Visions and Singing

by

William Sutton
william-sutton@tiscali.co.uk
www.william-sutton.co.uk



It was simply to do my exercises that I started going up on the roof. Not to admire the view or gaze at the stars. I had no intention of looking at anything, I promise you. It was just an open space, where I could exercise without cracking my bleeding shins against the sofa.
My singing teacher ' the one who convinced me to try the exercises in the first place ' was much more the mystical type. Chakras, auras, meridian lines: she couldn't get enough of that stuff. I was always the sceptic, nodding politely, smiling hypocritically.
'What's the point?'� she shouted at me. 'Why bother with scales and breathing and jazz intervals if you've got the posture of a Neanderthal in a broom cupboard? I've told you: sort out your spine, or you might as well give up.'�
I just sat there.
'It's not enough to sing quite well. You've got to want it. Why should I have to yell to get you to start exercising?'�
I shrugged.
My lessons didn't usually run to high emotion. I sometimes caught myself crying after I said goodbye, but I just put that down to the deep breathing. She was always telling me how singing pushes mystical buttons.
Maybe. I loved it, though. I felt touched by my own feelings: surprised that I was still vulnerable, I suppose, after all this time. Still, I was shaken by her outburst. 'Those suggestions you made,'� I said, fumbling for excuses. 'I tried some, but ''�
'Did you try the Alexander Technique? That's the business.'�
'I tried it,'� I said. 'The woman was pushy.'�
She frowned. 'Tai Chi?'�
'Yes.'� I hesitated. 'Full of morons.'�
'Yoga?'�
'I liked, yes, but ... The bloke had creepy long fingers. And a beard.'�
'Look.'� She sat down. She massaged her brows with her thumbs. 'I like teaching you. There's a quality to your voice that you could do something with. You're stubborn. Hard-working. But if you won't exercise, you're wasting your time. And mine.'� She looked at me piercingly. 'I'll give you a list of exercises. If you do them, your posture may begin to straighten out. It's not about slimming; it's not about keep-fit. It's about having a bit of vision.'� She gave me a look, a look that said she knew: she knew that, beyond the nuts-and-bolts brilliance of her lessons, it was moments like this that made her one of those teachers you remember all your life. 'But if you can't be bothered, forget it. Practice all you like, your body won't stand the strain of serious singing.'�
I nodded like a humbled child.
She grinned. She'd got me. 'All right. Do these for three months, let's say, then call me.'�
'Three months? But I ''�
'Three months. Every day, mind. Otherwise I don't want to hear from you. Understood?'�

I pinned the exercises up on the wall, stripped down to knickers and tank top, threw open the windows and began.
Within ten minutes I'd given up. It wasn't the stretching that depressed me. I mean, she was right: my lower back was stiff as iron; if it was really possible to loosen it up, I was all in favour. What I couldn't bear was my stupid flat.
Whamming my toes against the sofa every two minutes. Whacking the lampshade when I should be releasing my shoulder blades. It's all low ceilings and cramped spaces, my flat is. It's constricting. Trammelled. In fact, I often find myself reading on the floor, or curled up on the rug eating dinner in front of the TV. Hence the bad posture, I suppose.
In frustration, I punched a cushion. I enjoyed that so much, I punched another.
Pathetic.
I stomped through to the kitchen and clattered around, throwing together a desolate supper. I wanted to cry out. Was I so easily defeated? Was I going to give up on my lessons?

It wasn't till dusk that I remembered the roof. I hadn't been up there since I moved in. The agent showed it off as a selling point. Views across the city, he said. Glimpses of St Paul's and the hills south of the river. Turned out, of course, that nobody ever went up there, except to move their TV aerials.
I scrabbled around in the kitchen drawer, among corkscrews and fondue skewers, till I found a rusty key labelled in tiny letters: ROOF.
The sunset made my skin glow. What a fool I felt for my years of forgetfulness. God, it was glorious up on high there. Made me want to move up there and camp out under the stars for the summer. I gazed up into the deepening blue, radiant with expectation. Just like my singing teacher wanted, I was beginning to see it. Limitless possibilities stretching out before me. I could do it after all. I could breathe. I could move. It was perfect.

I made a point of going up the same time every evening, just before dusk. I'd do a batch of exercises ' basic at first, but gradually more adventurous ' then scurry back down and reward myself with a luxurious bath or crappy TV.
I noticed other roofs in the area. My block of flats stands at the corner of two residential streets, overlooking the canal. The buildings around are all dotted with balconies and flat roofs. Further off, towards the heart of town, stairwells and fire escapes give on to oddly shaped eaves.
Some buildings had roof gardens. Flowers, sunbeds, picnic tables. Why didn't we? We could lounge up here, sipping cocktails. I started making mental lists of who I'd invite. Could I really have a party? Not without consulting the Tenants' Committee, faceless busybodies who sent round circulars insisting that rubbish must be enclosed in plastic binliners and bikes must never be left on stairs. Of course, I'd only want to invite the funky ones, the more recent arrivals, the people I smile to on the stairs.
If you are young, beautiful
and intriguing,
you are cordially invited to my
Saturday night Roof Party
xxx 4b
Except they would probably look at me and find me old and boring. Nobody talks in our building anyway. Pass each other on the narrow stairs with eyes front, giving at the very most a tight-lipped nod. One of those unspoken rules, never to be transgressed.
It was one of those sunsets where you're convinced you can see the sun moving. I was beginning my stretches, eyes fixed on one particular roof, when a little figure appeared. I watched her, a girl, skipping from one edge of the building to the other, revelling in her secret game, serenely free from the noise and bustle below. Just like me.

The nights grew warmer. I scurried up to the roof and stayed later and later, stretching and gazing, gazing and stretching.
Then one night, a wicked notion took hold of me.
Not to do the exercises.
I'd been religious about it for two months. I kept thinking of my singing teacher's admonitions. My voice felt croaky already, grungy and full of fluff; but I'd been so diligent, I was nearly ready to call her. Her compliments excited me, I'll admit it. I'd barely thought about it at the time. My job was solid. I wasn't going to chuck it in. But moonlighting in those smoky clubs and jazz cafes, that sounded the most daring thing I could imagine. Little black dress. Cocktails. All that jazz. She'd hinted that I could do it ' hadn't she?
I usually peeked behind the chimney stacks to make sure I was alone. This time I allowed myself to stroll right around the roof. It's a T-shaped building, and as I dawdled by the low wall at the bottom of the T, I realised I could see down into flats in my own building.
There was a blue light flickering down below. A television. Gauze curtains fluttered in the breeze. I could see a sofa, hear music drifting out the window. A woman breezed into view, a beautiful woman, naked, and my breath caught in my throat. She stood for a moment, looking out, enjoying the cool evening air. She leaned forward. Had she seen me?
I crouched down below the wall. She was one of the ones I'd passed on the stairs. I peered over the edge again. No, she hadn't spotted me; she was in her own world. She turned and stretched out on the sofa, still visible. She lay there, absolutely calm.
I stared in puzzlement. What was she doing? She had one hand on her belly, the other cradling her head. I felt a strange thrill. The thrill of glimpsing moments not meant for other eyes. I am never as relaxed as this woman, I said to myself. When I'm alone in my flat, I'm constantly shifting about. I tidy. I organise. On the phone, I pace around. Even while my dinner's cooking, I fold my laundry, arrange my shoes, or do the washing up. I only sit quietly when I read, but then I tend to read while I'm eating or watching TV. With other people I'm guarded. Even with close friends, when we meet, which is rarely, the talk is never uncensored. That's normal, I suppose. But I recall heady days at school and nights at college with these same people when we really talked: excavating each other's souls, obsessed with our futures, alive to possibility. It's all rigid now: so adult, so polite.
The woman ran her finger along the groove of her collar bone. She yawned, stretched involuntarily, catlike and magnificent. She itched her thigh. She smiled.
I drew back from the wall, bewildered by my own fascination. I turned to face my habitual direction, north, away from the city. I raised my arms to start exercising. Five minutes in, I caught myself peeking over the wall. I pulled away, bit my lip, swung my arms with double determination.
Ten minutes later, I was gazing again. She was still there, and now there was a dark haired man in a towel with her, perched on the edge of the sofa, caressing her arm. His skin glistened in the warmth of the lamplight. I was mesmerised.
I tore myself away, appalled by my invasion of their privacy, and frogmarched myself back to my flat. Of course, as I drifted off to sleep, lurid images ran through my head. It was a thrill beyond the sexual, and a glow dripped through my insides.
The next day I skipped my exercises, didn't go up. I was tired, I told myself. I had a bath. Went to bed early with a book.
The third day at dusk, I was there, peeping over the wall.
By the time she appeared, still with that unearthly self-possession, that poise and grace, I was nearly beside myself with expectation.
I ran through the arguments in my head: if they don't know they're being watched, it's not an invasion. They take pleasure in being together. Like birds singing or dolphins playing: they don't need to know about their beauty, they're just obeying instincts. The pleasure I was enjoying was an extra, a bonus; it harmed no-one.

The following nights, there was no sign of my lovers.
On Friday, I decided to stay up as long as it took. I did a few stretches, just to pass the time, but every five minutes I kept having a glance over the wall. The third time I looked, there she was. Not naked this time ' there was just a hint of autumn in the air
' but she was wearing tartan pyjama bottoms and a baggy T-shirt. She was stretched out on the sofa again, with a tub of ice cream propped on her chest. She ate it without haste, like everything she did. At one point she shifted the tub down a little, so it was perched between her breasts. My jaw hung open as I imagined the feel of that cold tub. After five minutes of methodical dreamy mouthfuls, she pressed the spoon decisively into the ice cream, and ' with a speed that caught me unawares ' swung upright to lean against the window sill.
I ducked down in dismay. Had she seen me? She couldn't have. She would have gasped, she would have called out. Still, I shouldn't have moved. Hiding away like that was more suspicious than just being there. If she had shouted, I could have played the innocent, said I was just doing exercises. She could come up and join me if she liked. It could be a pretext to meet.
I cowered beneath the wall like an idiot. On hands and knees, I crawled to the broader part of the roof. It was like some dreadful farce. I stood up, breathed deep. Let's be clear, I thought, I've done nothing wrong. Except the whole point was that she should never see me. That would be breaking the rules.
I tiptoed across to the far side of the roof. Would she come up? I half dreaded it, half wanted it. As I stared into space, the shock dissipating, I found myself gazing at other windows, further off. In the building opposite, a baby lay in the centre of a double bed. The next window along, a couple were having dinner. They were actually serving each other with a salad fork and spoon. Was that normal for them? Or were they celebrating some special occasion? Perhaps it was a romantic dinner, an invitation. Or did they live together? That might be their baby, tucked in the next room, to allow them a stolen hour together, just the two of them.
I scurried back and peeked over the wall again. She had vanished. Gone out, or early to bed. I hurried back over to the romantic couple. They were already clearing the table. I felt let down.
As I headed downstairs, a notion struck me: I could ring her doorbell, ask for something. Sugar, coffee. Too clichéd. But imagine I did ring. Imagine I came up with some pretext and just bloody well rang her doorbell. The fantasy raced away with me. We get to know each other, have lots in common, become intimate friends. Dates for coffee; complaints about life, work, men; holidays together, shared secrets, bridesmaids, mutual godmothers '� But there remains this lie between us, that will one day find me out, when she catches me pouring away the second cup of Nescafe into the begonia: that I like coffee with sugar, when I can think of nothing more vile.
The urge to knock on her door was delicious. But it was a nonsense. There's a late night shop two blocks away. Nobody would dream of ringing someone's doorbell uninvited in this block of flats. In this whole city. I took myself off the other way, down the back stairs. Back in my flat, I told myself off. I mustn't think about interfering. I mustn't transgress the line.

For the next week, I denied myself the pleasure of watching her. Instead, I took to checking other windows. In my building and the two closest, there were five flats or more where I often saw intriguing scenes played out.
If I dared to look further afield, how much more would I discover?
The time rushed past. I dug out a pair of binoculars I'd bought in Hong Kong. The simplest things could fascinate me. A face on a distant balcony. The warmth of the light behind drawn curtains. Strains of music far off, ghostly and indistinct. I could watch for hours, quite calm. Yes: I had finally found it, that calm I had so admired in her.

One day the phone rang as I came in. Caught unawares, I picked up.
It was my singing teacher. She'd left a message before, but I somehow hadn't got round to ringing her back.
'Are you not coming back, then?'� she asked.
I wanted to impress her, to tell her
how I'd got over the initial hurdles and I'd been exercising like crazy and it was really beginning to work. But I stumbled on the words. Because it wasn't true, not any more. Now that I was forced to think about it, I'd done bugger all for weeks. And I still changed into exercise gear! Why didn't I drop the pretence and go up in normal clothes?
'Well, I was doing all the exercises,'� I blurted out, 'pretty regularly.'�
She was silent.
'I've sort of slipped, but ''� There was a moment when I waited to hear myself explain. Justify myself. Ask her to give me a chance.
But the moment passed. We exchanged pleasantries, increasingly hesitant, and she hung up.
I stood there puzzled. What was she so upset about? I'd stung her pride, perhaps. She played her best hand, and still I failed her. What did it matter, though? What was I looking for in singing? My whole body was singing now.

The evenings drew in as the summer wore thin. It rained fairly often, but I don't mind rain. I found myself refusing invitations, preferring to stay in. I still peeked at my woman. I knew her schedules, which nights she was out, which nights she watched TV. Her man came at weekends. They were never naked again. I still wondered, what might I have seen that first night had I not drawn back? How would I have felt about watching? I wondered what they did that night. Just a caress of the arm and no more? Or was it already after sex, tingling, relaxing? Maybe that's why she seemed so languid, why he'd taken a shower. Maybe they don't see each other all week, then the moment he arrives they devour each other, all over her flat, exploring every possibility. I wished I were her.
I tried to walk around my flat naked, but the shouts of the kids heading home from the pub karaoke night made me uncomfortable. I covered myself up and hid away.

There was one last message from my singing teacher. It was brief and a little sad, I thought. She was moving away, tired of the city. 'Going off in search of new pastures,'� she said. 'Fresh inspiration, eh? Give me a call some time, let me know what ''�
The machine cut her off.
I felt a pang of remorse and went straight up to the roof. To my surprise, there was someone, off on a distant building, peering over the edge of his roof. Though so far away, I had not the slightest doubt what he was doing. He was a peeping tom. I felt a bit superior; I mean, I was sure that he wouldn't have developed the same kind of strict code I had made for myself, to elevate it, bring it to an aesthetic level. The man didn't seem to see me, but who's to say he hadn't watched me other nights when I'd been at my ease, blissfully unaware? And from his roof, he must see a hundred houses that are hidden from me. It set my mind whirling. All the different viewpoints. The possibilities were riotous.
I peered down towards my original couple. It was a treat I rarely allowed myself. They were my talisman. I came back to them when I needed assurance, relied on them to remind me what I was at. To restore that sense of wonder, of ease. If they ever spotted me, though, the game would be up.
And he was there, thank goodness, against the end of the sofa, looking out the window. He glanced around, swayed backwards in a casual way that made me sure he was talking to her. I wished I could hear the words. I wished I was there, with them but unnoticed, basking in their warmth. My mind began wandering.

I hear a polite cough behind me. I nearly jump out of my skin. I try to be brave. I turn to face her. Utter panic courses through me.
She fixes me with uncertain eyes. 'Hello.'�
At the fragility of her voice, I can't help but smile. She smiles back. She has a broad, engaging smile that seems to say that she not only understands, she forgives me. Perhaps in a way she even loves me.
'Why don't you come down?'� she says and reaches out her hand.

Reaches out her hand '� But this is only my imagination. There is no cough. I hear no soft words. I am still looking at their window, and while I have been watching, dreaming, wishing, the man has drawn the blinds and moved away, and the dusk has drawn in around me.
I tell myself it is not dark yet. I look around to see the lights of other houses. But I can't seem to focus on those distant lives any more. Instead, I find myself wondering. What am I doing? How have I come to this? Because I know my dream will not come true. The woman and I, we will never speak. I won't call my singing teacher. My posture may improve, who knows, but I'm not going to master my singing voice, not now, not ever. My future that I thought was stretching out before me, lustrous and burgeoning, has darkened. My vision has dimmed. It's time to go down to my flat before the chill of night sets in.

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