Kim
Members within an amateur choir discovers a need for extra rehearsals which lead to new pairings in making their music much much sweeter.....
Prologue
It can often be a shock to find that life, as you thought you knew it, is little more than a paper thin construct... something fooling you into docility and acceptance while other things go on behind your back. The shock can be brutal. You can feel betrayed. The question which quickly follows is: do you have what it takes to do anything about it?
He turned over in his bed for perhaps the twentieth time, pulling a pillow over his head in a desperate attempt to block out the sounds.
*************************
2 a.m
He turned over in his bed for perhaps the twentieth time, pulling a pillow over his head in a desperate attempt to block out the sounds.
It was of no use. The thin wall separating his room from the adjoining bedroom ensured that he could hear almost everything, albeit in a dampened, muffled way. Only the spoken words were difficult to catch... but they were few and far between. The deep male grunts and the higher female gasps and moans were the main elements of this particular symphony, with the occasional accompanying high bedspring squeak and actual low bedpost percussion on the wall.
He was in real torment - there was no possibility of sleep for him in the situation. He toyed over and again with the idea of banging on the wall or actually complaining... but, as frequently, dismissed the thought for fear of the possible consequences. How long had this been going on now? Half an hour? Three quarters? Each minute seemed to last an eternity...
... an eternity... of torment...
*************************
Some Weeks Earlier
The Choir's midsummer barbecue evening was in full swing. Night had fallen but few had left as yet - the atmosphere was congenial, the wine flowed in the light of lanterns and the glow still coming from the barbecue - and both the food and the company were excellent. Ladies were in their summer dresses and men in shirts and ties, some of the latter loosened more than just a little to meet the humid conditions in this late evening in the middle Thames Valley.
Callum considered this "do" to be hugely enjoyable, better even than the other festive get-together at Christmas. It was so good to do things together as a group - things other than singing - and, as the evening had already proved, the odd singalong now and then was scarcely ruled out. Everyone was mingling and having a good time. As he went around with the tray of desserts passed to him by his wife, Hannah, as if it were naturally his chore to do, he received compliments on the success of the evening - "well, I may have organised it but we have Denise to thank for the use of her house and garden" was always dutifully his response.
And indeed, Denise had come up trumps. Her large, inherited-through-the-family farmhouse with the small orchard spreading out from the back was ideal for this sort of thing. She already had a huge barbecue pit in place and the rest was a matter of getting the food and drink in. His and Hannah's own finishing touches - the lighted candles, lanterns and bunting - were scarcely herculean as tasks. The hog roast had gone well and you could see contented faces everywhere in the flickering firelight.
The sounds of glasses clinking, murmured conversation and the occasional explosion of laughter filled the air. People were in a mellow mood... perhaps a little too mellow, to judge by some of the innuendo overheard and casual over-friendliness he had spotted here and there. Martin Hilliard, that man mountain, the choir's virtuoso bass and self-appointed life-and-soul-of-the-party, was holding forth with booming voice to general merriment in one particularly numerous group by the barbecue pit. But that was all to the good. Spotting Callum passing, he came over to intercept.
'Hey, Callum. Great party! Everyone's saying so. Thanks to you and Hannah for volunteering to organise it.'
'Oh, there really wasn't a great deal of work involved.' Callum was pleased at the compliment and could only play down his role in things. 'Anyone could have done it, really.'
'So where is that lovely wife of yours? Slaving in the kitchen?'
'No, she's chin-wagging with Denise over there on the patio. Excuse me.' Callum nodded in the direction, careful not to spill the remaining desserts from the tray, and moved on.
Yes, he thought, it was usually such an effort to get this crowd to do anything different - he remembered the apathy which had met his suggestions about singing to audiences outside of the Oxfordshire area... and still less enthusiasm had greeted ideas about trips to London or picnics... but this evening seemed to be going really well.
He could see Hannah, deep in earnest conversation on some subject with Denise over near the rear porch and slowly made his way towards the pair, dispensing the final desserts as he went.
'Hello you two', he smiled in greeting, 'what are you conspiring together about?'
He had a soft spot for little, petite Denise and always wondered how she could run and maintain such a huge house all on her own. It was she who replied, with apparent enthusiasm.
'Oh... er... we've been talking about maybe starting up that small acappella section we've always been on about, remember? You and Hannah would be perfect for it. And my house here would be a natural for the rehearsals... we don't want to spend any more money on hiring halls and my lounge is plenty big enough for ten people, say.'
Hannah interrupted quickly.
'Ah, I doubt that we could make it. The only other viable night is Thursdays and Callum has his little bridge club then - me, well, I think the Tuesday night is already enough of a commitment. I like to relax after work!'
Callum was surprised and not a little put out by his wife's rapid put down... he could definitely sacrifice the occasional bridge evening, at a pinch. The use of "little" was condescending, as well... and one of an increasing number of disparagements Hannah had been throwing at him these last few months. It was almost as if she was growing tired of their now five-year-long marriage. However it was obvious that, yes, an acappella section would need to have consistency of attendance, so he followed suit dutifully.
'Yes, it would be difficult, to put it mildly. I'd be surprised if you'll get many takers. What exactly are you looking for?'
'Well, I'd guess a minimum four to six each of men and women... and then there's having to find a balance between the soprano to bass registers... I'd forgotten that. Yes, this could actually be trickier than I imagined. I'll go and run it past Mr. Maestro Musical Director! Hang about, Hannah, I'll find you again before we break up and chat more about it.'
Handing back her emptied bowl, she made off to the other side of the barbecue pit to have words with Steven, the Choir's conductor and director.
'Well, come on, then,' muttered Callum, still somewhat peeved at Hannah's presumption, 'let's go and circulate. We may not be the hosts but Denise has her hands full, by the looks of things.' He spoke with a little irony as he had more than a passing suspicion that Denise had designs on Steven, a thoroughly married gent and father of two. He could see them standing together over there in the flickering of the firelight, her hand resting "accidentally" on his arm. Steven was scarcely the slimmest and the two made for an odd couple. Callum wondered what she saw in him... what the attraction was...
*************************
'Well, that comes a bit rich, after all you were pontificating to Denise about "liking a rest after work".
Hannah shifted uneasily in her chair. Letting drop the announcement that she was joining the Thursday acappella group "casually" had not worked. She realised Callum's annoyance was only superficial - he really could not be in two places at once, after all. His bridge game would always come first. How much skin was it off his nose if she herself went along? It was the inaugural night and she was really only going along provisionally - just to see, as she had explained to her husband. If it turned out to be a non-starter, she would not be going again. In any case, she had made up her mind and nothing he could say would be allowed to change it.
'Look, what's your problem? It's the first night... I thought it wouldn't do any harm just to see how things work out. You're going out as usual, anyway. Where's the harm?'
Callum was put on the defensive.
'Oh, I suppose so... but mark my words, first meetings like this are always chaotic things where nobody knows what they should be doing - er... you won't enjoy it... is my guess....'
His words tailed off as she had already turned her back on him and made off for the kitchen.
Later, as she started the car out of the drive after dinner, Hannah was still bristling, if mildly. Good grief, did he think he could stand there and dictate to her? After these years of being a non-husband and... still no pregnancy..? Now, he wanted to cut a dominant master figure... now, did he? Her thoughts morphed into a grim determination to enjoy proceedings at Denise's, no matter how "chaotic" they were. Turning onto the Eynsham road for the short drive, she remembered all that Denise had murmured to her in a low voice, weeks ago at the barbecue. Yes, despite what Callum said, there might well be at least some enjoyment to be had...
~
Callum looked at the sheet music quizzically. His wife had been going to the acapella group now for six weeks or so. This was the first time she had left her music behind and he wondered whether she could manage without it. He shuddered - old English madrigals were scarcely to his own taste. Perhaps she could borrow someone else's or share..? Then he noticed some pencil marks made in her own hand. Oh dear... maybe she would flounder, after all. These musical notation things tended to be somewhat personal.
He sighed, glancing at the clock. Eight fifteen and really only enough time left for him to get to his own cards evening out near Cassington. Oh well, maybe he could arrive a few minutes late. People only chatted for the first ten minutes. He would probably get to Denise's sometime near the acappella group's coffee break. Hannah would appreciate the effort, he thought. Things had been fractious between them of late. He had not liked the way Hannah had seemed to be cosying up to some of the men at the main choir rehearsal on Tuesday... particularly that Martin in the basses who tended to flash his smile at anything in a skirt. He, Callum, had been pretty short with her in some hot exchanges later. Yes, this would go some way to mending fences. It would show willing.
*************************
Indeed, he found this patio at the rear flooded with light from that very room but, before he even prodded at the door, he realised that nobody was there. He could see through the window that there were empty and half-empty coffee cups positioned here and there, mingling with strewn sheet music similar to that in his grasp. A music stand was positioned centrally in the room and was clearly the conductor's spot.
The whole thing, as he gazed around having entered, was akin to the galley of the "Marie Celeste". Where was everyone? He could see through a serving hatch into the kitchen that there was nobody in residence in that room either.
Idly musing, he moved into the hallway which led from the living room to the front door and which had other rooms leading off from it as well as a wide, winding staircase to the first floor. Suddenly he thought he heard voices from upstairs as well as some muffled bumps and shufflings as if furniture were being re-arranged up above. Ah, he thought, problem solved. Denise's got them all helping with something during the coffee break.
He tramped up the stairs, wondering as he went which of the numerous bedrooms up here was the subject of attention. As he arrived on the first floor landing however he was surprised again to find none of the bedroom doors flung wide open with people busily carrying boxes and crates in or out. What the hell..?
But he could still hear the muffled noises.
He approached the first door and was stopped in his tracks by the sound of repeated gasps and groans from behind it. His throat went dry and tentatively he bent down to look through the old-fashioned, very large keyhole. The scene inside was clear. A couple were on a double bed in the throes of sex. A man was thrusting energetically into the woman beneath him as her legs encircled him. Suddenly he realised who was involved... it was Denise herself, the choir's leading soprano as he had never seen her before... her small if well-proportioned breasts bouncing gently in response to the man's thrusting... and none other than dear Steven, the choir's conductor, who was delivering those same thrusts with his somewhat rotund body sweating and his buttocks clenching repeatedly.
Callum straightened up with a jerk, his mind in a whirl, wondering what it was he had walked into. Should I run? Can I just leave Hannah's stuff downstairs... and where is she, anyway?
He moved on to the next door, on the other side of the corridor. The same kind of noises were proceeding from here also. Again lowering herself to squint through the keyhole, this time he could see little inside the room as all but one dim desk lamp had been switched off... but listening to the sounds he thought he could make out that the protagonists were Josh Kelly, a rather handsome baritone who had been with the choir from the outset... and Margo Fitzsimons, a fairly young second soprano who had joined only six months back, both happily married, apparently - if not to each other - and both copulating with joyous abandon.
He realised that the five bedrooms here each probably contained a fornicating couple. He drew in his breath and anger welled from within as he could no longer suppress the thought that his own dear Hannah was probably at play here with some fucking bastard... literally. But he could not bring himself to turn and run... he had to have proof...
He went from one door to another, being met with the same scenario each time... but no Hannah. Thinking back, he could not remember whether he had actually seen her Audi in the dimly lit yard outside. A faint hope began to rise in him as he approached the final door which was slightly ajar. Perhaps... just perhaps he had wronged her... but then where was she if not here?
The room inside was brightly lit... and Callum soon had any remaining hopes dashed as he observed the naked body of his own darling Hannah sprawled beneath the mighty figure of Martin Hilliard with her legs draped over his shoulders and her hands clasping his massive flanks as he pushed his huge, stiff, swollen member into her...
... again...
...and again...
...and again...
Hannah was enjoying herself manifestly, her gasps and moans joining rhythmically with Martin's own, clenched-teeth hisses. He looked on and saw his wife, eyes closed, bucking her hips and moving them first to the right and then to the left, allowing Martin to get maximum friction. As he watched, hypnotised, Martin brought Hannah's legs back down and these immediately encircled his torso, seeking a purchase as an anchorage from which to grind her sex against him.
Could he dash in and put an end to this? It was a question which did not even cross his mind, replaced automatically by a simple need to get away... perhaps to run away. Callum wrenched himself back from the awful spectacle and then, walking as quickly and as quietly as he could back down the hallway, he could hear Martin's ever-louder grunts starting to be eclipsed by something with which, again, he was only too familiar... the repeated staccato wail of his own dear wife's orgasmic release.
*************************
He could but drive home. All thoughts of his bridge night had long since been consigned to the bin. His mind was in turmoil and his driving was suffering in consequence. On a couple of occasions he came close to causing an accident. Slowly however his breathing calmed as his panic and fury subsided and he began to think more rationally. Betrayed, yes. Hurt, yes. Humiliated, perhaps... but...
... as he climbed out of the car on arrival back at the house, he became aware with a shock that he was only half-considering these matters and Hannah's tryst with Martin. The other half of his focus was firmly on Denise, a woman who he knew had made eyes at him more than once over the years and who, secretly, was a fantasy not only of his occasional solo daydreaming but also, unbeknownst to Hannah, of his more intimate interludes with hand firmly on member. Why would Denise be interested in that tub of lard, Steven? For Christ's sake, he had a paunch the size of a beach ball and was knocking on the door of sixty! Why wouldn't she be more interested in what a younger and more virile man... like himself... could offer..?
Ok, fine, goose and gander... revenge and also ....fulfilment..? Time maybe, to express an interest in... acappella singing..?
As he turned the house key in the lock he began to think of possible good, solid reasons why he could not possibly attend tonight's bridge session... and to plan...
Fine, some of the choir had indeed finally found an interest in things other than singing, it seemed. Good, ok.
He remembered the sight of Denise's small, pale frame flexing and trying its best to get some enjoyment out of that bastard Steven's feeble thrusts. Thoughts slid insistently into his mind of how much more active he, Callum, would be in that position - delivering heavy thrusts and insisting she climax again and again... not just lie back and think of England... him... and Denise... or could he..?
He found a glass of wine for himself, settled himself in a comfortable armchair and, allowing the worst of his indignation to subside, began to plan, his thoughts often becoming the stuff of surreal fantasy.
Excitement started to take the place of his anger and shock, as Hannah's infidelity was matched by thoughts of his own. Maybe he could even push for some excitement at the bridge club - yes, he had always secretly eyed that young Marie Jackson.
It seemed that everyone was having fun.
So possibly room for one more, why not..? Why the fucking hell not..?
The passage of time became something of which he was unaware. Only thoughts of his own future enjoyment and self-indulgence filled his mind, the scenario in his head switching from one possibility to another and his hand massaging the bulge at his groin. Somehow, if distantly, he was aware that all of this was a pipe dream, that he would not have the nerve to initiate anything with other women. He did not have it in him. Women tended to intimidate him. The situation with Hannah of course was different. Childhood sweethearts and often egged on by their two families, there had been a kind of inevitability about their getting married, a kind of inertia...
... but it was a pleasant pipe dream...
His reverie was finally interrupted by the sound of Hannah's car pulling to a halt outside. He jumped to his feet, realising in horror that he had not even addressed the main issue of the day: whether to act the wronged and enraged spouse and provoke a confrontation... or whether to dissemble and feign ignorance of his wife's duplicity. He could make up some excuse for not attending the bridge evening, A headache perhaps. Yes, that was the way to go. He prepared himself mentally as he heard Hannah entering the house and depositing her things in the hall.
Matters did not proceed as he expected. There was no calling out of "how went the bridge?" or even "you're home early".
Instead, the door to the hall was flung open wide and Hannah marched into the living room and up to him, her eyes ablaze. Callum was taken aback by seeing Martin behind her, framed in the doorway. It was a case of an "overload of events" which he was unable to process.
"Listen to me, Callum Anderson. I know you were there tonight, at Denise's place. You were seen driving off - Denise knows nobody else who drives a white Discovery and especially not one with a tow bar. It was you, wasn't it?'
Callum knew not how to answer the implicit challenge. He gulped.
'So you just listen to me', she repeated and edged closer to him, a tone of menace in her voice. 'It's over between us now. I don't particularly want to divorce or separate - I want the public display of togetherness, if only for the sake of Mum and Dad - but, if you absolutely insist, you can clear off. I can live with that. If you do stay, you can at least make yourself useful.'
As she spoke, Martin left the doorway and approached her from behind. The giant of a man put his arms around her, resting one large hand on her stomach and sliding the other into her dress's neckline to cup her breast.
'I'm going to have a real man in my life from now on and I'm going to have his child. I'm sick to the back teeth of nothing happening and your not trying too hard, to put it mildly. If you stay, you will have no say in what I do or how I act. Not only that but you will do exactly as Martin and I instruct you at all times... without question. You will call me "Madam" and Martin "Sir"... always, or Martin will know what to do about it. You will have your useless ring back and I will start gradually using my maiden name again. You'll be in the spare bedroom and you can get your own meals.
More than that, you'll be doing jobs around the house, as instructed by us - me and Martin - in preparation for the birth. And when I do finally give birth to our child - mine and Martin's - you will then move out permanently and have no say whatsoever in its future. You will be gone... and good riddance. Tonight Martin and I will use the main bedroom and I hope you enjoy the entertainment. This house has thin walls.
Those will be the house rules from now on as they apply to you... as we've been able to think of them on the way here. No doubt some more will occur to us as we go along. Do you understand?'
She stepped even closer to him, their faces inches apart, her eyes glaring fiercely into his.
'I said... "DO...YOU... UNDERSTAND..?"
Callum all but recoiled physically from the calculated savagery of the words... but finally managed to find a few of his own.
'Listen... Hannah... my love... please... please don't... don't do this. I think you must be having some... some kind of hormonal problem. I'm happy to... to forget all about it, but just please don't do this. Make... make it all go away... please...'
But the ferocity of Hannah's glare continued, unabated...
*************************
Callum shivered in the cold and poor lighting, pulling his coat closer around him. The mid-December rain continued to lash down, gusts of the night wind blowing it into his face, even under the supposed protection offered by Oxford railway station's roof. He kicked idly at the cases standing next to him.
He had given up. Finally.
Five months of hoping that Hannah would change her mind.
Five months of acting as unpaid menial-slave on top of his day job and taking orders from the 'couple of the house'.
Five months of having his nose rubbed in his status as a lesser male and being continually reminded of his number three status in the hierarchy.
And now, with Hannah's recent triumphant flaunting of her ever more obvious swollen belly, the constant reminder of how another had taken possession of... and planted his seed in... his own wife...
... to render him now number four.
He had given up. He was going back to his parents' place in London, a defeated man. What explanation he would give them, he had no idea. All he knew was that he could not take the shame and ignominy any more. He could spend Christmas there and then start again... somehow...
... somehow... surely...
... couldn't he..?
The End
Contact the author Kim:
velvetglider@yahoo.com
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