Open Writing

The curtains are still drawn this morning: all of them, upstairs and down. Dead flowers now, pressed between the curtains and the glass. It’s Sunday and they’ve been gone since Wednesday night, they and their little boy. I was going to say ‘baby’, because he’s like a doll, but she says he’s eighteen months old.

They’ve been here about six months and don’t go out much because he works from home. No car, no drivers, so the Tesco delivery van brings all they need. I wouldn’t fancy shopping online myself. I like to choose what I’m buying, but I suppose it’s the best way for them.

I gave them bits of information when they first came: only renting, you see, for six months. Doctor, dentist, local market garden, and so on. They’re a sweet, quiet couple, not far off forty, I’m sure, and polite: well brought up. Apologise for baby noise when there is none, apologise for putting the rubbish bags in the wrong place when they didn’t, and always saying ‘ you must come in for a cup of tea’, but not setting a day or time.

I did go in once and had a cup of tea, and I know she was glad of the company for half an hour, but after that she began to fidget about the baby’s bath time - sorry, the child’s bath time, so I went away, but I had the chance to sit on the floor with him and look at him while I was there.

He wasn’t really there, you know. I don’t mean handicapped. He was just somewhere else. She didn’t tell me he was two months premature or that he was part of twins. Jenny told me another day. She must be very afraid for him.

Now there’s a new little plastic slide on the grass. They put him on it just once, guiding him down in complete silence. Now the robin perches on the top and sings his heart out.

As I say, they’ve been gone for four days now. My neighbour over the road told me the ambulance came in the evening and they all went away. I didn’t hear a thing. I expect they’d have apologised.