossibly long legs, had spun their webs in the corners of the window frame. However much she vacuumed them away, others soon appeared. The field by the church was empty and she pictured them all in the little hall. A few could be looking across right now, watching the cottage lights going on.

  Back in the kitchen she realised the phone was blinking. A message from the doctor’s surgery – an appointment had become free the very next day. The joys of a rural GP practice! How long, she wondered, would I have waited back in Richmond? She called back to confirm, then looked at the clock. 12.20. Just time for some exercise before lunch.

  The fact her first-floor studio was at the back of the cottage filled her with relief; all the window faced was empty farmland. No church, house or anything else overlooking it. Her privacy was complete.

  After changing into shorts and a baggy top and tying back her hair, she selected Taffetas on the i-Pod. As the pleasant guitar melodies began, she checked the lilies on the windowsill. Spots of black had started to break out at the bases of the large green flower buds. The flesh of the stalks also seemed to be losing their firmness. Perhaps they’d been infected with an airborne fungus, she thought, wondering if the flowers inside were still alive.