Waiting for the phone call

The room is stuffy. It has a bald-faced lino floor with pattern rubbed aside in front of the sofa and hertz the table the walls be damp and clutter with oer-the-hill calendars and reads 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 blue(a) dress and her long, golden hair in two neat plaits. The room is mute except for the steady paced tick-tock from the ancient Grand-father clock.It is Dorothys birth twenty-four hours, twelfth August. She is hunched up on her old meretricious sofa on an un periodly August morning. Dorothy is wizardrytled by yell echoing across the garden exterior and, for a long time, she stares in upturned remembrance towards where the swelling orange temperateness is burning the faded floral cover across from her old-fashioned table.Its my natal day, she finally realises. Im cardi nal today. Where did it go?Climbing painfully from a lumpy sofa, standing in a striped nighttime dress by the window, Dorothy stares asideside in her back garden. Theres much too be done. Later. Much later. These eld its all weed killing, backache and terrible bones.Its my birthday.Dorothys guy wire slithers past a glass shrill wall and drops beside its shadow under an apple tree, stalking anxious sparrows. Under the tough bird sumh a mouse plays with a assemble of yesterdays bread. Shadows shrink in bright coldness against all the garden fences and the last star melts into dawn rise. Theres heat in the blown August day already.Dorothy sits in her kitchen. Silent. The house, retention its breath close to her, the roof leaden and oven baked. Dorothys thick veined transfer scrub toast crumbs from the plastic tabletop and when she moves her faded straight-laced feet dust dances giddily on the sunniness patched carpet. She listens to the awakening of the new day the clock on the dresser ticks hastily 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 look examine the envelopes at arms length. There are no birthday cards to take a breath over Not so far from her family returning to the familiar kitchen she slides a knife on her letters, slitting out the folded information. Its better than nothing. Even if the electrical energy is red and overdue At least, they abide by in touch. No longer draped in her letter undefendeding designate Dorothy looks at the sunlight shining blindly on her glazed, brown teapot and then(prenominal) she pours about 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. sentence flies, she says.Shes talking to herself most days who else allow for listen? Up in the lull shadowed parlour a clock chimes the hour and Dorothy rises tiredly and prepares to face the day. She stumbles into the subsisting room and looks up to the mantelpiece. No birthday cards Only a picture of her and her adorable grandchildren, Steven and Carol. Her eyes close. She be cums delirious with aspirationCarol skipping up the lawn with a pop(p) straw basket, picking up bittie daisies and carefully placing them in the basket. Steven, being 2 years old, filling the bird house with crunchy treats awaiting the magpies to glide in. Dorothy is stood under the apple tree, tip-toeing up and grabbing fresh, ripe apples for her relatives. Carol and Steven run over to Dorothy and wrap their arms tightly around her as if they were to never let goDorothy smiles and wishes she could still feel their small hands around her waist, grabbing securely.She dresses and walks to the front door and checks the windows and the bolts and alls secu re. When the night time house creaks with its own age, Dorothy thinks of burglars and imagined violations and trembles in case they invade her.Dorothy swings open the front door and sees Carol and Steven stands in that location, make a face like sunlight.Happy birthday grannieNo longer astonished, Dorothy smiles back and sighs because they arent in reality there.Her head sinks and she wonders back to living room. She notices the sound on the table. She slides over to it. Gently picks it up to check if the dial tone is there she is reassured and drops it down. No phone strains. No phone messages. No birthday cards.She collapses into her tacky sofa. When she turns on the television the news assaults her soul. The serviceman is littered with dead children and pain. The world has done for(p) mad with cruelty and nobody seems to aim noticed. It was different back in her day, when children could go out and play happily on the street without anybody worrying that someone would come abruptly attack them. Back when.She is galvanise by the sharp ringing of the phone. Her heart is pounding could this be the phone visit she has been waiting for all day? Is this her prize family? She reaches over and clasps the phone. Hello? she asks waiting desperately for answer. Hello. My name is Abigail Taylor calling on behalf of the cleaning lady replied. Dorothy slowly lowers the handset and replaces it back in the holder. She stands there paralysed. A tiny draw drop trickles down her wrinkly skin. She snarl so much pain it was as if someone had stabbed her millions of times in the heart. What is the academic degree of living if there is nobody who even knows you exist?The Grandfather clock strikes sextuplet in the evening. She strolls back to the photo of her with her grandchildren. Dorothy bursts out in tears her eyes sore and red and waterfalls of tears flowing down her face. She picks up the photo and holds it against her broken heart. Dorothy still hopes to get that special phone call from her much-loved grandchildren.