Cough
by Andrew Lee-Hart

 

1

 

It was during the final movement of Schubert’s Ninth symphony in C Major, that I decided I would have to kill him. Once again, his cough was loud and persistent, ruining the concert for me and I am sure for all the other music lovers who had packed the Liverpool Philharmonic to hear some of the greatest music ever written, not some old fool coughing and gasping.

It had been at the Christmas Concert that I first noticed him. I am not a Christmassy person but the older I get the more sentimental I have become so when ordering tickets for the new season I included this one as a guilty pleasure. The Phil had more children than usual, but they seemed well mannered and quiet, and so I sat back to enjoy some seasonal cheer and remember my childhood. And at first it was as fun as I thought it would be; some carols I remembered from school and couple of more popular numbers; I am not a snob and enjoy all sorts of music, at least in moderation.

But then – oh irony – during Silent Night, I heard a distinct cough from a couple of rows behind me; there had been a few coughs and sneezes throughout the first half; after all it was December and there were lots of children there, but for some reason this cough was particularly noticeable; a high pitched noise, and only half finished, as if there was still phlegm in the man’s throat, and yes it definitely was a man’s cough. And as the concert headed towards the interval whoever it was coughed again and again.

I hoped that Mr Cough would take the opportunity to have a drink or suck on a cough sweet – the Philharmonic used to supply them in the foyer, which I thought was an excellent idea, but have not done so for awhile -. But no sooner had everybody resumed their seats and the orchestra burst into some Motown Christmas schmaltz then there was that awful cough again, at least once per every song or movement.

I could not concentrate on the music and peered in front of me trying to see who it was making such an unpleasant noise, perhaps by mind control I could get him to stop. After awhile I realised who it was; a man in his late fifties I would say, smartly dressed and with a shiny bald patch. Every so often his head would bob slightly and that was when he coughed. I guessed he was on his own, as the two people next to him were a young couple who clearly had nothing to do with him, and were probably incredibly annoyed at having such an unpleasant neighbour.

The concert finished and he strode past me, just as I was standing up, clearly oblivious to the fact that he had ruined the concert for me and presumably for most of the audience. I tutted at him, and for a moment he paused before carrying on out of the auditorium and into Liverpool. I hoped he got run over on the busy road outside the Philharmonic and that his death was very slow and very unpleasant.

But alas he must have reached home unscathed, because a fortnight later he was there again and so was his cough. It was an all Mozart programme; the 22nd Piano Concerto, the overture to The Marriage of Figaro and his Clarinet concerto. All great stuff, but the opening notes of the overture were only just sounding out when I heard that familiar cough, and there was the Cougher again, in the same seat looking pleased with himself and clearly enjoying himself hugely, and causing misery to all around him.

The concert was ruined; when I couldn’t hear him coughing I was waiting for it, so that I could not concentrate. And the music just passed me by, and I love Mozart and had been looking forward to the concert hugely since I bought the tickets last summer. It was going to be one of the highlights of the season; a concert I would remember for years to come. What upset me was that when I had bought all my tickets last summer, they were always the same seat, in the middle with a good view of the orchestra but unfortunately also a few rows behind this ghastly man.

I wondered who he was; a widower perhaps whose quiet, and subservient wife died quickly and perhaps with some relief; escaping the noise of her pompous and loud husband. I imagined him laying down the law with his relatives, when they forced themselves to visit him. Or going out for his usual constitutional, his neighbours avoiding him so that they did not have to listen to his blather.

At the interval I stepped outside and looked across at the Victorian monstrosity that is the Anglican cathedral and shivered in the cold, smelling the damp and cigarettes from the smokers who had escaped for a quick fag. I felt sad and fed-up, which is a pity, because attending concerts are one of the few times I feel happy, removing me from the everyday tedium of my life.

And then, for the first time ever, I decided not to go back in; I just could not bear the thought of sitting through another hour of listening to this man cough, ruining this lovely music. I left the hall and jumped a bus back home to Childwall, one of the more congenial parts of Liverpool. Halfway home when a man got on and started coughing I almost got up and bludgeoned him to death, but restrained myself, and anyway it was soon my stop and I left giving the man a baleful glare as I did so.

As you can imagine I was not especially looking forward to the next concert, and in fact considered not going. It was a selection of English music; songs and incidental music by Purcell and various pieces by the likes of lesser-known composers such as Henry Lawes, Matthew Locke and William Boyce. Ordinarily I would have looked forward to it but I did not want to listen that man coughing all the way through such lovely music. But in the end habit got the better of me and at the usual time after a light dinner I got on the bus and headed to the city centre.

And lo and behold as I sat down and watched the orchestra settle down and tune their instruments there was no coughing, and when I looked over and in front the Cougher was not there, his seat empty; perhaps he had died of whatever it was that was causing him to cough; consumption or something equally unpleasant….I did hope so.

The orchestra began with Purcell’s most famous piece of music, his Abdelazer Suite, and I settled down to enjoy it, although naturally I was on edge, just waiting for that cough, but it didn’t happen, and I began to relax.

And then Abdelazer came to an end, and as I applauded, there was the sound of someone running down the aisle, and there was The Cougher looking apologetically at those around him, before sitting down in his usual seat and joining in the applause and – of course – giving a cough, just to make sure that all those around him knew that he had arrived.

At first I thought I would walk out, perhaps I could start going to the Bridgewater Hall in Manchester; it would mean getting a hotel for the night, and taking the odd day off work, but it would be worth it to be able to enjoy live music in peace once again. But then I thought, why should I have my leisure time ruined by a selfish old duffer, and I determined to do something more practical.

What surprised me, was that nobody else seemed particularly bothered. There were a couple of middle-aged women sat next to him and they seemed to be enjoying the concert despite their neighbour’s noise and the fierce looking man sat immediately behind him, had not tapped him on the shoulder, there were no glares or tutting. Perhaps it was something about the pitch of his cough that particularly annoyed me, but it was more than that; it was so often; every few minutes a partial clearing of the throat and then the cough, so loud and harsh before ending with a little gulp. And then before you knew it, he was starting the whole routine again.

As the concert ended I waited for The Cougher to leave and then followed him out; he walked at about my usual pace, so it was not difficult to keep up. He headed down Hardman Street and then Bold Street and towards Liverpool Central Station, which was what I had been dreading as I thought I would lose him; fortunately the ticket office was empty so I was able to quickly purchase a day ticket (“are you sure sir, wouldn’t it be cheaper to buy a single to wherever you are going; it is almost ten”).

I had seen The Cougher heading towards the Wirral line, and fortunately he was still there as I reached the platform; I could hear his cough echo along the tunnel. He got on the first train that came along and I followed him on and sat at the other end of the carriage, pretending to be engrossed in my book, but watching him all the time. He was not on the train for very long; once we had gone through the tunnel and into what used to be Cheshire, and which we are now forced to call The Wirral, he got off at Birkenhead Park and I followed him out of the station.

He headed through the park, which was dark and quiet. He had stopped coughing now, and he was humming slightly, something from the concert that we had both attended. I sped up and quickly caught him up; I was not sure what exactly I wanted to do, but I knew I had to do or say something.

“Hello”.

He smiled nervously at me, “hello to you.”

“You were at the concert at the Phil weren’t you?”

He smiled, any momentary fear gone, “yes indeed a lovely concert don’t you think?”

I was seething with anger, meeting my enemy had not helped, “it would have been if I had not been disturbed by this awful coughing.”

“Oh indeed” the Cougher answered, “I must say I was so engrossed in the music I did not hear anything.”

And that was enough; I pushed him as hard as I could and he fell and lay there a moment, seemingly stunned, and so I kicked him again and again. Someone could have come at any time but I did not care; I doubted that even if they had I would have stopped my assault, but it was a cold night and nobody seemed to be about, to interrupt me. And at last The Cougher, was lying dead in front of me; giving one final, pitiful cough as he breathed his last.

I left him there, as a warning to others and hurried back to the station and tidied myself up in the bathroom before heading back into Liverpool and then home; fortunately I live alone and my neighbours are elderly, so I doubt anybody noticed my late return (gone midnight). And as I fell asleep I felt happier than I had since Christmas.

I should have felt guilty or scared after what I had done, but truth to tell I didn’t. He was dead and I was glad. Even over the next few days I did not worry about what I had done. I bought the Liverpool Echo the following evening, and sure enough it was headline news about a Mr Harris found dead in Birkenhead Park and the Local MP bemoaning how unsafe Birkenhead had become. They talked a little about The Cougher; a retired solicitor apparently and – as I had thought – a widower, loved by all who knew him, although not by those who had to sit near him at concert, although the Echo forgot to mention that bit. By the end of the week the story had disappeared from the newspaper and I stopped buying it.

 

2

By the next time of the next concert, three weeks later, I had almost forgotten about what I had done; it was as if I had dreamed it and I cannot remember feeling as happy going to a concert as I did that evening. It was not even a particularly good one; something by Brahms and Dvorak’s New World Symphony. But the thought of being able to listen without being disturbed made me very happy.

And so the music started; I sat back and relaxed, until I realised my throat was somewhat sore; I tried to swallow, but there was this tickle and something in my throat, and eventually I gave a couple of coughs in the hope of clearing it but the tickle remained. At the end of the first movement I gave a very loud cough, to the clear annoyance of the couple next to me; but what could I do? And throughout the rest of the concerto it was a constant battle to stop coughing or at least not cough too loud.

At the interval I hurried to the bar, and bought an orange juice, and for a moment I felt relief, as it eased my throat; I really should have ordered another one because by the time I got back to my seat my throat felt as sore as ever. And throughout the New World Symphony, my torments continued, as I struggled not to cough or gulp, and of course I saw the irony but at least I was trying to do something about it; it was a pity I hadn’t thought to bring some cough sweets or a bottle of water with me.

I felt eyes upon me as I struggled, a young man who was sat with his girlfriend a couple of rows in front of me, kept turning to look at me, so I smiled in apology, but he did not seem impressed, and to be fair I did not blame him, but I was helpless. It must have been nerves, because once I left the auditorium my throat felt fine and I did not cough once for the rest of the evening.

A week later, I went to a concert at the Music Room behind the main concert hall; this was a complete performance of Bach’s Cello Suites, one of my very favourite pieces of music. I felt fine as I sat down but had my cough sweets to hand just in case and a bottle of water.

I like the Music Room; it is more intimate than the main auditorium; and there is a sense that you are sitting with the real lovers of music, the elite, not just those who like a tune you can whistle, and who don’t know their Messiaen from their Mahler. I am truly not a snob, but here, with a hundred or kindred spirits I felt at home.

As the orchestra’s cellist sat down and started to play suddenly I felt as if there was something lodged in my throat, and I had a desperate need to cough it out. I grabbed a sweet, but it got stuck in my jacket pocket, but eventually, after some tugging, I got it out and then unwrapped it; my god it was noisy, and then as it came out of the wrapping the sweet fell to the floor but desperate now I picked it up, and tried to pick off the dust before putting it in my mouth.

As I popped it into my mouth, aware that my struggles were causing consternation in those around me. And so nervous was I that I gulped at the sweet and for a moment it stuck in my throat and I could not breathe, I hyperventilated briefly before I grabbed my water and swallowed some and fortunately after a heart stopping moment or two, the sweet disappeared down my throat. As I recovered myself, I realised that the concert had stopped and that everyone was looking at me, not only the cellist, who after giving me a glare resumed playing, but a pair of angry eyes which I recognised from the last concert.

I had never felt so embarrassed, and the music meant nothing to me. I was sure that my face was red and I felt sweaty and incredibly miserable. I had ruined a concert for all those people, people who I felt as kindred spirits, with their love of music and all the good things in life.

As soon the cellist had bowed and put down his bow, I walked out as quickly as I could, determined never to attend a concert again. I stood at the bus stop trying to regain my equilibrium but when the bus arrived I still felt wretched.

Even on the bus home, I felt as if the passengers were watching me; somehow having heard of my antics at the concert. At last the bus arrived at my stop and I got; it is a thirty minute walk from the stop, but usually I enjoy it, thinking about the music and enjoying the peace and quiet, but this time I felt an idiot, a bumbling old fool, and I even started to feel guilty about what I had done a few weeks earlier.

And then I realised that there were footsteps behind me, coming fast, as if to catch up with me. I hurried on, not wanting to talk to anyone, and feeling nervous, but whoever it was continued to gain on me. And then a voice young and cultured but with a touch of Scouse, spoke to me.

“Excuse me, weren’t you at the concert….?”

I turned around to answer, but before I could do so, I felt a tremendous bang on my head and the sound of a thousand drums echoing in my brain, and as I lay there, waiting for the inevitable, I coughed and coughed again.

 

Rate this story.

Copyright is reserved by the author. Please do not reproduce any part of this article without consent.