Read Whispers Through a Megaphone for Free Online Page B

so.”
    “I’ll give you a Tango.”
    “I hate Tango.”
    He leant forward. “I just want to talk,” he said. “Away from your mother.”
    For once he was telling the truth. No one noticed them walk through the playground and into the main building because the headmaster was grey and brown and Miriam was only visible when the children were bored. He told herto sit down. He had something important to say and she needed to listen.
    “There have been rumours,” he said. “About me and your mother.”
    She shrugged.
    “Someone has seen me visiting your house. My line is this: I’m a friend of the family. I visit in a supportive capacity. Do you understand?”
    She nodded.
    “My wife is not to find out about this,” he said. “Your ongoing silence is appreciated.”
    “Just leave me alone,” she said.
    “Well that’s not very friendly.”
    “I want to be left alone.”
    He laughed and picked up a can of Tango from his desk. “Off you go,” he said. “And no more littering.”
    She walked back to the playground, dropped the can in the bin, thought about the noise that came from her mother’s bedroom in the evenings before the front door opened and closed and there were footsteps, close at first, then moving further away. She thought of the headmaster’s wife, wondered what she looked like, wondered what she would think when Miriam found her and whispered the truth in her ear.
     
    Miriam is watching series one of The Bridge . It is Swedish and Danish. Saga Norén, one of the two main characters, is Miriam’s definition of charming—she tells the truth and never speaks in riddles. Miriam whispers this observation aloud and feels her neck stiffen. Then her whole body is stiff, just like that. It’s a reflex. Historical.
    She can’t hear you, Miriam.
    You’re allowed to speak.
    She’s dead, Miriam. Remember?
    Frances Delaney had possessed a special kind of hearing. If Miriam made a noise, her ears picked it up and she followed the sound. She was like an animal, attuned to the pitch of her only child.
    “Do you think I want to hear you talking, Mim? Going on and on and on? Do you? Button your lip. Just button it.”
    “My name’s not Mim.”
    “Everyone needs a nickname, Miriam. That’s the long and short of it.” Frances burst out laughing.
    Mim, short for Miriam, and also the beginning of the words mimic and mime. It was fitting for a girl who was terrified of impersonating her mother and getting locked inside it—forever a copycat, a pale imitation.
    “Imagine this,” Frances said. “Imagine that we’re not really people at all. We’re tiny woodland creatures. Can you picture it? No need for that school uniform today, Mim. We’re going to play in the woods. But just be quiet, you mustn’t disturb the creatures.”
    Frances couldn’t bear the din of her offspring. She couldn’t bear the din of the world.
    Washed lettuce must be washed.
    Trimmed beans must be trimmed.
    The world is full of liars and—
    Miriam glances at the cuckoo clock and stands up. Her thoughts are turning strange again. This is what happens when she thinks for too long about her mother. She takes a deep breath and sits back down. She inhales though her nose, exhales through her mouth. Her eyes are closed, her breaths are long. She puts her hand on her stomach, feels it rising and falling and the memories stop. All she can hear now is what’s coming from the TV: a man singing about an echo stutteringacross a room. A new episode of The Bridge is starting. Its theme tune reminds her of Chris Isaak, wicked love, the possibility of something new.
    She switches off the TV and jumps to her feet.
    Move, Miriam.
    She moves towards the radio, switches it on.
    Yes, that’s it.
    What she hears isn’t what she expects to hear. Who is that?
    It’s Stevie Nicks, Miriam. It’s Fleetwood Mac.
    A song about a woman who is a cat in the dark, darkness itself, a bell you can hear in the night.
    Miriam wants to move again.
    Her body is