Waiting for the phone call
The room is stuffy. It has a gaudy lino floor with pattern rubbed away in front of the sofa and round the table; the walls are damp and cluttered with old calendars and pictures torn from magazines. There is a rotten stench. The mantelpiece by the fireplace is filled with china ornaments: big-eyed flop-eared rabbits and beribboned kittens and flowery milkmaids and a porcelain doll wearing a Victorian dress and her long, golden hair in two neat plaits. The room is silent; except for the steady paced ‘tick-tock’ from the ancient Grand-father clock.
It is Dorothy’s birthday, 12th August. She is hunched up on her old tacky sofa on an early August morning. Dorothy is startled by birdsong echoing across the garden outside and, for a long time, she stares in confused remembrance towards where the swelling orange sun is burning the faded floral wallpaper across from her old-fashioned table.
'It's my birthday,' she finally realises. 'I'm seventy-six today. Where did it go?'
Climbing painfully from a lumpy sofa, standing in a striped night dress by the window, Dorothy stares outside in her back garden. There's much too be done. Later. Much later. These days it's all weed killing, backache and sore bones.
'It's my birthday.'
Dorothy’s cat slithers past a glass sharp wall and drops beside its shadow under an apple tree, stalking anxious sparrows. Under the broken birdhouse a mouse plays with a nibble of yesterday's bread. Shadows shrink in bright shyness against all the garden fences and the last star melts into dawn rise. There's heat in the breathless August day already.
Dorothy sits in her kitchen. Silent. The house, holding its breath around her, the roof heavy and oven baked. Dorothy's thick veined hands brush toast crumbs from the plastic tabletop and when she moves her faded dainty feet dust dances giddily on the sun patched carpet. She listens to the awakening of the new day: the clock on the dresser ticks hurriedly and the letter box snaps awake.
Dorothy walks to the hall and picks up bills and ads that promise discounts and holidays abroad, Dorothy has never been out of England, never been on a plane. Her tired eyes examine the envelopes at arm's length. There are no birthday cards to sigh over – Not even from her family!
Returning to the familiar kitchen she slides a knife along her letters, slitting out the folded information. It's better than nothing. Even if the electricity is red and overdue - At least, they keep in touch. No longer absorbed in her letter opening task Dorothy looks at the sunlight shining blindly on her glazed, brown teapot and then she pours some lukewarm tea. She sits and thinks about birthdays back then - Cakes and drinks, songs and celebrations and her precious beloved family members spending time with her on her special day. Back when.
