Voices in the Mind

Copyright © 2010 by RM Jarmain.

Library of Congress Control Number:  2010916090

ISBN: Hardcover    978-1-4568-0400-8

ISBN: Softcover      978-1-4568-0399-5

ISBN: Ebook            978-1-4568-0401-5

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Sequence of Voices

Voices in the Mind

St Bernard and the Dragon

A Memento of Once

Cat and Mouse

Tant Lettie’s Delegation

The Kirstenbosch Trilogy:

Pennies in the Well

The Ledge

April Love

Rock of Ages

Goodbye Susan

Cometh the Hour

Choruses

Then there was Harvey

For Anne, with love.

I see you through the liquid prism of my tears,

Your features blurring at the fringes

But shot through with shimmering rainbow hues

Disclosing facets of your soul kept secret down the years.

Perspectives, November 1996

Voices in the Mind

Of course, Barry remarked in the privacy of his unspoken thoughts, being deaf was awful. But it had its compensations. He slipped his hand into the inside pocket of his blazer and turned the volume control knob of his hearing aid fully counter-clockwise and The Gorgon’s tirade softened to nothing more than a distant murmur.

This was the third time this week that the old battle-axe had been on the warpath and her daily biology class was becoming ever more intolerable. What was the matter with the old bag? Probably that meno-thing that was supposed to afflict old women when they got to fifty or thereabout, making them behave in irrational ways. Whatever it was, Barry wished fervently that Mrs Baxter would get it over with. Life was enough of a drag without having one’s brains scrambled through being bombarded every day by her insane bloody tantrums. But, of course, he was lucky—in some respects. It was all very well to be able to shut out the screaming racket of crazy biology teachers, but it was pretty frustrating to score a brilliant try under the goalposts after outstripping the opposition from behind your own twenty-five, only to find that a scrum had been ruled five yards from your own tryline and you hadn’t heard the whistle. If only a chap could take his hearing aid onto the field . . .

An urgent nudging on his shoulder by Terry Spencer behind him brought him out of his reverie and his eyes snapped to Mrs Baxter’s face, reddened from the effort of her shouting. Her voice still inaudible through the zero-volume setting of his hearing aid, Barry had to resort to lip-reading:  . . . insolent young devil, how dare you sit there gazing into space while I’m reprimanding the class?

Barry stood up and said, abnormally loudly as he always did when he couldn’t hear his own voice, causing several of his classmates to snicker behind their hands, I’m sorry, miss, but I can’t hear you. My hearing aid isn’t working—I think the batteries are flat.

Somewhat mollified, Mrs Baxter’s voice dropped to something close to normal pitch and she snapped, Well, get them replaced as a matter of urgency. In the meantime, keep your eyes on my face and concentrate. And that goes for the rest of you too. Now to return to the matter of the human digestive system . . . The lesson resumed and continued more or less normally for the rest of the period.

Deaf as a consequence of injuries sustained in a street accident at the age of five, Barry Harker’s affliction was something of a medical rarity. After lying comatose for three days he had regained consciousness and, to his distraught parents’ immense relief, proved to have suffered only minor brain damage, of a kind that rendered him permanently deaf. Even this, however, was of a nature that lent itself readily to correction. He was fitted with an ordinary hearing aid to which, with the adaptability of youth, he soon became accustomed and resumed life almost as if nothing had happened.

Indeed, in the matter of his academic progress, Barry’s deafness proved to have certain distinct advantages. He developed an unusual ability to concentrate simply by turning down the volume of his hearing aid while studying or reading, shutting out all extraneous noise. Almost without conscious effort he taught himself to lip-read and found this to be a valuable aid when he wished to take particular cognizance of a topic under discussion. Lip-reading demanded keen attention and information assimilated by this means was, as a consequence, the more efficiently retained. Thus Barry did exceptionally well at school, occupying with monotonous regularity and without any undue effort the top spot in his class. At the same time he was popular with his schoolmates, held in high esteem both for his academic success and for his flair on the rugby and cricket fields. He was a speedy and elusive runner as well as a fearless tackler, making him an automatic choice at inside centre in the under-15A rugby team, and was widely tipped to make the Border Nuffield cricket X1 in a few years’ time.

The bell rang, signalling the end of the period. Mrs Baxter ordered the class to prepare a "neat, if you please!" diagram illustrating the human digestive system for presentation at the next day’s lesson and sailed out of the classroom. One by one or in small groups the class followed her, making their way to the playground for the 45-minute duration of the lunch break.

Barry and Alec Mason, his inseparable friend, strolled out onto the rugby field, chatting idly as they chewed their sandwiches. Their conversation switched in typically random fashion from one topic to another: the idiosyncrasies of various teachers, the relative merits of the players in the current Border rugby team, the movie showing at the town’s bughouse, and every so often returning to that mysterious and deliciously exciting theme: Sex. Barry stuffed what was left of his sandwich into his mouth as he passed a lascivious comment on the burgeoning womanhood of Alec’s younger sister, punctuated by a lewd gesture at his friend’s mock-serious admonition: Don’t talk with your mouth full!

Nearby a group of seniors were kicking a rugby ball backwards and forwards across the length of the field in a game of gaining-ground and Barry looked up quickly in response to an urgent cry: Catch it, Harker! One of the players had misdirected his kick and the oval ball was torpedoing through the air almost directly towards him. He moved lithely a few paces forward and to his left and fielded the ball on the volley, catching it smartly against his chest. He stiffened as if in shock and then kicked the ball to the nearest of the players and removed the earphone from his ear.

Dammit! he muttered. The ball seems to have bust my hearing aid. He drew the console from his pocket and examined it. The plastic casing was intact and the control knob turned smoothly enough, but despite repeated twisting back and forth and slapping of the console against the palm of his hand the device remained dead. Barry was effectively stone deaf. He clucked his tongue in annoyance. Damn nuisance, that means lip-reading until I can get it fixed.

The accident put paid to any further conversation and for the remaining two periods of the day Barry sat at his desk in a cocoon of silence, his eyes fixed on the teacher’s face. First up was old Percy Baxter’s history lesson and Barry found it something of a treat not having to endure the master’s dreary monotone as he droned on and on about the Napoleonic wars. Mr Baxter was the direct antithesis of his firebrand wife, whose tantrums during the biology lesson were still fresh in memory. Small, grey and nondescript, he was mild of manner yet possessed of a steely eye and a certain indefinable strength of character that enabled him to maintain discipline without having to resort to histrionics.

The afternoon session wore on through the geography period, last for the day, and after the final bell Barry hurried out to the bicycle shed, anxious to get to Mr Mendoza’s caravan as quickly as possible to see if the old Gypsy could help him. To have his hearing aid professionally repaired would involve sending it to East London, which would mean a fortnight’s delay at least. And another full day of chop-reading, he told Alec, would surely addle his brains to extinction.

The Gypsies’ caravan was parked at the edge of the town commonage about halfway between the school and Barry’s home. It was a gaily painted horse-drawn vehicle that might have been styled after any one of a hundred picture-book illustrations that Barry had seen, right down to the piebald carthorse hobbled nearby, incessantly grazing the fresh kikuyu grass that grew luxuriantly in that part of the field. Nailed above the door was a large sign that read: FORTUNES TOLD—2/6.

Barry had no particular belief in the phenomenon of clairvoyance, but the idea was intriguing. So, a few days after the caravan had arrived, he had taken half-a-crown from his monthly pocket money and knocked nervously on the caravan door, paid his fee and sat enthralled while old Mendoza sat holding his wrists lightly with long, delicate fingers and, gazing into his face with steely-black, intelligent eyes, proceeded to spell out his future. It wasn’t the fare that impressed him especially—marriage at twenty-six to an attractive brunette (not beautiful, particularly, but certainly attractive), travel to distant places, sound health and much happiness—but a distinct feeling that the old man was reading his mind. He would anticipate his questions, answering them before they were asked, and halfway through the session he said, You have asked your parents for an air rifle but they have refused. Do not pursue the matter; they know best. This really jolted Barry: the altercation had taken place only the night before and had grown quite heated. He had gone to bed feeling decidedly hard done by.

Leaving the caravan, he had felt drawn to the Gypsy and his cheerful, big-bosomed wife. There was keen intelligence there, which seemed to transcend the pervading sense of mystery. But Barry felt a strong affinity with old Mendoza, which he attributed largely to the fact that he was deaf. He wore a hearing aid very similar, at least in outward appearance, to his own. That evening he had made a point of apologizing to his parents for the scene over the air rifle and, after supper, asked his mother if she would bake a cake for a friend, a boarder, who had done him a favour. He didn’t often lie to his parents but knew that if he told her the truth she would have been appalled at his having anything to do with those heathens and forbidden him to go near them again. Being an enthusiastic baker, she had agreed quite readily.

The next morning he had left earlier than usual for school and wheeled his bicycle as far as the caravan, carrying the cake tin carefully in his free hand. Mrs Mendoza was delighted with the gift and invited him in for a cup of coffee. He entered the caravan and was intrigued to find the old man at his table with a hearing aid console in pieces before him. A spare, he explained, that was in need of repair—always a good idea to have a reliable backup. During the two months since then he had called quite frequently on his way home from school, just for a chat, and a friendship had grown between himself and the swarthy old couple. He enjoyed their stories about their travels in far and exotic places, while they found his youthful exuberance and incisive questions quite stimulating. And always Barry came away with an uncanny feeling that the old Gypsy had done more than just converse; he seemed to have been looking right into his mind, reading his thoughts, answering unasked questions—and, to judge by the half-smile playing around his lips, enjoying himself immensely.

Now, Barry arrived at the caravan and was greeted with the usual smiling welcome. Mr Mendoza, he said as soon as he thought it polite to broach the express reason for his visit, I broke my hearing aid this morning. Do you think you could take a look at it, please? Remember, I saw you fixing your spare the second time I came to see you and I thought you might be able to repair this one. My dad would be quite happy to pay you, of course . . .

The Gypsy took the device from him and examined it gravely. Using a tiny screwdriver he quickly had the console cover off. Then he put a watchmaker’s glass to his eye and looked closely at the tiny instrumentation and said at length: "Yes, I can repair it, but it will take some time. But no matter, we shall make a trade, yes? I shall keep this one and fix it when it suits, you will take my spare. No, there is no matter, it is of almost exactly the same kind. Only you must remember, wear it only in your right ear—it will work in your left ear but not as well, because of a special something which I put inside. There was a playful twinkle in the old man’s eye as he said this and then, as Barry was leaving, Mendoza called after him: By the way, Barry, you must try to have kinder thoughts about the old woman you call ‘The Gorgon.’ Only a true witch can be as evil as you make her. Barry stared at him aghast. He had never mentioned Mrs Baxter to the old man as far as he could remember, so how in the world . . . ? Mendoza laughed delightedly. You shall see, my young friend, you shall see!" and his laughter followed Barry halfway down the first block as he continued to pedal homeward.

Arriving home, he found a note from his mother stuck with a small magnet to the door of the refrigerator, explaining that she had been invited to have tea with a friend. He helped himself to his usual doorstep slice of bread, liberally spread with strawberry jam, and went to his bedroom to dispense with his homework for the day.

It was late in the afternoon when Barry received his first intimation that something strange was afoot. His mother arrived home from the tea party at Mrs Reynolds’ and immediately started preparing the evening meal. Barry went through into the kitchen to chat for a while, telling her, as he usually did, all the petty news that he had encountered through the day—achievements in class and on the sports fields, the odd anecdote, the various idiosyncrasies of both teachers and classmates and so forth. Alice Harker, concentrating on the job at hand, listened with half an ear, making the usual appropriate remarks, and after a while Barry fell quiet. Sitting at the table, he started idly spinning a kitchen knife on the tabletop. He gradually became aware that his mother was muttering to herself. Funny, he thought, the old lady was not usually given to talking to herself. Still, he wasn’t unduly perturbed; she tended to be moody at times and this was probably just a manifestation of her present disposition. She did seem to be rather preoccupied and something was no doubt playing heavily on her mind.

The front door opened and his father entered, just home from the office. According to his time-honoured custom, he came into the kitchen and gave his wife a perfunctory kiss on the cheek before saying, Will you be very long over supper, Alice? I’ve got to get to a club committee meeting by seven.

Her reply reinforced Barry’s impression that something was bothering his mother. For heaven’s sake, Harold, she said irritably, I’ve only got one pair of hands and neither of them is endowed with magical powers. Supper will be ready at the usual time and if you happen to be late for your precious meeting then there’s not much I can do about it.

Bloody bitch! Barry heard his father retort and he stiffened in shocked disbelief. Normally the mildest of men, no one had ever known Harold Harker to use any interjection stronger than dash it all. In all his life Barry had never heard his father using even the most innocuous of swearwords, yet here he was, insulting his wife in a way that was sure to provoke a major domestic earthquake. But, astonishingly, Alice had not heard. She continued to peel the potato in her hand with, Barry noticed, a distinct increase in urgency despite her professed indifference to her husband’s appointment. And then she was muttering again, her words switching randomly from one topic to another in concert with her butterfly thoughts:  . . . seems to think preparing a decent meal is just a matter of waving a magic wand . . . don’t think much of Beatrice’s new dress that she’s so proud of . . . mustn’t leave baking the cakes for the church sale too long . . . wish I knew how my Pyrex dish got broken—I’m sure it was Barry although it’s not like him not to own up . . .

I didn’t! exclaimed Barry heatedly.

His mother spun round and stared at him in astonishment. Didn’t what? she demanded.

I didn’t break your dish!

Well, who on earth said you did?

You did! You’ve been standing there muttering away about magic wands and Mrs Reynolds’s new dress and stuff like that and then you said you’re sure I bust your Pyrex dish.

Alice Harker’s expression registered horrified amazement. You mean I’ve been talking to myself?

Yes, you have. You’ve been standing there muttering away to yourself ever since I came in, talking about all sorts of things and jumping from one thing to another like a blooming bee among the roses.

Alice stared at her son for long seconds before turning back to the sink. A moment later Barry piped up accusingly: There! You’re at it again!

His mother whirled round again. Are you mad? she demanded furiously. I didn’t say a word—I had my lips clamped tight!

I heard you clearly, Ma, Barry insisted. You said, ‘Good God, am I going mad?’ Those were your exact words, and then you were on about Mrs Reynolds’s lounge stinking of cat’s wee and you must remember to get a present for Julia Godfrey’s new baby.

Now there was something very close to terror in Alice Harker’s expression. "I was—thinking—those things, she stammered, but I’m positively certain that I didn’t say them."

Well, I heard you clearly enough, Barry said and left the room. He was worried himself now, beginning to wonder if his mother had gone round the bend. He didn’t relish the idea of her being committed to a lunatic asylum.

An hour later the family was seated around the supper table and during the pauses between the snatches of conversation, Barry became aware of the truth behind his parents’ apparently new idiosyncrasies. As they ate, his mother and father were muttering away to themselves on all manner of unrelated topics—yet they were not speaking! Dad, for instance, was preparing an address to the club committee, proposing that membership fees should be substantially increased during the coming book year, yet his lips were correctly closed as he chewed a mouthful of mutton and vegetables. Mom, at the same time, was composing an inventory of the ingredients she would need for the cakes she intended to bake tomorrow. Then Dad was swearing bitterly at old Smithers for not giving him the recognition he deserved for a valuable labour saving procedure that had been adopted at his suggestion. Now Mom was going off pop at Auntie Molly over a snide remark she had made in her latest letter. Barry put his knife down on his plate and turned up the volume on his hearing aid. The voices remained at the same pitch, nor did they become any softer when he turned the knob to minimum volume, although the clatter of cutlery on chinaware rose and fell as normal. He removed the earphone from his ear, and there was complete silence.

Suddenly it was clear. There was something about his new hearing aid; something old Mendoza had built into it that enabled him to listen to other people’s thoughts! No wonder the old Gypsy had been able so often to read his mind and ferret bits and pieces of unspoken information out of his mind. And no wonder he had laughed so. The realization caused him to blanch and he stopped chewing and sat with his hands on the table staring at the opposite wall, a look of startled disbelief on his face.

His mother’s voice brought him out of his shock. What on earth’s the matter, Barry? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost. He gulped and with an effort of will collected his scrambled thoughts. No, nothing’s wrong. Just realized that I left a book at school that I need to finish my homework, that’s all.

For a moment he considered telling his parents about his discovery but immediately vetoed the idea. A phenomenon like this had to be kept strictly secret, for knowledge of it would surely bring his mother’s cherished Irishness surging to the fore. She would cry Witchcraft! and consign the things to flames. Heaven knew, though, what powers might accrue to him through being able to tune into the innermost thoughts of anyone within speaking range. The possibilities were infinite. He would be able to forestall and counter any action planned against him and know for sure at last what Jenny Andrews really thought of him. And in future life, after finishing university (summa cum laude, of course) and when he started out in his career—well, the world would be quite literally at his feet. What an incredible advantage he would have over colleague and adversary alike, knowing precisely what they were thinking and planning at business and committee meetings, being able to out-manoeuvre them at every turn . . . hell—perhaps he should go into politics!

Are you likely to get into trouble over that book, son? His father’s gentle query brought him out of his daydream.

Huh? Oh no, not really. It’s just a bit of a nuisance, that’s all.

Well, what’s on your mind then? You seem to be a million miles from here.

No, Dad, nothing’s on my mind, nothing important anyway. Just a few things like the match against Dale on Saturday, having to swot for the September exams, that sort of thing.

Right-ho, then, his father said fondly. But remember what I’ve always told you. Anything on your mind, you come and tell your old dad about it. Okay? Well, if you good people will excuse me, I must get to the meeting. Thank you for the supper, my dear—up to your usual exemplary standard as always. He fetched his coat and a minute later left the house with a cheerful Ta-ta!

Most definitely, Barry decided, he would stop at the caravan on his way to school the next morning and quiz old Mendoza about the hearing aid.

He was disappointed though. Long before he had reached the spot where the gaily-painted caravan had by now become a familiar feature on the commonage, Barry saw that it was gone. The town was never to see it again.

School that day was hilarious. Weaving in and out amongst the normal sounds of the everyday curriculum, Barry listened to the private thoughts of his thirty-one classmates, intermingling with those of the teacher of the moment when he or she happened not to be speaking. It was like a dull background murmur, of itself unintelligible but punctuated every so often by a clearly enunciated and easily identifiable exclamation of disgust, frustration or dismay as one or another of his peers gave unspoken voice to his opinion of an intransigent problem. Barry found that he could easily tune in to the thoughts of anyone in fairly close proximity to himself, much as a party guest can concentrate on the speech of one individual, effectively cutting out the buzz of general conversation.

The biology period in particular was a revelation. The Gorgon, punctual as always to a fault, entered the classroom within a minute of the bell signalling the change of periods. She was greeted by a chorus of groans and bitter vitriol that had Barry flinching involuntarily, convinced for a moment that she must surely have heard. But the lesson commenced normally, Mrs Baxter instructing her class to display for her inspection their diagrams of the digestive system. She moved up and down the aisles, making appropriate comments on her charges’ artistic efforts. Tommy Hobbs’s work wasn’t fit to grace a pigsty, he must do it again, properly this time; Eric Thomas