An Amazing Voice by Judith Skilleter, provencal rosé

Ray has the most amazing voice. He is a bass singer, a rich booming bass singer. It is a fabulous voice with a wonderful range and one that could tackle any role or song. It is a voice that captivates audiences. In his early years Ray had singing lessons and even attended music school where he was encouraged to perform by his teachers and to make singing his career.  But that sort of life was not for him: always on the move and new venues and new people every day - no way. He enjoyed stability and being in one place too much. In any case his girlfriend from when he was fourteen years old was pregnant with their first child and it was with delight he chose a different profession that had nothing to do with music – music was a hobby he loved and he was not prepared  for it to become a chore. So Ray became a history teacher where he used his voice to great effect but not by singing. He married his girlfriend and very soon they had three children under six years. The peripatetic life of a troubadour was definitely not for him.

As a teacher he did not need to raise his voice to be heard; it was beautifully raised all the time and even the miscreants at the back of the class did not miss a word.  His pupils loved him, he was an entertaining teacher and he made history fascinating and his punishments were a delight.

Ray remembers one time some years ago when he was teaching A Level students about the Italian Wars. He saw Alec Finn at the back of the class chatting to his pal in the next seat.

“Finn,” boomed Ray without much effort, “you are here to learn history and not talk to your dodgy pal in the next seat. Both of you, by tomorrow morning I would like to see in my cubby hole a full list of the states in the United States alongside their capitals and I would like to see underlined those capital cities that have a name the same as a city in the UK. And do not let Washington baffle you.”

This, of course, led to much laughter and merriment throughout the class.

“What do the two of you say to that then?” continued Ray.

“Yes sir, sorry sir” said Finn and his dodgy pal at the same time.

“In fact you can all do this lovely little task. I don’t mind if you share and copy, do it together” said Ray.

“Oh no sir,” went right round the room.

“It is a useful piece of learning for which you will all thank me when you are as old and grey as me and love doing crosswords and pub quizzes. So stop whingeing. Now, back to the Italian Wars – and I mean you too Finn.”

Next morning Ray found one completed and correct list in his cubby hole signed by the whole class, the Headmaster, a few of the other staff members, Paul McCartney, Shirley Bassey and Mick Jagger.

“Wonderful,” said Ray quietly to himself.

Ray is a football referee and again his big voice is an asset. He does not referee for the big professional teams, rather local school and amateur teams. And he loves it. Refereeing keeps him fit. (He tried golf but he found it boring and his clubs, new, shiny and hardly used, were sold on eBay). Ray rarely has to use his whistle to stop play or identify fouls as his voice his quite enough.

There was a young player, Joe Dobson, who was with a professional side’s academy for a while until he was let go. - “Football can be a cruel business” thinks Ray. Joe had committed just too many fouls in the penalty area. “The lad just gets too excited if there is a chance of a goal,” rationalised Ray. But Joe was sent off many times often with the words “Dobson off” ringing in his ears when Ray was the referee. Of course, the crowd picked this phrase up and Ray hears them singing “Dobson off” even when Dobson is not playing.

“It is my own personal chant,” Ray thinks with delight.  I have a nickname – Dobson off. As for Joe Dobson himself, he signs autographs “Dobson off” as he now enjoys a solid football career, albeit not in the heady heights of the Premier League.

But music is still a big part of Ray’s life. He is in a couple of choirs – of course he is. And he is in a barber shop quartet whose repertoire is enjoyed at weddings and dinner dances. Ray’s voice can always be identified no matter how big or how small the venue. His favourite songs are from the Deep South where he can give full rein to his rich bass voice and these are often requested by his audiences.

Every year Ray is asked to be Father Christmas in the local big stores and shopping malls as his 'Ho Ho Ho's are well known. He says no to the traditional Santa Claus tasks: having young children on your knee can be risky these days, risky to himself, so he avoids these contacts and contracts. But, now he is retired from teaching he instead enjoys singing in shopping malls dressed as Santa Claus at Xmas. And the money he raises goes to charity.

 Ray loved singing his own children to sleep all those years ago, although he had to learn to sing very quietly otherwise there would be complaints that he was too loud and they couldn’t get to sleep. He is now relearning quiet singing for when his small grandchildren come to stay.

“One day they will ask me to read to them rather than Gramps singing” says Alice wistfully, but she doesn’t mind really. Ray’s voice has always been one of the reasons she fell in love with him and always will be. She delights in the pleasure the younger generations get from Gramps’ marvellous voice.

But Ray and Alice also enjoy silence. Every morning there is up to two hours where there is not a word spoken.

Their routine is that they wake up and enjoy a cup of tea from a long-hated Teasmade that Alice inherited when her mother died. She now loves it and enjoys a cup of Earl Grey tea with milk while Ray enjoys tea with honey and lemon (to protect his voice) before they start their day. Once up and ready they stroll to the newsagents for their newspapers and come straight home for breakfast. Breakfast is spent in complete silence as they do the puzzles in their papers – Ray attacks the cryptic crosswords and Alice attacks the Sudokus and general knowledge crosswords. The only word spoken during this precious time is the occasional “Shhh” if one or the other mutters to themselves.  Only  after the puzzles and most likely a second pot of coffee have been completed can their noisy day begin.

Both Ray and Alice are now retired. For all her working life Alice was a librarian. What else could she be with all those decibels at home? Her working days were spent in relative silence while her personal life was full of glorious noise – apart from puzzle time – and she loved and still loves it.

About the author

Judith Skilleter is new to writing fiction after a long career in social work and teaching. Her first children's novel The April Rebellion, has recently been published. Judith is a Geordie, who settled in East Yorkshire forty-five years ago and is married with four grandchildren 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Victor

VICTOR

 Roger Noons
a large glass of a Provencal Rosé 

Looking back, I still cannot believe it, although initially, it felt like a regular Wednesday. The alarm sounded at seven thirty, my wife got up and complained that she had to do everything, then she went downstairs and turned on the radio in the kitchen. I showered, shaved and dressed smartly, as the night before, I had checked, and saw that I had an appointment at eleven am.

    At two minutes to eleven, I arrived outside the large Edwardian house on the edge of town, in an avenue near to the cemetery. Number twenty appeared much like the others in the street, having been constructed prior to the days of speculative building using uniform designs, and having been well maintained. I gathered my equipment and presented myself at the front door.

    After ringing the bell four times, the door opened, and I found myself staring up into the eyes of a well-built lady of my height, in fact she could have been over six feet. ‘Yes?’

    ‘Good morning, Madam, I’m from Moving Studios, I’ve been commissioned to photograph, Victor?’

    She looked me up and down and sniffed, her head on one side. ‘I’m afraid he’s not quite ready, but you can come in and wait.’ She turned, but over her shoulder, added, ‘please wipe your feet, and be careful with all that equipment; you may scrape the furnishings.’

    I followed her along an ill-lit hallway, until she stopped and opening a door, said, ‘you can wait in here. I have converted the drawing room into the studio in which I would like Victor’s portrait to be created.’ Although she said no more, she stared at me as if awaiting a reply.

    I took the opportunity to appraise the lady. She was clad in a kaftan, which brushed the floor and rose to her throat. It was a hectic pattern of reds, orange and bright yellow. Her face was entirely white and her hair, also orange, looked like she had knitted it herself, despite having lost the pattern. As I took in these final details, she began to scratch her backside.

    Assuming I was required to reply, I said ‘Thank you, if you would like to tell me when Victor is ready.’

    She nodded once, as if that concluded our discussion, and left the room, carefully closing the door, lest I assume, that I should attempt to follow. I looked around what I assumed was an office cum library, as three walls were covered by book shelves which had few gaps. I wondered if Victor was some sort of academic, possibly a writer, often working from home.

    When she had not returned within ten minutes, I began to unpack my gear. Taking a camera body from my bag, I fitted an appropriate medium telephoto lens, checked the battery and settings, and was screwing it onto my tripod when the door opened and I was amazed to see a carbon copy of the woman who had let me into the house, except her hair was jet black, and her garment was dominated by blues and purples.

    She smiled. ‘We’re ready for you now, if you’d like to follow me.’ She looked at the bag of lights and stands, which I had carried into the room. ‘Those won’t be necessary,’ she pointed, ‘Hannah has decided that Victor should be recorded using only natural light.’

    ‘OK,’ I said and holding the tripod out in front of me added, ‘kindly lead on.’

    The room which we entered, was entirely black, the floor and ceiling had a matt finish and the walls, door and window frames, had been brushed with gloss paint. There was only one item of furniture, which was placed near the large, bay window, which began a mere six inches above the floor. Between me and the chaise longue, I was pleased to see a free-standing screen of white satin, which would serve as a reflector.

    When I rounded the screen, Hannah announced, ‘this is Victor.’

    Sitting on the purple, brocade-covered bench was an overweight, white cat, I assumed a Persian. He obviously shared the women’s hairdresser, as well as their publicist. He was the ugliest feline I had ever seen, and sneered at me as I placed my tripod opposite his mean face.

    ‘Isn’t he handsome,’ Hannah declared, ‘I hope you will be able to do him justice.’

    I think I must have done, as the account was settled within forty eight hours of the framed photograph being delivered, to 20 Victoria Avenue.

BIO - Roger Noons began writing in 2006, when he completed a screenplay, for a friend who is an amateur film maker. After the film was made, he wrote further scripts, then began short stories and poems. He occasionally produces non fiction, particularly memoirs from his long career in Environmental Health.