David Charters: I fear that I am succumbing to a chill

Jan 20 2009 by David Charters, Liverpool Daily Post

DOWN the platform of evangelical hope, beneath the slow orange glow of the weary lamps, we waited on the coldest morning of the year for the coming of the 8.27 train – some, like me, muffled as graveyard tramps in hats, trench-coats and gloves; while others paraded in fur-lined boots and expensively cut, Alpine cardigans with slinky belts designed to look cool in a blizzard.

A few gym-tuned, muscle men stood defiant in their thin T-shirts, confident that goosepimples would no more dare grow amid the tattoos of their bare arms than warts on the fair skin of the Mona Lisa.

But most people coughed in that theatrically British way, which says, “I’m sick, you know, but I dragged myself from bed because they couldn’t possibly manage in the office without me. Even so, you’ll see and hear my suffering. For I am a martyr.”

On the train, the competitive coughing swelled into a mentholated cacophony, as we stood nose-to-armpits along the aisle between the seats, where commuters blessed with sufficient space drew handkerchiefs from their pockets – some discreetly allowing their fellows to see light specklings of blood, decorating the otherwise funeral-white linen.

Bigger men of military bearing in camel coats honked loudly into their expansive handkerchiefs in the style of foghorns on the river, as elderly ladies issued little “err-hems”, which told of the genteel tickle at the back of their throats. A schoolboy wiped his nose on his blazer, leaving a slug trail on the sleeve.

I looked at the derelict landscape beyond and dreamed softly of the dear Welsh hills, where long brown rabbits with cocked ears and electric eyes were nibbling and darting through the frosted heather, skating on the mirrored pools left by swift streams.

But, as the competition to be the illest person on the train mounted, I was reminded of hymn-singing in church. The white-haired choir-leader and devotee of the life hereafter, who knows all the nooks for enjoying a sly cigarette, pumps a few gasps from the bronchial pipes of the ancient and arthritic organ. The congregation, as one, opens its lips and begins mouthing the words in lusty silence. How enthusiastic we all seem, but not a word can be heard.

Finally, the father of the family sitting in the back pew takes the challenge and actually starts singing audibly. His wife and children follow the example. Their voices reach the pew in front. There, I am sitting with my wife and our 12-year-old son. Well, we’re not going to be beaten by them.

A picture forms in my mind of God leaning to the side of His heavenly throne, so that He can angle his ear-trumpet into the church and measure our enthusiasm for the cause. This could be important in the future, I think to myself.

Now, I have a determined if toneless voice, which has been favourably described as the vocal equivalent of suet. It sustains you while providing no pleasure at all. My wife, by contrast, has many tones and is possessed of an uncanny capacity to soar from a rumbling contralto to a piercing treble without apparent warning – though the sensitive creatures of nature, renowned for their anticipation of earthquakes and hurricanes, seem primed by an uncanny instinct to scurry for their lairs, before her wondrous lips form that oval.

“This is the quiet bit,” I whispered diplomatically, as we advanced at a jaunty pace through We Three Kings. But it was too late. Fervour spread through the lovely turquoise of her eyes. My feeble words were lost. “Myrrh is mine its bitter perfume, leads a life of gathering gloom . . .” she hollered at chandelier-tinkling volume.

Victory was ours. God, having rarely heard such passion, hurriedly withdrew His ear-trumpet. The family behind realised they were routed and fell into sullen mood, as my wife continued: “Oh-oh star of wonder, star of night, star of Royal beauty bright . . .”

“I have only one little weakness in life,” she said afterwards. “By jove,” I said, “perish the thought. It’s certainly not singing. What a performance you gave us tonight.”

“True,” said my wife, “but I have a little weakness for jewellery. Anyone who mocks my singing by saying, ‘there’s a quiet bit coming up’, has to satisfy it. Remember my birthday’s next month.”

“I fear that I am succumbing to a chill,” I said.

* LISTEN to David Charters on his picture podcast at www.liverpooldailypost.co.uk