She wakes unrefreshed, tinged with grief, regret and resignation. Another day looms. Her legs are aching, the left ankle already on fire despite its supposed rest. Her shoulders refuse to budge, but she perseveres, forcing them to comply. Inch by inch, she rolls and drops her feet to the soft, thick carpet then pushes herself to sitting, her crumbling frame throbbing with the effort. She rests for a while, catching her breath, trying not to hear the silence that screams in her ears. Eighty years ago, she’d have jumped out of bed. Dashing around the room, searching through discarded clothing for a presentable ensemble of school uniform, wondering whether Barbara had finally managed to pluck up the courage to talk to William on her way home, arguing with Ellen and Jack about whose turn it was in the bathroom, her stomach rumbling at the smell of sizzling bacon, mother shouting a final warning to hurry up… Life had been filled with noise. Enforced quiet was common enough at school, teachers punishing those who dared whisper in class, but her mind had never been still. She’d passed notes, she’d daydreamed, she’d doodled, sometimes she’d even done a little work. Her mind was abuzz, her days full, her life blossoming with the promise of success and passion. True silence had been rare. Even in the quiet moments before her first kiss, as eyes met in expectation and heads inched closer together, her heart had been beating so loudly, so quickly, she’d thought it might burst… Noise. Always noise. She shakes off the memory and shuffles through to the bathroom. She avoids the mirror: she needs no additional reminder of her frailty. The sagging wings long abandoned by toned triceps, the leathery sacks that have to be lifted to wash beneath, the empty rolls of skin that loll over a pudendum long neglected by razor or tongue… These are more than enough. The washcloth moves slowly, the pleasant scent of orange blossom a strange companion to the grumbling arthritic hands and shoulders that fight her every command. Agony spasms up her back, slicing through her introspection. She drops the cloth and stands perfectly still, leaning on the basin, her eyes closed, the breathing the midwife taught her nearly seventy years ago coming to her rescue. The quick gasps and soft, slow exhalations are the only sounds. The rhythm eases as the pain recedes and she smiles, remembering how it had felt to wake in the morning to his gentle breath caressing the silence. She’d loved those moments. Sliding onto her side to look at him: her husband, her Gordon. The whisper quiet of his chest rising and falling against the crisp, cotton sheets. The intoxicating smell of him. The crinkle of his eyes and twitch of his lips as he’d felt her hand slowly creep under the blankets to touch him. The way she’d laughed when he’d suddenly sprung on top of her and his lips had devoured her neck and body… Sex had been noisy. It had been wonderful. It had been life itself. And created life. They’d craved a child. When he came, he arrived with never-ending demands. The next had been the same: loved beyond life itself, but chaotic and difficult, taking them in directions they’d never planned or desired. Every second of the day had been filled with noise. Silence, when it came, was followed within milliseconds by the sleep of exhaustion. Clothes. She needs clothes. She shuffles back through to the bedroom. The chair is carefully positioned next to the chest of drawers so she can reach everything. Simon understands the risk of falls. He’s taken pains to ensure the tiny apartment is sensibly laid out so he doesn’t get inconvenient calls to come and rescue his mother. Much too busy to visit, he and his wife send expensive flowers every month, filling the apartment with the intense fragrance of indifference. It would soon be white lilies. They’d cancel the direct debit and not look back. Valerie comes every Sunday. She arrives like a whirlwind, bringing groceries, freshly ironed laundry and news of distant children and grandchildren, telling her mother off for not using her walking frame, swapping dusty books for the latest she’s borrowed from the library, whether or not they’re needed or wanted. She hardly pauses for breath and replies are unwelcome interruptions. She vanishes as quickly as she descends, her overwhelmed audience having contributed barely a word. She doesn’t resent Simon’s absence or Valerie’s hasty duty calls. Instead, she’s ashamed she hadn’t been a better mother, that she hadn’t understood it’s not enough to love one’s child, one has to nurture it, spend time with it, make it blossom with confidence, humour and a resilience that will make it invincible in the real world. Instead of this, instead of relishing motherhood, she’d resented the intrusion. She’d resented the lack of ringlets and genius. She’d resented the diminishment of her life. God, what a fool she’d been. Of course, there had been moments when all seemed right. Pushing a swing and listening to Valerie’s giggles of delight. Clapping as Simon proudly pressed in the final piece of a jigsaw. The wide-eyed gasps of joy when Father Christmas brought them bikes. Laughter-filled family picnics and Easter egg hunts in the park. Splashing in the waves at Westward Ho! Clambering over crumbling castles in the hot sun of Rhodes… There should have been more. There could have been more. Instead, she’d learned to cherish the silence. Monday mornings had been the best. Gordon had slipped out of bed without waking her and the children had tiptoed themselves out to the school bus. When she’d woken, it was with a sense that this was her time. She’d wrapped herself in the silence, wallowing in her weekly reward for what she’d felt was her sacrifice. The only noise had been the kettle boiling, the latest tune on the radio, the sound of her feet dancing on the kitchen floor, her arms flung wide in rebellion against motherhood. Twenty years before, silence had come in boring and blessedly short-lived interludes, crashing into a life too full to be still. Then, as a mother and wife, silence had been a reprieve, a chance to breathe, a chance to remember she was more. She grunts as she manhandles the buttonless top over a head that won’t bend forward with arms that won’t lift above frozen shoulders. It’s the same battle every morning. Two hours it takes, to wash and dress. It’s little wonder she does nothing else all day. Books she can hardly hold, unintended naps that made her lose her place and forget the latest twist in the plot, television she can’t hear or see properly, mushy supermarket ready meals picked at and discarded, a silent telephone, an unrung doorbell… This is her life. Alone. Lonely. Pathetic. Gordon would be horrified if he could see it. He'd been her world, Gordon. He’d been her everything. Together, early retirement had promised excitement, happiness, contentment. And it had been, for a while. The move to the apartment had released the money for long-anticipated trips to Rome and Venice; extravagant dinner parties that went on long into the night; lying under the stars in Yosemite; watching the sun come up over the Taj Mahal; meandering through the heavenly perfume of Keukenhof, the spring sunshine turning its tulip fields into a brilliant kaleidoscope of colour… Silence then had meant moments of wonder and awe. It had been everything they’d dreamed of and more. They’d given it up when the children had needed their help. Gordon had known it was the right thing to do and she’d trusted him as always. After all, they didn’t need adventure and luxury as long as they had each other. And, as they’d aged and he’d become unsteady on his feet, silence had become companionable, restful even. He’d listen to music through his headphones as she read. He’d flick through a magazine as she finished knitting something for one of the grandchildren, the click click of her needles their only accompaniment. It was enough. He’d left her gradually, his brain riddled with holes. Towards the end, he would cry over and over for her, insisting only his darling Annie could make him better, infuriated by the ever-present, unfamiliar, old woman’s attempts to calm him. She learned not to try, to simply be. But every day, her heart was broken afresh as she longed for him to know his Annie, just for a moment. Every day, she sat by his side, stroking his hand, quietly singing old songs as she fed him his favourite chocolates, holding a toddler’s spill-proof cup for him to sip at his drug-infused orange juice, moving his fading body to prevent pressure sores, changing his nappies… And she’d learned to welcome his cries and even his anger because silence would mean he had gone. For, no matter how little of him remained, he was still her Gordon. Without him, life was empty. Is empty. Endless days of nothing. Endless days of pain and loneliness. Endless days of silence. Simon thinks she should be in a home. It is a strange word for somewhere so removed from home. For surely home means family? Surely home means memories? Surely home is where her Gordon was, albeit for too short a time? She’ll probably give in. She always does. Without Gordon at her side, she is merely a solitary ghost, marching to a beat that is dragging her too slowly from this life. No one notices her slip away. There is no witness, no loved one by her bedside, no friends to mourn. She’s outlived them all. Silence takes her and she is at peace at last. When her soul awakes, he’s there, lying on his side, looking at her with laughing eyes and loving smile. “Shall we try again?” he asks her, slipping a hand inside the blankets. She giggles into the silence and instead of regret and grief, she is burning with hope. Image by Goran Horvat from Pixabay
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