Years of Silence
Senga Dinnie
T.G.I.F. thank God its Friday. I park my car in the garage and wearily tread the path to my front door. Home sweet house, I mutter and sigh, forcing my entry against the barrier of mail on the hall mat. The security alarm heralds my early return George was not yet home. Being first home was an unusual occurrence for me, especially on a Friday; Im convinced that teachers, neighbours, families, live all week with their harboured concerns about the children around them, then, come Friday 3pm, last gasp; decide they cannot exist with their conscience one moment longer. They are compelled to telephone the Social Services: a problem shared; a problem we overworked, tail-chasing social workers could see far enough on a Friday, late afternoon. Not so today Im home, first home through the door to our neat modern bungalow; minimalist, white, light, inviting; an uncluttered haven our retreat.
I gather up the mail, put my briefcase and handbag neatly in place Georges tidiness around the home has, over the twenty odd years weve been together, rubbed off on me. I now enjoy an orderly life. Sifting through the correspondence I arrange two piles on the silver art deco tray on the hall table (reminiscent of the posh Paris hotel where, last year we celebrated my 50th birthday). The Mrs. pile is the greater, consisting mostly of junk mail, fashion and gift catalogues offering such a valued customer irresistible purchases, or You are the lucky winner. Yes sure, I muse, discarding them to the recycle bin. I further inspect my pile separating the general from the obscure, scrutinising each envelope, meticulously searching for clues, guessing the contents, or the sender, and eliminating the obvious. If George was here now he would be saying, just open it and spare the suspense. I sink back into my armchair, letting my shoes clump to the floor as my tired feet find rest on the cold leather footstool. Having accurately guessed the obvious mail, only one letter remains. Dunoon postmark? I dont recognise the neat handwriting on the bright red envelope; maybe a thank you for some recent gift, or perhaps an invitation to a wedding. However, it is not stiff and card like, more pliable like a letter. Pensively I place the red envelope aside at the edge of the footstool.
Friday night is my favourite night of the week I think you should never waste a Friday night it should always be special. This may stem from childhood memories of my older brothers thumping down the stairs, (in direct contrast to the other sleepy weekday mornings), and chanting with great excitement Its Friday - pay day! (a treat for little me). Or is it the joyous, if rare, memory of a migraine-free weekend, a relief from struggling through the harrowing process of the divorce from my first husband. Nowadays I savour the harmonious life I share with George. A simple meal together, a glass of wine and thou beside me in the wilderness and wilderness is paradise enow. Dreamily, as I prepare the evening meal, my thoughts are transported to Georges arrival home, and smile to imagine us snuggled up close on the sofa hearing him whisper, This is the place to be and the person to be with. - The demanding ring of the telephone ends my daydream: Hello auntie, Carol here, Ive just had a telephone call from a woman who has returned to Scotland from Australia and seeking information for her family tree. She seemingly had begun to systematically call all the Martins in the directory, and wondered if I was related to a Maria Martin. I passed on your married name and address - hope that was OK? Carol reassured, I bid her goodnight, and then ponder; the only relatives Im aware of living in Australia already know of my whereabouts and keep in regular contact anyway. ... (continues)
