The Orphan Choir Part 11

'What I had in mind is something in between full boarding and day pupil status. I've spoken to the head and our two chaplains, outgoing and incoming.' Dr Freeman pauses to appreciate his own witticism. 'We'd be willing to allow Joseph to spend every Friday and Sat.u.r.day night at home during term time, as long as you wouldn't mind bringing him in for seven-thirty every Sunday morning. Each week he could spend a significant chunk of the weekend with you, at home from Friday at four o'clock until Sunday first thing. How does that sound?'

'Lou, it's an amazing offer,' Stuart says. 'I don't see how you can say no. Two nights a week at home '

'And five at school,' I say. Dr Freeman still gets more of my son than I do. Inside me, a huge grey boulder is spiralling a slow descent, rolling over my lungs and gut, squashing them flat. I can't breathe, can't think.

'Louise, I wish I could make you understand how talented Joseph is,' says Dr Freeman. 'I wouldn't be prepared to be flexible in this way for any other boy in the choir at the moment. I can't remember the last time I had as promising a probationer. It would be a devastating blow to lose him.'

'Yes,' I mutter. 'That's how I feel.'

'Lou?' Stuart says hopefully. 'Come on, it has to be a definite yes, doesn't it?' He wants this decided now, nailed down, while Dr Freeman is still in the room.

Fine. Let me nail it down for him. 'No. There are other good schools, other good choirs. If Joseph is as gifted as you say he is, it must be possible for him to have a brilliant musical career without the help of Saviour College.'

Dr Freeman tweaks his grimace into a patient smile. 'Of course. But-'

'I'm sorry, I have to go out now,' I say, cutting him off. If he won't leave, I will.

'Where are you going?' Stuart asks.

'Swimming.'

'But you've just got back from the pool!'

'I've decided I'm going to board at the spa,' I tell him on my way out of the room. I carry on talking to myself as I march out of the house and into the cold. 'Five nights a week. The other two, I'll live at home. As long as you're somewhere else.'

I scratch Dr Freeman's car with my fingernails as I run past it, hurting only myself.

I run and run. Across the fields, away from The Boundary, not towards anywhere. I don't mind where I end up, as long as it's far away from Stuart and Dr Freeman. I drop my swimming bag into the brown reeds by the edge of Topping Lake, sick of it weighing me down. Litter. Not allowed at Swallowfield, but this isn't an ordinary situation. I wonder if I'll ever find myself in one of those again. It's all I want: normality; not to be scared any more.

I run as fast as I can, as if someone is running after me who will kill me if they catch me. Is Stuart out searching for me? If so, he must have left Joseph alone in the house or with Dr Freeman. Both are unthinkable. I should go back, check my son is all right.

I should go back.

I can't.

A light rain has started; it mingles with the sweat that's pouring down my face. I stop for a second, out of breath, on the stone bridge that leads into Starling Copse. I remember what Bethan told me on our tour: '... the highest density of trees, all evergreens. The homeowners here love having their own private little wood.' That's where I need to go; high density means lots of places to hide, and someone will come looking for me eventually even if they aren't already.

I start running again, along the path that leads to the twelve wooden lodges that were the first to be built here: phase one of Swallowfield, before the architects had the idea of using mainly gla.s.s. There would have been no point in Starling Copse; from what I remember of my sales tour, the houses here are circled by tall trees and don't get much natural light anyway.

I feel too visible on the path anyone could see me so instead I head across the gra.s.s and into the wood. Keep running, keep running. I don't want to see anything apart from wood; no way out. Once I'm surrounded on all sides by tree roots and bark and dirt, I feel safer, safe enough to stop for a proper rest. I can hear the rain falling on leaves overhead, but it's not hitting me. Maybe I've reached the centre of the wood, where the overhead cover is thickest. I sink down, intending to sit, but my body gives way and I find myself on all fours like an animal. Everywhere I look, the view is the same: tree trunks, an uneven maze of them, with narrow leaf-strewn dirt paths in between. I try to move my knees and make a squelching sound; I'm stuck in mud, like a car that can't move no matter how hard its wheels spin.

It doesn't matter. I don't want to go anywhere. I feel more protected here than I would in my own house in either of my houses. I want to burrow in and bury myself, sink down and never come up for air. I fall on to my stomach, lie flat against the ground, with my cheek pressed against the wet mud. It feels oddly satisfying. Swallowfield's spa should consider offering it as an off-site treatment: the Outdoor Mud Experience.

The thought shocks me; it's the kind of thing I might have thought before. Before what, though? I haul myself up and into a sitting position, wiping the mud from my face with the sleeve of my shirt. What has just happened? Maybe nothing. Maybe something that most people sane people would regard as trivial. The physical evidence of my shaking body proves only that I am very upset.

Stuart and Dr Freeman cooked up a deal without telling me. It was a deal I could never accept, but perhaps they didn't realise that. Perhaps they both genuinely thought I'd be delighted by the offer.

Stuart invited Dr Freeman to our house at Swallowfield without consulting me, without warning me. Is it reasonable to expect him to have known that my safe haven would be ruined the second that anybody from Saviour crossed the threshold? Probably not; I have never told him in so many words how important it is to me to keep our Swallowfield life and our Cambridge life completely separate.

I could forgive those two transgressions, but not the third. Lou? Come on, it has to be a definite yes, doesn't it? I will always be able to hear him saying those words in my head.

I feel tears starting and see no reason to subject them to any kind of restriction. I cry fiercely, for a long time, to the sound of the rain drumming on my roof of leaves. There couldn't be a more appropriate backing track. If I were sobbing like this in the sky, my tears would make exactly the noise I can hear.

How dare Stuart try to bully me into making up my mind about something so important in the presence of a man he knows I distrust? How can I ever feel love for him again, with the memory of that in my mind?

I don't know how much time pa.s.ses before I realise that I can't feel anything but painful tingling in my legs. Pins and needles; I've been sitting in this position for too long. I stand up and hobble around until the uncomfortable p.r.i.c.kling stops and I can walk easily again. I need to get out of this wood and back to my son now that I'm capable of stringing a few sensible thoughts together, now that I can feel my legs and my anger towards my husband.

I am me again, no longer a wild animal. If Dr Freeman is still at The Boundary, I'll be able to cope better: at least it won't be a surprise like the first time. I will evict him, with the help of Swallowfield's security staff if necessary, and then I'll give Stuart an ultimatum: either he agrees to take Joseph out of Saviour completely, with no caveats or else our marriage is over.

I almost hope he refuses, so that I can experience the adrenalin rush of expelling him from my life. Though if he agrees to everything I want, I will be pleased in a less visceral, more rational way. I'll get my son back in a way that allows him to keep his father too. No doubt my resentment towards Stuart would subside over time, like a painful swelling.

I can see both sides. This more than anything rea.s.sures me that I am ready to try and find my way home. I don't know how I'll explain why I'm covered in mud; I'll worry about that later. First things first: I need to get out of this wood. It's strange to think that only fifteen or twenty minutes ago I wanted to immerse myself in it so that I couldn't see the edges. That same desire is still bubbling inside me, deep down, but the voice that says I mustn't act on it is stronger. No one who has a child can afford to lose themselves for ever.

If I don't return to The Boundary, Joseph will have only Stuart to rely on. The prospect horrifies me.

I start to walk between the trees, picking a direction at random. I'm not going to panic. I have my phone with me, in my pocket. If I were to get seriously lost, I could ring Stuart and ...

My phone. I scrabble for it with muddy fingers, pull it out of its case, keen to see if there's a message for me.

My husband has sent me a text. Ten minutes ago. 'I've got rid of Dr Freeman. Safe to come back, a.s.suming you're willing to talk about this like grown-ups? Joseph fine still playing on Xbox upstairs, blissfully unaware. S.'

In all the time I've known Stuart, he has never signed a text or email with a kiss not once.

I trudge through mud until I see, in the distance, something that isn't trees: a perfectly square wooden house standing alone on a small gra.s.s-covered island, close to the edge of an expanse of water that's too small to be a lake, I think, though I don't know what else to call it. It's long and thin, not much wider than the island that protrudes from it. And the water is moving sideways quite fast; does this mean it's a stream?

The house is unmistakably Swallowfield-architect-designed, and I wonder why I didn't spot it when Bethan drove me around; I thought she'd shown me everything, but there's no way I wouldn't have noticed a wooden cube house with an island all to itself. Automatically, I try to a.s.sess its position in the Swallowfield housing hierarchy: the system that no residents ever mention, but we all know is there. The Cube (that must surely be its name, or someone has missed a trick) is smaller than most of the properties here, and the gla.s.s houses are seen as preferable to the wooden ones on the estate, but surely hundreds of superiority points would have to be awarded for private island status? Perhaps this is why The Cube isn't included in the sales tour if there is only one house in this special position and it's already taken, why drive other prospective buyers wild with envy?

As I get closer, I see that there's a raised walkway leading from the edge of the field that borders the water to the little island. I hear something too. Music. From an open window. Good. This must mean someone's in; hopefully they'll be able to direct me back to Topping Lake and won't report me for the heinous crime of trespa.s.sing on their land and privacy. Is whoever owns the house also the leasehold owner of the island? That too would make a difference, hierarchy-wise. Before Stuart and I bought The Boundary, we were sent plans with a red line drawn around the exact part of Swallowfield that we would own: the house itself and the twenty or so square metres between it and Topping Lake.

The music starts to sound familiar as I get closer to the house, but the wind carries the notes away before I can identify the song. There are lights on. A woman at the window. Is that ... Bethan?

It is. It's her. She's moving around behind what I guess must be the kitchen window; she looks as if she's putting things away. Either this is a new show home and she's sorting it out, or else she has a house at Swallowfield herself.

I hurry towards her, waving to catch her attention, then stop when I hear a tune that knocks the breath out of me, and lyrics that seem to be all about my Cambridge next-door neighbour.

Mr Fahrenheit.

'Don't Stop Me Now' by Queen.

No. Not here. It can't be.

But why not? If he was ingenious enough to find a way to play music on the street so that no one but me would hear it, he can do anything.

I stand, still and solid, unable to move, subject to a law that's the opposite of gravity: shocked bolt upright. Bethan will deny everything, of course.

'Louise? Is that you?' She pushes the window open wider and leans out. 'Hang on, let me turn the radio down.' She ducks back into the house. Mr Fahrenheit's musical manifesto subsides.

When she reappears, I say, 'How much is he paying you?'

'Sorry?'

'How much is Justin Clay paying you?'

'Who? Sorry, you've lost me!' Bethan smiles. He must have chosen her for her innocent face. If she genuinely doesn't understand what I mean, why doesn't she look puzzled instead of so blandly friendly and well-intentioned? Why isn't she asking me more questions?

'Why didn't you tell me you've got a house here?' I ask.

She looks uncomfortable. 'Do you want to come in for a coffee, so we can have a chat?'

'No. I want to know what you and Justin Clay are planning. I a.s.sume it involves driving me mad at Swallowfield, like he did in Cambridge? How do you know him? How long? Whatever he's told you about me, it's not true. I don't deserve this.'

'Louise, I don't know who you're talking about.'

'Whatever he's paying you, I'll pay you more!' I shout.

'You seem very upset. Why don't you-'

'Why don't you f.u.c.k off?' I yell at her, because I can't bear to listen to any more lies. I turn and run back the way I came, back into the trees and the darkness.

I hear their voices as I enter the woods again. I know who they are without knowing their names. Their names don't matter; I will know them when I need to. I'm not worried about being lost, though the trees have formed a ring around me and seem not to want to let me pa.s.s. I know the voices will lead me home.

That's where I will find them: at The Boundary.

I walk slowly. There is no need to run; if I ran, I might scare them away. I must arrive at the house at the right moment not too soon. The song has only just started. I can hear it faintly, in the distance, drawing me like a magnet. I follow the melody.

O come, O come, Emmanuel, And ransom captive Israel ...

One foot, another foot. One note, another note. Boys' voices marching me home, telling me which way to go. Bethan and Mr Fahrenheit: it doesn't matter any more, whatever they're doing. The choir is all that matters: they're the ones I must listen to, the only ones.

... That mourns in lonely exile here Until the Son of G.o.d appear.

Rejoice! Rejoice!

Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel ...

They get louder as I get nearer. I'm back at the entrance to Starling Copse. Inconceivable, now, to think that Dr Freeman was at Swallowfield today. He was here in the way that Stuart is here: not seeing, not understanding presence that's a kind of absence. They weren't in the same place as me or the choir.

I don't understand it yet, but I will. The boys' voices sing me a promise that I will soon make sense of everything. All I need to do is keep listening.

... O come, thou Wisdom from on high, Who orderest all things mightily ...

I pa.s.s the trampoline and the tennis court. Swallowfield is still in every detail, silent apart from the choir. The clouds above are fixed in place, not drifting. There's no shaking of leaves, no breeze to disturb the gra.s.s. No breath but mine, and mine makes no movement in my chest. I could be travelling through a landscape architect's three-dimensional model laid out on a 500-acre table. I could be a plastic figure on a board that someone has taken out of a box and unfolded at the moment. I will become real when I am shown the truth.

... To us the path of knowledge show, And teach us in her ways to go.

Rejoice! Rejoice!

Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel ...

I am coming. I have to get home before the song ends, but I don't know how much of it is left. As I approach Topping Lake, I feel myself being pulled faster. It's like suction. I'm not even sure if I'm walking any more. I am drifting, gliding, as the motionless clouds stare down at me. They are all in on the secret: the clouds, the hedges, the fields, the jetties, the wooden bird hides. The landscape knows. Swallowfield knows.

... O come, thou Rod of Jesse, free Thine own from Satan's tyranny; From depths of h.e.l.l thy people save, And give them victory over the grave.

Rejoice! Rejoice!

Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel ...

There's a s.p.a.ce where Dr Freeman's car was. Good. I don't need to think about him any more. I must make room in my mind for what I'm about to learn. All other thoughts fall to the ground: leaves in autumn. Natural. It's nothing to be scared of as long as I don't look away. As long as I let myself see.

... O come, thou Dayspring, come and cheer Our spirits by thine advent here; Disperse the gloomy clouds of night ...

The Boundary's front door is open. Stuart is standing in the way. I feel sorry for him because he has to say so much that I won't hear. He has started already. Without guidance, there is no way for him to know there's no point, and I can't tell him. I can't explain because I am too busy listening: the guided, not the guide, not yet. I push past him, walk to the foot of the stairs. Stop. The voices are really loud here.

... And death's dark shadows put to flight.

Rejoice! Rejoice!

Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel ...

Upstairs: that's where I have to go. To the master bedroom. My bedroom. That's where it is. Slowly, I ascend. 'Don't follow me,' I say. I am the follower. Chosen. He is the left behind. I can't take him with me for this. 'Look after Joseph. Keep him downstairs.'

I pull open the bedroom door and, in the same moment, hear it slam shut. What was in front of me is now behind; I am in the room, unaware of having moved forward from the landing, no memory of crossing over.

I fumble for the light switch. Press it. Nothing happens. The room is still dark. It was light when I arrived at the house midday but in this room it's as dark as if someone had taped over the gla.s.s to exclude all natural light.

That happened once before, in a house that was also mine.

Except they can't have done that here. If they had, the view would have disappeared along with the light, and it hasn't. I can see everything. At last.

The double doors to the balcony that overlooks the lake are wide open.

They're there: the choir. I try to count them, but they shift and rea.s.semble. Sometimes there are hundreds of them, sometimes only sixteen, like in Joseph's choir, but I can see each of their faces so clearly. They must be at least 100 metres from where I'm standing, but their noses and mouths and eyelashes brush against my skin as they sing.

I shouldn't need to ask who they are. I will see them again and I will know. I can't ask because their singing is too loud. Almost deafening.

... O come, thou Key of David, come, And open wide our heavenly home; Make safe the way that leads on high, And close the path to misery.

Rejoice! Rejoice!

Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel ...

There are girls as well as boys. Yes, of course. I think I know who they are now. But I would still like to ask.

Eight boys or hundreds of boys. Eight girls or hundreds of girls. Out above the water, floating over the centre of Topping Lake, where the moon was last night.

Like the moon, they glow silver: the colour of the Swallowfield Christmas lights a jagged moon made up of the shapes of children, the girls' long hair streaming in the air, eyes glittering, faces pale and bright. They look so cold: child sculptures carved out of ice, except they're scream-singing as if they're afraid no one will hear them.

As if they're afraid I don't hear them.