Sing Me To Sleep

by Chris Simms

  Her mind switched to the website about canaries. How bizarre tinnitus could manifest itself as birdsong. Did other people just hear random birdsong? Or did they also hear a specific bird? Tamsin would know. She checked the clock. 7.43. About midnight, her time.

  There was no reply to her last email. Laura cringed slightly as she read what she’d typed. It was so effusive. But with good reason. I shouldn’t feel embarrassed, she thought, beginning a new message.

  Hi, Tamsin. Me again. It’s almost 8 in the morning and my husband’s gone to work. On my own once more, as usual. Well, not totally, as it happens. I got a kitten! Dear little thing, but still very nervous. Currently, she prefers her travel case to the (very expensive) basket I bought her.

  Thank you again for your encouraging words. They really gave me a boost. I remember reading that stress can sometimes trigger tinnitus. And tinnitus causes stress. A vicious circle. So I’ll try to keep my emotions in control.

  Also, I wanted to ask you about the birdsong I hear. It definitely is a canary. Don’t ask me why it’s a canary – until I heard an audio clip of one on the internet yesterday, I couldn’t have said what canary song sounds like.

  Do other sufferers hear song from specific birds? You mentioned other people sometimes hear snatches of music. Are they songs they are familiar with? Ones they could name?

  All this makes me think of a science quote someone once came out with, something about the fact we, as humans, have only mapped a fraction of the oceans’ depths – but how our brains work is even more of a mystery. (Excuse my atrocious paraphrasing.)

  Anyway, time to see if I can coax this kitten further than the kitchen. Love, Laura.

  The message went on its way to America and she closed the laptop. ‘Scaredy-mouse?’ she called softly. ‘Come on. You can’t hide in there forever.’

  She got down on all fours and crawled across the flagstone floor, face ducked low. It was in there, curled up. But its eyes were open, regarding Laura intently. ‘Mummy wants to play. Come on little thing. Won’t you play with me?’

  It sat up and cocked its head. Now in front of the little door, Laura made kissing noises. ‘I know you’ve been out. Your food bowl’s empty.’ The bit of fur on a string; that did the trick yesterday. She retrieved it from the hooks near the back door. Back at the travel case, she lowered the scrap down and started making it tremble by shaking her hand.

  The kitten’s eyes widened.

  By dragging it along the floor, Laura enticed it out of the travel case, across the kitchen and then along the corridor to the front hall. Funny, she thought, how they just can’t resist the urge to catch things. Once again, it sniffed at the bottom of the door into Owen’s study, before it crossed to the foot of the stairs. It sat down, eyes raised to the first floor, tip of its tail twitching.

  ‘Come on,’ Laura said, cupping a hand under its belly and lifting it up. ‘I’ll carry you. Must seem like the north face of the Eiger from down there.’

  At the top, she pointed to the right. ‘The spare room. Just boxes in there for now.’

  Stroking the top of the kitten’s head, she set off along the corridor. ‘Bathroom’s this one. That’s mine and Owen’s room opposite.’ They got to the little step down into the room above the snug: the one she’d converted into an exercise studio. She saw with dismay the lilies were now totally dead. Not just dead, almost rotting. The leaves had withered and the stalks buckled. Oval flower-heads pointed down at the windowsill and the water in the glass vase had turned brown.

  Laura turned away. ‘Here’s where I do my exercises. That’s a Swiss ball, yoga mat, my dumbbells – also anti-burglar devices, nowadays.’ She stepped closer to the single, framed photo on the wall above the dumbbell rack. ‘Can you see me? Look, there I am, at the edge of the stage.’

  She studied the black-and-white image before adding, in a quieter voice, ‘It’s what I used to be. All day I’d spend...’ But the words were too heavy to get out. Like pebbles, weighing on her tongue. She had to turn her back on the picture. ‘And that’s you over there.’ She pointed at the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. The kitten seemed oblivious to its reflection. ‘It is, that’s you.’ Laura moved closer so it could see itself nestled in the crook of her arm. ‘That’s –’

  Canary song suddenly filled the room and the cat’s body flexed as her claws sank into Laura’s skin.

  She gasped with pain and dropped the kitten to the floor. It landed on all four feet, back impossibly arched. A low guttural moan escaped it as it glared malevolently at itself. The canary song continued and the little animal backed away from the mirror, now hissing, needle-like teeth bared.

  Laura looked on in fear and confusion. The singing seemed louder than ever before. In a flash, the cat was out of the door and she heard it race down the stairs. The singing stopped. Laura caught sight of herself. Her hand was clapped over her mouth, face drained of all colour. Pinpricks of red were already showing through the pale blue sleeve of her cashmere jumper. But there was no pain; she felt nothing other than an overwhelming desire to throw up. She ran for the bathroom as her stomach muscles began to convulse.

  Wiping the last of the sick from her chin, she picked out a fresh ball of cotton wool and examined the punctures in the skin of her forearm. The kitten’s claws had gone right in. Lucky it was so small, Laura thought – an adult cat could have caused a nasty wound.

  Dabbing at the holes, she glanced at herself in the bathroom mirror. She looked dazed and bewildered. What had just happened? Everything had occurred so quickly. She’d been moving closer to the mirror, lifting the kitten slightly so it could see itself. The canary song had been so much louder. But also something else: clearer. Like whatever was making the noise had been close. Very close. What had happened next changed everything: the kitten had heard it, too.

  The implications of that were enough to make Laura feel sick all over again. If it had heard the singing, she thought, the noise is not in my head. It was definitely no symptom of an ear infection, the onset of tinnitus or, worse, her illness recurring. It was coming from somewhere within the house.

  She smoothed antiseptic cream on the wounds, replaying what had just taken place, trying to be sure of the sequence. The kitten had been definitely looking at the mirror when it suddenly bolted. But had it begun to move before the noise started? She strained to recall exactly what had happened, when. Me holding her up a bit, stepping forward and saying something. Something like, look – that’s you. Then pointing with my free hand. Which had happened first – the sound ringing out or the kitten catching sight of its reflection?

  Laura’s mind jumped forward to when the kitten landed on the floor. There was no doubt it was reacting to its reflection by then: it was facing the mirror, back bent up, fur standing on end. So had the reflection spooked it? The little thing had probably never seen a mirror before. How silly to thrust it in front of one.

  She set off down the stairs. ‘Mouse? It’s OK, Mouse. Where are you?’ She found it in the kitchen. Back in the travel case, cowering at the far end of it. Like it wanted to go home. ‘What made you jump like that?’ She looked into its huge eyes. ‘Did you…was it something you…’ This is ridiculous, Laura thought. I’m trying to question a cat. ‘OK, little thing. You stay in there. It’s OK. If that’s what you want, stay there.’

  She went to the shelf, emptied a handful of the fish treats into her palm and returned to the travel case. Crouching, she put one hand inside to sprinkle the biscuits on the blanket. The only movement was the kitten’s tail, writhing about like a severed portion of snake. ‘Mouse? I have to go out now. There’s milk in your bowl if you get thirsty. OK? I’ll be back soon, I promise.’

  She let the rest of the biscuits fall on the blanket. The one its mother had given birth on. The smell would be a source of comfort for the kitten, according to the breeder. ‘All right, Mouse? I’ll be back soon.’

  She was half-way across the room, car keys in her hand, when it let out the tiniest little meo
w. Laura stopped and looked back. The sound was so forlorn. ‘You know what, Mouse?’ She glanced about. ‘I’m not leaving you here on your own. You’re bloody well coming with me, that’s what you’re doing.’

  Chapter 22

  The drive over to the Skylark Trust took them through rolling countryside, the purple hills of the Peak District a brooding presence in the distance. Pretty Vacant was playing on the CD and Laura had happily sung along to most of it before she realised the loud music was probably freaking Mouse out.

  ‘Sorry.’ She switched to Classic FM and immediately recognised The Lark Ascending by Vaughan Williams. A lot more soothing for the kitten, she imagined, as the violin notes wavered and soared.

  ‘Do you think William really walked along this country lane back to Lantern Cottage?’ she asked. ‘It wouldn’t have been that hard, I suppose. Just a case of not taking any turn-off until you reached the main road back into Oldknow. A child could manage it, especially one in the body of a young man.’

  Mouse was moving around more. She came to the door of the travel case and looked about as if the world wasn’t quite so intimidating.

  ‘What I need to know is why he goes off on his midnight walks. Something’s driving him back to the place where he once lived. Perhaps he doesn’t realise the Skylark Trust is his new home.’ She cast another quick glance down at the kitten. ‘Like a cat finding its way back to its previous house.’

  A short while later a sign jutting out of the hedgerow let her know the centre was about to come up on her left. She took the next turning and followed the little road down to a cluster of stone buildings. A brand new minibus was parked in the car park. On its side were the words, Skylark Trust, with the silhouette of a little bird floating above them.

  Laura parked next to it and turned the radio off. She sat for a moment and studied the entrance. A ramp led up to it, handrails on each side. She realised every building was single storey. Wheelchair access. A dull ache started in her spine as she imagined the deformities some of the poor things inside must suffer from. Shifting uncomfortably in her seat, she looked down at Mouse. ‘You seem happier. I’ll be back before long.’

  She wound down her window a little to let in air and was about to climb out when both entrance doors swung open at identical speed. A young girl stepped into the sunlight and Laura recognised her instantly as Molly Maystock. She was beautiful; more so than in the photos on the collection boxes. Her hair was lovely – long, straight and perfect for tying into plaits. Or putting up in a bun. Often, that was Laura’s favourite part of a performance. Not the actual dancing – with all the pressure to achieve a flawless performance – but just sitting backstage, listening to the orchestra tuning their instruments while a stylist arranged her hair. Those were the memories she cherished most.

  In time, she’d learned how to do hair herself; swirls, braids, folds. She imagined visiting Molly at her house. Spend hours together, brushing each other’s hair and then arranging it different ways. That would be such fun.

  Her dad appeared behind her and she took his hand. Arms gently swinging, they set off slowly down the ramp toward an old blue car on the other side of the car park.

  Half way across, she had to stop. Laura watched her shoulders rise and fall a few times, her father beside her, obviously battling the temptation to support her. Then she gave a nod and they continued across to their vehicle. It wasn’t fair, Laura thought. Why should such a precious little thing have to suffer like that?

  Once they’d left, she slipped out of her own car. There was a sign in front of the entrance. Childish lettering and a series of arrows. Hydrotherapy pool. Jump-about gym. Multi-sensory centre. Nature trail. Activity centre. Residential units.

  As soon as she stepped onto the ramp the front doors began to part. In the foyer was a large cage. Inside it was a parrot with blue, green and red feathers. It broke off from its preening to examine Laura.

  ‘Good morning,’ someone said.

  The accent was unmistakably African. Laura turned to the front desk and saw a black lady smiling at her. It dawned on her that she hadn’t seen a single non-white face in Oldknow. ‘Morning, my name’s Laura Wilkinson.’

  ‘Morning, Laura.’

  ‘Hi.’ She paused then smiled. ‘Sorry, I probably should have rung before arriving. I was speaking to the vicar at Oldknow, Martin Flowers – I live near the church – about setting up a dance therapy class here.’

  ‘Martin? He’s been wonderful to us.’

  ‘Yes – he couldn’t praise the centre highly enough. I’ve just moved here. I lived in London before and used to be with the Royal Ballet.’

  The woman’s face was beaming. ‘The way you moved as you came through the doors. Such grace!’

  Laura blushed. ‘Thank you. I have experience of teaching dance to children and Martin wondered if I might be interested in taking a class here. He said you’re always on the lookout for volunteers.’

  ‘Always, always, always. Let me see, who should you speak to?’ She started looking at a list of names.

  ‘Actually, would it be possible just to have a look round? I don’t expect you to arrange anything with me right now. But it would be wonderful if someone could show me what facilities you have here.’

  ‘I will get someone for you, no problem. There is a studio over in the activity centre. It has big mirrors.’

  ‘It looks to be an amazing place.’

  ‘It certainly is. Please, one moment. I will make a call. Your name is Laura?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She picked up the phone. Laura’s nerves were jangling. She felt light-headed. I’m not being dishonest, she reasoned with herself. It would be good to set up a dance class here. She turned round and saw the parrot observing her. A wave of illogical dread surged into her stomach. What if it asks me something? Something embarrassing. Aren’t you a naughty girl? Making up lies.

  The bird took a series of sideways steps along the wooden pole until it was just on the other side of the bars. Laura noticed a little sign at the base of its cage. Marty the Macaw. Well, Marty, I wish you’d stop bloody staring at me.

  The inner door opened and a staff member in dark blue trousers and a white tunic stepped out. Laura was relieved it wasn’t the one who’d been at her house the previous night.

  ‘Laura? My name’s Denise. You’d like to have a look round?’

  ‘Hello, yes. If it’s no trouble.’

  None at all. Felicity says you’re a ballet dancer?’

  Felicity was still beaming from behind her monitor. ‘Was. More years ago than I’d like to admit. But I took a music and movement class down in London until recently.’

  ‘For children with disabilities?’

  She hesitated. Princesses-in-training. ‘Not really. But Martin said there are carers who could...’

  ‘Yes. The staffing levels are brilliant. Let me take you over to the Activity Centre.’

  The front doors opened and she followed Denise back down the ramp.

  ‘We’ll also take a look in the hydrotherapy pool. There’s a session going on now.’

  From somewhere high above notes started raining down. Laura looked up and was about to comment on the beautiful sound when the words stuck in her throat. Could Denise hear it, too?

  ‘It’s a skylark,’ she commented, smiling across. ‘Was that what you were wondering? I can never spot them, but it’s up there somewhere.’

  Laura almost laughed with relief. ‘This place is idyllic.’

  Denise nodded. ‘To be honest, we could have called it the Curlew Trust, Tawny Owl Trust, Cuckoo...Swallow...Woodpecker…Heron – it’s like a bird sanctuary out here.’

  ‘I get a fair few in my garden. Finches, sparrows…that sort.’

  ‘Where do you live?’

  Laura realised that the other woman might well have heard about the incident involving William. ‘Just outside Old – wow, is that the hydrotherapy pool?’

  ‘It is.’

  Through the m
isty plate-glass windows of what looked like a converted barn, Laura could see a pool about twenty metres long. Denise took her up another ramp and into a corridor with a smooth plastic floor. A large window overlooked the main room.

  ‘We’ll stay out here to save removing our shoes and socks. The water is kept very warm and those hoists are set into rails at the side of the pool. They can be moved up and down its entire length.’

  A child was in a harness that dangled from one of the metal arms. A therapist was moving the legs of the boy out in slow circular movements while another kept his head from slipping below the water. A girl – maybe ten – was being lifted from a chunky-looking wheelchair. The helpers started strapping her into the harness below a hoist on the other side. Her legs were like two withered roots and, hating herself for it, Laura had to look away. ‘Great for mobility, I imagine.’

  ‘Absolutely. Especially for children who are normally confined to wheelchairs. The water supports their weight and allows such freedom of movement.’

  The child from Laura’s dream flashed up in her mind. The way it seemed somehow suspended in space. Almost like it was floating.

  ‘The Activity Centre is next. We’ll go this way.’

  She led Laura along a corridor lined with images of children. Some had been photographed being wheeled round the gardens. Others were in the gym, sitting on trampolines or propped in a shallow pit of foam cubes – or simply splayed out on a big mat, arms and legs akimbo. But they were all smiling and laughing. Laura slowed down to look more closely at their happy faces. Maybe, she thought for the first time, I could teach here. If I could just get over how their bodies make me feel. Surely that was possible?

  ‘There are various rooms here, but I think this one would be best for what you have in mind.’ She showed Laura into a deserted studio. Laura immediately saw it had a sprung wooden floor. Mirrors ran down one side. Exercise mats were neatly piled up in the far corner and there were speakers among the halogen lights set into the ceiling.