One Summer's Day

One Summer's Day

Like gentle fingertips running across her dozing face, the cool breeze
gently stirred Amanda from her dreams in the lulled world between sleep
and wakefulness. She squinted as she opened her eyes to the summer
afternoon, with sunlight flickering between the leaves of the tree she
was resting under, creating darting shadows and patterns on her bare
legs.

Her book had fallen open to her side, where it had slipped from her
grasp during her slumber. Her small picnic basket was still open,
inviting Amanda to pour a glass of cola and munch on another egg
sandwich. Glancing at her watch, Amanda realised she had dozed for
longer than she had thought in the warmth of the day, so stood up,
brushing away the bits of grass and leaf that had adhered themselves to
her. Amanda packed away her picnic and book, a supermarket thriller,
and looked around the meadow again, the peace interrupted only by the
birdsong and the faraway hum of a light aircraft.

It was her favourite place in summer. She would always come here to get
away from the hubbub of town and the humdrum activities and little jobs
around the house that seemed to occupy her so much nowadays.
Rejuvenated, Amanda hopped over the stile and strolled over the
footpath that led to the clearing where her old Morris Minor was
parked.

Sleepy days like this where she could seemingly float into a pool of
thoughts and memories were what motivated Amanda. Her mother had always
told her off for daydreaming so much, as had her teachers at school,
but she couldn't see the harm in drifting off to another world, hazy as
it was, and sinking into the comforting marshmallow thoughts that
drifted into her head.

For years, Amanda hadn't had the time to daydream. Her days had been
taken up with two young children and a husband, and all the chaos that
they seemed to generate. "I never have a moment to myself," she used to
complain, while secretly relishing being needed and being kept busy,
both with domestic duties and helping out at the OAP pop-in centre at
the St. Matthew's church hall.

Those years seemed to be a never-ending stream of runny noses, grazed
knees, organising meals and meeting a continuous gaggle of similar
women at school fetes and church jumble sales. Mountains of laundry,
heaps of washing up and the everyday struggle of juggling money for
mortgage and bills had taken their toll on Amanda, though she had told
herself always that she was fulfilled. Real fulfilment, however, had
always been elusive - not far away, but just an inch too far for Amanda
to grasp. Yet she had never known what to do about that niggling
feeling, always putting it away in the bits and bobs drawer at the back
of her mind. Amanda had always counted herself lucky, compared to those
who had nothing and were always on the six o'clock news having their
poverty conveyed the world.

Though she still looked good for her age, the sheen had been lost from
her blonde hair, and her eyes, once sparkling were dulled and tired.
Her features were starting to show the strains of the fatigue that a
life of discontentment could bring.

She hadn't even seen it coming that her marriage was suffering. After
all, their routine was the same as countless families the length and
breadth of the country. She has stayed at home to look after the
children, the female emancipation movements of the seventies almost
passing her by unnoticed, whilst her husband went to work each morning,
catching the 7.24 to London.
The same routine, day in, day out; year in, year out. It was wearisome,
and there was always a feeling that she could have done more with her
life, but each day she reminded herself what a pleasure it was to feed
and nurture her nuclear family and told herself that she was
satisfied.

She had forgotten when her and Andy, her husband, had stopped talking
to each other. It wasn't a conscious kind of not talking, not like
sending someone to Coventry, and there was nothing acrimonious, just
one day, Amanda, clad in pink Marigolds, stopped washing the dinner
plate and realised that she hadn't had a proper conversation with Andy
in years. Other than the mundane comments of daily life, such as "pass
the salt" and "I think the bathroom could do with a lick of paint,"
they hadn't actually sat down and had a proper talk for as long as she
could remember. Yet when they were courting at university, they used to
have passionate discourses about politics, music and animal rights long
into the early hours. They were so alive back then.

Now, of course, the children had flown her little nest. The silent
marriage was really inescapable then. Robert had moved away and set up
home with his new wife Sally and they had twin boys. Gretchen was still
travelling the globe, making her mother both proud and envious. Without
their rowdiness, the house seemed to die a little bit, the home she had
spent years making just no longer existed.

Andy had kept up his routine to the office five days a week (Amanda
never was exactly sure what he did) after they had left, until his
retirement a few short years later. That really put the cat amongst the
pigeons. Andy sitting in his armchair, reading the Times, as if each
day was Sunday, while she tried to Hoover around his feet. At first,
they went off for little excursions, maybe a museum or lunch at a
country pub, but they would end up looking at each other, in silence
over their scampi and chips, not having anything to say to one
another.

Amanda supposed that they would just mosey along forever, in their
small nebulous world, enjoying the fruits of retirement, such as their
grandchildren and golf and dawdling about with dahlias in the garden.
They seemed to inhabit a languid land where nothing happened or was
expected to happen and the ticking of the clock seemed to echo around
their house and the silence contained therein.

But one day Andy left Amanda. He said he was just popping to the shop
to get a crossword book. Amanda had waved him on his way, adding to
please get a pint of milk and some sugar while he was there, never
having an inkling that would be the last time she would see him in her
house.

Time began to get on - she realised he had been gone over half an hour
after The Archers had finished. Sitting down with a cup of tea, she
reasoned he had probably stopped at The Red Lion for a pint and a
packet of pork scratchings on the way back from the shop and got back
to reading her book.
After an hour and a half had passed, she began to get annoyed. They
were meant to be going to Homebase today to get some plants and if he
didn't hurry up there wouldn't be time. Restless after three hours,
Amanda was worried. She still loved her husband, despite the reticence
that seemed to partner their relationship. She was sure he felt the
same.

Amanda pulled her coat on and left the house, as the phone began to
ring. She shut the door behind her, "if its important they'll ring
again," she reasoned. Amanda stopped off at the corner shop to enquire
whether her husband had been in. She was answered in the affirmative
and reassured that her errands had been carried out.

Amanda turned to walk down the hill towards the Red Lion. There was
quite a crowd of people outside by the beer tables, unusual for the
time of year, but no doubt taking the opportunity to enjoy the spring
sunshine. They seemed to be making a lot of noise too. As she neared,
she saw a figure lying on the ground. It was wearing a familiar tweed
jacket. "Silly old fool, what's he playing at," was the thought that
occupied her mind in the split second before the cold realisation that
something was seriously wrong.

She pushed her way to the front of the crowd that had formed around her
husband. He looked grey and as she stared at him, she knew he had left
her. Even as someone let her away by the arm and the wail of sirens got
closer and closer, she knew that the world as she had known for three
decades had collapsed. Amanda felt as though she was in a bubble that
might burst at any moment and make this nightmare end. But the bubble
didn't burst and she was alone and purposeless.

That was last year, and Amanda had, after the grief had subsided and
the family had flown once more, begun to find herself, after years in
stasis serving her family, forgetting who she was under the habitual
routines of suburban family life. Like a butterfly unfurling its wings
for the first time, Amanda felt free, as free as the breeze that once
more ruffled the wisps of hair that framed her face. This was the
beginning of Amanda's story.

-The End-