by Chris Simms
She went into a series of light stretches before the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. She’d had them mounted on the wall that separated the studio from their bedroom next door. Like the rest of the cottage, the wall was of a solid construction; she’d exercised in here during the evening while Owen was reading in bed and he hadn’t heard a thing.
Once warmed up, she stood in the neutral position and gauged if any part of her felt like it needed any more loosening. Her neck and shoulders. She spread her exercise mat across the floorboards and decided on a few yoga poses: svanasana, gomukhasana and the namaste.
As she worked, her mind wandered to the conversation with Martin Flowers. He seemed nice; young, positive, perhaps too eager to come across as unconstrained by traditional expectations of what a vicar should be. Joking about in his own graveyard certainly didn’t feel right.
His comment about the Skylark Trust came back. Taking a class for severely disabled kids.
She got to her feet, lifted one knee to hip level, then raised the big toe of the foot still on the floor. She lowered it slowly back down and lifted the toes next to it, keeping her big toe flat. The skin of her lower shin flexed out as the tendons and muscles beneath contracted. The novelty of exercising in bare feet still hadn’t completely worn off – so many years wearing ballet shoes. She sighed. It was no use pretending otherwise; the only reason she’d suggested Owen’s fundraising event was to deflect the vicar’s attention from herself. Severely disabled kids. What did that mean? He’d mentioned wheelchairs and walking frames. She pictured twisted spines and wasted legs. Heads that lolled, wrists curling in on themselves. Drool.
She admitted it: she didn’t think she’d be able to do it. It felt awful. If the kids’ problems were less extreme, then maybe. Like that little Molly: her disease was hidden away inside. She looked…she looked…well, normal.
She swapped legs and as she started working her other toes, looked guiltily at her reflection. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have the time to take a class. But you needed training, surely, to deal with people who were so disabled? Especially children. Or am I, she wondered, just being selfish? Not much better than Molly Maystock’s mum.
By the time the album approached its finish she’d worked her way through another dozen poses. She was breathing lightly. The endorphins released by the exercise were coursing through her, creating a sense of energy and wellbeing – along with a strong urge to eat.
After crossing over to the docking station she cut the music. But silence didn’t return. The singing was there. She stared over at the mirrors. Her reflection stared back with a frown. The singing had returned. How long had it been masked by the music? Carefully, she let the breath seep silently from her mouth. The notes were faster, more insistent. They’d never felt this clear before. Where the hell were they coming from?
On tiptoes, she moved towards the window, closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the glass. No, it was not coming from outside. She felt sure of that. She looked at herself again. Is it in my skull? She lifted her chin and gargled air at the ceiling. She shook her head, causing her ponytail to swing about. The sounds continued to hover at the far limit of her hearing. Was it coming from their bedroom?
She stepped quietly into it and looked around. Her eyes travelled along the timber beam spanning the ceiling. But now it seemed to be in the bathroom. She turned round and crossed the corridor. The tiles felt cold beneath her bare feet. Air in the pipes, maybe? She turned both sink taps on full, shut them off and listened again. Water slid down the plug hole with a slight choking sound. Silence. It had gone.
As she breathed out with relief it started again. Scratching at her scalp with both hands, she looked about. ‘Ssshhhhh! Be quiet!’
It continued for a few seconds more, slowed and stopped. But she knew it wasn’t because of anything she’d said. This is ridiculous, she thought, trotting down the stairs and opening her laptop.
Once the website for the Tinnitus Sufferers’ Association had loaded, she clicked on the tab marked Forum. 32,781 members. Over 600 people currently online. 143 of them unregistered – including herself. She looked at the discussion topics.
Advice for tinnitus newbies.
Tinnitus…a way forward.
Tinnitus in one ear.
Tinnitus and TV.
Tinnitus or not?
Corticoid injections.
Success with grommets.
She picked at her lower lip. Should I join? Should I share my experiences? She snapped the laptop shut. The noise I’ve been hearing isn’t coming from in my head. I don’t want it to be in my head. It is real. I want it to be real.
Chapter 7
The noises came back in the night; scratching sounds, the scrape of a patio pot being moved. She was awake anyway, lying on her back with one hand cupping her lower stomach. She was awake because the dream had forced her from the depths of sleep.
It had been about the curled figure once again. The knees splaying outward, one arm twisted back behind the head. She lay in bed puzzling over the image. Her viewpoint in the dream was odd. The figure seemed suspended in space, allowing her to circle about it at will, observing it from below, above, side on, in front. She couldn’t work out how gravity was affecting the figure. Was it lying on its back, with its knees raised up? Or was it on its front with the arm bent behind the head – almost like in a yoga pose?
In her other dream – the one from when she became ill – she knew that figure was lying on its side in the foetal position. And she knew it was at the end of a long tunnel. But this, newer, dream? It felt the same: cold and dark. But there was something different about the tunnel itself. It made her feel disoriented and unbalanced and, because of that, unsettled. Frightened, even.
‘I heard movement again last night. Outside.’
‘Mmm?’ Owen looked up from his breakfast. ‘Movement?’
‘Like the other night. Something poking around in the garden.’
He dipped the tip of a teaspoon into the sugar bowl and stirred a minute quantity into his coffee. ‘Did you cut back on the amount of bird feed you’re putting out?’
‘I don’t think the noises are out on the grass. It’s from nearer the house. The back patio.’
‘But badgers do that – they forage about. The bird feed could be what’s luring them in.’
She thought about this. Owen was probably right. ‘How did things go yesterday? You seemed exhausted when you got in.’
His eyebrows lowered. ‘I’m going to have to start banging heads together soon. The same issue keeps coming back.’
‘Dynamics at the end of the second movement?’
‘Dynamics at the end of the second movement,’ he raised both hands, eyes fixed on the far wall. ‘We build to the crescendo; I’ve brought everything in: all the strings, the entire brass section,’ he gestured to his right, ‘tuba, French horn, trumpet.’ He lowered his voice. ‘The bass drum is thundering. Boom da da boom da da boom! Then the cymbals, then the timpani and then,’ he pinched the air, ‘silence. Silence for an instant before I want the sopranos to come in.’ He began a high-pitched whisper. ‘So far, so far, so far to the sea.’ Dropping his hands he looked at her angrily. ‘They won’t do as I say: and now I can see them – the bloody prima donnas – looking to the blasted first violin and not me. I can see the glances going between them. Well, if he wants a battle, too, he can have one. The end of rehearsal yesterday? He put his violin away and walked out. Not a bloody word said in my direction.’ His jaw was tight as he reached for his drink.
This isn’t good, she thought. Owen needed the first violin on his side. As leader of the orchestra, the first violin’s body language alone could influence everyone else’s mood. Nothing needed to be said; just the way he lifted his bow decided how all of them performed. ‘Can’t you have a quiet word with him? Get him to explain to the sopranos exactly what you’re looking for at that point?’
‘Not if he marches out the moment rehearsals finish,’ Owen ret
orted, lifting his cup with a sulky look.
Neither said anything for a moment.
‘I drove across to Oldknow church yesterday,’ she announced. ‘To see what’s going on in the field next to it.’
‘The church? I see.’ He glanced at his watch.
‘Those people we’ve noticed are archaeologists – amateur ones. It’s an Iron Age hill fort, the site they’re excavating.’
He looked at her and blinked. ‘A hill fort?’
‘Yes, next to Oldknow church. Makes sense really, given its elevated position.’
His eyes turned to the window. ‘I haven’t been back to the church in – I don’t know how many years. I bet it hasn’t changed.’
‘Some of the congregation remember you as a choirboy, apparently.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘They do? How do you know that?’
‘I was chatting to the vicar. Youngish man called Martin Flowers. He took over the church not long ago.’
‘It’s got a lovely organ, you know. I pretty much learned to play on that organ. Before winning my place at the RNCM.’
‘I know.’
He smiled a nostalgic smile. ‘We should go up there some time.’
She brushed at an ear, deciding now would be a good time to mention it. ‘They are trying to raise money for a little girl who lives locally. She needs a particular treatment that’s only available in America.’
‘Reginald Burridge. That was the name of the vicar when I was organist. Succeeded by a fellow called Dobby. Now that is going back a bit.’
‘This little girl they’re raising money for. Molly Maystock, she’s called. The vicar and I discussed the possibility of you doing some kind of fundraising event.’
His smile vanished. ‘He what?’
‘An organ recital possibly? They could charge for tickets, all proceeds to the little girl’s medical fund.’
‘Who the bloody hell does he think he is approaching you directly like that?’
‘I suggested it, as a matter of fact.’
‘You did? Jesus Christ, Laura. You said I’d do an organ recital?’ The thread veins across his cheekbones are showing, he’s gone so pale.
‘No, I said it was possible you might consider it.’
‘I’ve got a bloody performance this Sunday evening and you’re committing me to other events?’
‘Owen, calm down. No details were discussed; it was mentioned in passing. That was all.’
He marched across to his leather satchel, muttering to himself.
As he gathered up his things she looked at the back of his neck. There was a latticework of wrinkles showing in the red skin. ‘What time do you expect to be home?’
‘What time?’ He flashed an angry glance at the church. ‘God knows. Depends on whether the sopranos decide they would actually like to follow my instructions.’
The satchel was under one arm and he kicked off his slippers. ‘Owen – the organ recital was just a suggestion for the future. That was all.’
‘Well, isn’t that a relief?’ he said sarcastically, picking up his jacket by the collar and jiggling it up and down. His keys chinked. ‘Where are my bloody keys?’
‘In your jacket – I heard them.’
He patted a pocket. ‘So they are. I need to go.’
‘OK. Good luck today. I’ll see you later.’
He paused in the doorway and drew in a deep breath. ‘I didn’t mean to snap at you. Let’s discuss it when I get back.’
That’s fine.’ She took the bowls and plates over to the sink.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I said it’s fine.’ She felt silly now; a schoolgirl who’d taken offence at being scolded. His footsteps came across the room. A hand slid up her neck to the side of her face and he pressed his lips against her ear. His softly murmured words were huge, more vibration than sound. ‘I’m sorry, my love.’
She cupped a hand over his, turning her head so their temples touched. ‘Owen, it’s your gift. And I love you for it.’
He sighed, wreathing her lips in warm air. She could taste his muesli in her mouth. ‘It’s such a bloody rigmarole.’
‘It is now,’ she whispered back. ‘But when it’s over, the clouds part. They always do.’
His chin lifted and he perched a tiny kiss on the tip of her nose. ‘I couldn’t do it without you. Really.’
‘Go on, you’ll be late.’
His fingers squeezed her arm then he set off once more. She stayed where she was, watching him hurry from the front porch. He’s forgotten to comb his hair as usual, she thought. Strands were standing out at the sides. As he took the steep step up to the gravelly road, he avoided putting too much weight on his weaker right knee.
Look at him, the cruel voice suddenly said. Look at the pathetic failure of a man. Look at him hobbling up those steps. His thin legs are hardly strong enough to carry him. He’s old and feeble and he’ll die soon, he will, he’ll die soon and you’ll be all alone, all alone. Your life will be sad and empty –
She clattered the spoons into the sink, purposefully trying to drown out the ugly torrent of thoughts. She thought: it’s like they’re being streamed into my brain through an invisible earpiece. Owen had left half a piece of toast and she walked over to the kitchen door, opened it and stepped outside. Thank God, the words had stopped. She couldn’t believe she could think such bitter, resentful things. Why would I look at my husband – a kind, thoughtful, reserved man of incredible talent – with such…she didn’t even want to admit to the emotion: but it was there. Loathing. Pure loathing.
Owen’s car grew quieter as it trundled off down the lane. The bird table was in front of her but something at the edge of the patio caused her to pause. As she suspected, the ceramic pots used for growing herbs had been disturbed. A trickle of soil had spilled from one and another was standing slightly away from the others. Next to it was a crumpled red object. She bent down for a closer look: a little box. The words on it said, Sun Valley Raisins. 100% natural. 15g. Snack-sized, like for a child’s packed lunch. Owen didn’t eat raisins and neither did she.
Her eyes swept the rest of the garden and then the fields beyond. No one was out there, watching. After putting the bit of toast on the bird table, she turned round and glanced up. Her heart lurched. A figure was looking down at her. The bloody chimney, she realised. It loomed there, silent as a sentinel.
She stepped back into the kitchen with a sense of unease. Standing there with an ear cocked, she half expected the birdsong to start up. Don’t be silly, she told herself, with a quick look at the clock.
The appointment with Dr Ford wasn’t for another forty minutes. Her eyes moved to her laptop at the end of the breakfast bar. Go on then, she thought. You may as well.
The sign-in screen for the Tinnitus Sufferers’ Association asked her for a username and password. Seconds later, she was in. The discussion topic, ‘Tinnitus or not?’, had been initiated by someone experiencing a series of crackles, whistles and pops accompanied by intermittent feelings of nausea. Ear infection, the consensus seemed to be.
Laura opened up a new message box and got ready to type. Her fingers hovered. What do I say? That I’m hearing a sound – faint to the point of inaudible – that seems to come and go at will? A noise that, if I’m honest, seems to emanate from the very bricks and mortar of my home? She pinched at her lower lip, eyes on the blinking cursor. Then with a little nod, she began her message.
Does anyone hear birds singing? Hi there, ever since moving into my new home, I’ve been hearing little bursts of what I am certain is birdsong. I know tinnitus often sounds like buzzing, hissing or humming – but does anyone else ever hear a bird singing? It’s really starting to get to me!!!
She pressed enter and immediately logged off. Why, she thought, do I feel this sense of trepidation? I’ve opened something, she realised. Not just a line of communication on my computer. By sharing my experience, I’ve opened something in my mind. And I have no idea what might now come in.
Chapter 8
Dr Ford peered at her from beneath his bushy brows. ‘Come and take a seat,’ he said without getting up. She saw her medical notes were spread out before him.
She sat down and tried to give him a pleasant smile. His brusque manner had already set her on edge.
‘Right, how have you been sleeping?’
‘Not so well.’
His eyes were on whatever he’d written down after her previous appointment. ‘Because of the dream?’
‘Partly. I also think we may have badgers in the garden. Noisy things.’
He smiled. ‘Welcome to the rural life. Did you try a hot drink before bed? Ovaltine always does the trick for me.’
‘No. I’ll get some after this.’ She wanted to move things on: it was the damned noise that concerned her most. That and her lack of a period. But she didn’t feel comfortable enough to mention that.
‘Has the dream come back?’
‘Last night it did.’
‘The figure trapped in some kind of tunnel?’
‘Yes.’
‘Something’s obviously making you feel anxious.’
‘Funnily enough, it didn’t seem to leave me feeling so unsettled,’ she lied. ‘Perhaps it’s losing its power.’
‘Through repetition, you mean?’
‘Maybe.’
‘What are your thoughts about counselling? Sure it couldn’t help? I was looking back through your notes; to the time you became unwell a few years ago. Your sessions with a psychiatrist appeared to help you then.’
She pushed the memories away, fogged as they were from the volume of drugs they forced down her. ‘Let’s leave it for the time being. See if it doesn’t fade of its own accord.’
‘OK,’ he breathed in through his nose, filling the room with a thin whistle. He could definitely do, she thought, with some nasal hair trimmers. ‘You also touched on a problem with your ears, did you not?’ He leaned back and crossed his legs.
