The Orphan Choir Part 10

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, b.u.t.ter 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 a.s.suming 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, a.s.suming 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 p.i.s.sed 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 Cla.s.sics" CD that one time, he's only ever played pop music. In his bas.e.m.e.nt. 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 const.i.tute 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 a.s.sumed 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 plat.i.tudes?' 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, G.o.d.' 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 p.r.i.c.kle 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 s.n.a.t.c.h Joseph away for this extra Choral Evensong? It's completely b.l.o.o.d.y 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.

'What about our deal? I only agreed to buy a house here because you promised you'd stop cutting up rough about Saviour if I did.'

'I know. I'm sorry.' Because, after all, you hate Swallowfield so much, don't you, Stuart? That's why you've said it's heaven on earth at least fifty times since we moved in, and how clever I was to spot the ad in the paper. 'I thought having a home here would be enough,' I say. 'I hoped. But one phone call from Dr Freeman and I'm hearing things again, feeling as threatened here as I did in Cambridge when Mr Fahrenheit's c.r.a.p music was shaking my floorboards. I didn't realise when we made our deal that I'm going to fall apart if I don't get my son back.' My throat closes on these last words, choking me. 'It's that simple, Stuart. This isn't a whim I've dreamed up out of nowhere. I've really tried, you know. I've given myself every pep talk and lecture and talking-to that I can, and nothing's worked. Losing my son to Dr Freeman is destroying me. I have to take him back.'

Seeing that Stuart's about to protest, I hold up a hand to silence him. 'I know Saviour's a brilliant opportunity, and I'm truly sorry to have to spoil it for Joseph, but there are other schools day schools, good ones. There are other choirs. It's Cambridge, for G.o.d's sake! He can join Jesus's choir how bad can that be? Jesus College, Cambridge it's bound to be amazing.'

'Are you asking me or telling me?' says Stuart. 'It sounds to me as if you've made up your mind. What I think's irrelevant.'

'The only thing that's relevant at this point is whether you want a wife who's a gibbering lunatic,' I say, numbed by his lack of empathy. 'Whether Joseph wants a mother who's on suicide watch.'

'Oh, don't be melodramatic! There are other ways that you can ... get better that don't involve ruining our son's potentially amazing musical career therapy, antidepressants, talking things through with me.'

I want to laugh hysterically. I manage not to.

'How about just giving it a bit more time and seeing if you feel any happier by, say, Easter, or next summer?' Stuart suggests. 'Joseph's only been at Saviour for one term! That's no time at all.'

I hear a noise from the hall: the sound of something shifting. Stuart and I look at each other. He heard it too; either that or he's pretending because lying is easier. 'Joseph?' I say. 'Are you there?'

The door clicks open. My beautiful son walks in. He's been crying. I hope Stuart feels as guilty as I do. 'Dad, I don't care about Saviour,' he says in a shaky voice. 'I'll go to any school. It'll be fine. I just don't want Mum to be upset any more.'

Stuart turns on me. 'Well done,' he says angrily. 'I told you to keep your voice down.'

And I don't care what you say, or think, or do. And, apparently, neither does your son.

I open my arms to Joseph. He runs towards me.

8.

For the first time since we moved to Swallowfield, I am swimming during the spa's adults-only hours of 7 a.m. to 10 a.m. Apart from me, there is only one other woman here; we have a huge outdoor heated pool all to ourselves, surrounded by wood-and-stone-sculpture-strewn terraces and bordered on all four sides by green hedges as tall as they are thick. Privacy is important to people here. A couple of the homeowners I've spoken to have given the impression that they would ideally like to have Swallowfield's 500 acres all to themselves; they seem rather sensitive about having to share their country estate with others.

I wonder if my fellow swimmer feels that way, and is fuming because I've come along to spoil her solitude. She is evidently a serious sportswoman, with her tight-fitting cap, plastic nose clip and superfast end-of-length turnaround times, whereas I'm doing a slow length approximately every ten minutes leisurely b.r.e.a.s.t.stroke rather than her turbo-charged front crawl and quite a lot of aimless drifting in between. I like watching the rabbits pottering about on the gra.s.s next to the pool. I love floating on my back and gazing up at clouds and the branches of the tallest trees overhead while my face and the top side of my body chill in the winter air. Plunging fully back into the water afterwards is heaven. When I first arrived, it was raining; I swam a few lengths with the contrast of cold drops splashing on my face and my body immersed in a block of liquid warmth it was an amazing sensation.

I thought freedom from noise would turn out to be the best thing about Swallowfield, but I was wrong. It's the sheer transcendent beauty of the place; none of its other attributes can compete with that one. Everywhere I turn, everywhere I look, I fall in love with what I see: the fringe of Christmas lights on the spa building's sloped roof, like a trim of glittering silver frost; the spouting fountains at the corners of the pool; the different shades of green beyond; the bare tree and hedge branches reflected in the water; the vast open s.p.a.ces. My surroundings excite me in a way that they never have anywhere else. Cambridge is full of impressive buildings that I've admired and still admire, but the sight of them has never made my heart hurt with a need to make them part of me. At least four times a day at Swallowfield I think, 'I must never take for granted that I have this in my life.'

I hate to admit it, but it is blissfully, almost hypnotically calm at the spa with no children here. I wouldn't have come for the adults-only session if I'd had my way; I'd have waited until I could bring Joseph with me, but Stuart asked for some time alone with him this morning. It's not a request he's ever made before, and I agreed without question. Maybe he has missed Joseph too, more than he's been willing to acknowledge. Or maybe he wants to explain to our son that he does care about my happiness, whatever impression he might have given yesterday.

Surprisingly, I am not worried that I have been shunted aside so Stuart can persuade Joseph that it is his destiny to be a Saviour College chorister. I keep asking myself whether this is a real danger that I ought to be concerned about, and concluding that it isn't. Definitely not. Something has changed since yesterday. Stuart was preoccupied and withdrawn last night, then much happier this morning. He was up before me, singing to himself as he loaded the dishwasher. He made a point of coming over to kiss me, and apologised for what he'd put me through. 'I should have paid more attention to how you felt,' he said. 'A lot more.'

'Yes, you should,' I agreed. Keen to capitalise on his good mood, I said, 'I'll make you a deal if you start now, I'll forgive you for everything.' He nodded as if he understood what I meant, and didn't challenge my implication that there was much to forgive. We couldn't say any more because Joseph came downstairs then, but I am optimistic.

I swim a last length and haul myself out of the water. The shivering dash from the edge of the pool to the door is bearable only because it's so short, and because I can see the sauna and steam room through the gla.s.s. I do five minutes in each, with a three-second dip in the indoor plunge pool in between, then head for the ladies' changing room to shower and get dressed. I think again of Stuart loading the dishwasher and decide I want to sing something people are supposed to sing in showers, aren't they? but I don't know what. Not anything a choir might sing. Or Queen. In the end I settle on a song I used to love, one that hasn't crossed my mind since I was thirteen: 'Never Surrender' by Corey Hart. Having chosen it, I find I can't sing it; I feel too self-conscious. Who puts this much thought into selecting a shower song? It's not as if I'm a DJ in a fashionable nightclub and my choice really matters. I should have just opened my mouth and let any old thing come out.

I dry my hair, rub some Body Shop Vitamin E moisturiser into my face and make my way back to Topping Lake, thinking that in future I might pay a pound a time and treat myself to a towel from the spa when I swim. I'm always envious of the people I see dropping a white Swallowfield-crested towel into the wooden hamper in the changing room on their way out; it's a pain having to lug a cloth bag full of lumpy wet towel home with me after every swim, and wash it afterwards. And the bag is always still damp the next day, when I want to put a clean, dry towel and swimming costume in it.

I stop in front of The Boundary. There's a car outside it that shouldn't be there, in our visitor parking s.p.a.ce. I'm not expecting any guests. Who do I know that drives a blue BMW?

Stuart throws open the front door, beckons me in. I make a questioning gesture with my hands, and mouth the word 'Who?' He mouths something back that I can't decipher, then disappears inside again. I sigh as I walk up our path. Only one way to find out. Whoever it is, Stuart's pleased they're here, so it can't be any of our relatives. Perhaps it's Bethan from the sales office with some goodies left over from someone else's sales tour; she popped round the other day with some chocolates for Joseph that some other children hadn't wanted to eat, silly them. Bethan likes Joseph; whenever I see her she tells me how clever or charming or handsome he is. I find it annoying that she calls him Joe, but it's hard to protest in the face of her barrage of compliments.

With my swimming bag still over my shoulder, I walk into the lounge, eager to see who Stuart is so enthusiastically telling about Swallowfield's keyholder scheme, run by the wonderfully efficient Mich.e.l.le and Sue who, for a small addition to the standard service charge, are willing to sit in your house whenever you need them to, awaiting delivery of a sofa or a painting if you can't be there to receive it yourself.

At first I don't see who our visitor is; Stuart is standing in the way. When he moves, I see a collage of features and limbs that don't belong in this house, but the one that leaps out at me is the tidy beard like a fitted carpet. Around a smiling mouth.

I gasp and recoil. It's Dr Freeman. Ivan Freeman from Saviour College. Or an apparition that looks exactly like him. Sitting on my sofa, holding a mug from which steam is rising. No. No. He can't be here. He mustn't be. How could this happen?

'h.e.l.lo, Louise,' he says. 'What a fantastic house! And a superb location. I was saying to Stuart, you'd never find Swallowfield unless you were looking and had detailed directions it's so tucked away.'

Detailed directions. From Stuart. Traitor. b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

'Where's Joseph?' I ask. I picture my son trapped in the boot of Dr Freeman's car, myself screaming as I try to pull it open, but I can't, and Joseph will suffocate if I don't. I've only got a few seconds to save him ...

'He's upstairs playing on the Xbox,' says Stuart. 'Lou, I promise you, this isn't what it looks like. I didn't invite Dr Freeman here so that the two of us could bully you into accepting a situation you hate. Really.'

Stuart. My first husband.

'Get out,' I say to Dr Freeman. I don't mean to be rude, but they are the only words that suggest themselves. I search my brain for more. 'Joseph's leaving the school and the choir, so there's no reason for you to be here.'

'Lou!'

'I'm sorry if either or both of you are shocked.' I address them as a job lot, feeling no closer to one than the other. 'I'm shocked that you arranged this ... meeting without consulting me. If I'd been consulted, I'd have refused. I don't want you here, Dr Freeman. Now, please go.'

'I quite understand, Louise. I did say to Stuart that perhaps he ought not to spring this on you.' He is nodding, but not getting up to leave.

'Stuart doesn't care how anything affects me. That's why he didn't take your advice.'

'Lou, that's completely untrue!'

'Louise, listen,' says Dr Freeman. 'I have no wish to stay here if I'm not welcome, but I think I might have come up with a solution to our problem that we can all be happy with. Please may I put it to you before I go? If you don't like the sound of it, say so and I'll be out of your hair as soon as I can. But ... I've come all this way not to collude with Stuart against you, believe it or not, but to offer you terms that I think might make you very happy indeed. It's an offer I've never made to another Saviour family.'

'We're not a Saviour family,' I say. 'We're my family. Not yours.'

'Lou, for goodness' sake.' Stuart puts his hand on my arm. I shake him off.

'Fair enough,' says Dr Freeman. 'Point taken. It was a figure of speech, that's all. Let me rephrase it's an offer no director of music at Saviour has ever made to a choirboy's family. It's unprecedented.'

His words swim in my mind, drifting out of focus when I try to grasp them. Offer. Unprecedented.

'Lou?' Stuart prompts. 'Did you hear what Dr Freeman said?'

I heard an introduction, a teaser, that sounded promising, but perhaps that's the ruse: an irresistible lead-in designed to make me believe that something wonderful is coming, so that I mistake whatever comes next for wonderful because I've been groomed. Brainwashed.

I cannot believe that this is anything but a trick.

'There's only one thing you could say that I'd want to hear,' I tell Dr Freeman. 'If Joseph can stay at Saviour and be a chorister and live at home, be a day pupil great. Anything short of that, no, thank you.'