May 1988
By clarerebecca
- 428 reads
The sunlight on the garden bounced off the heads of daisies, uncut
in the long grass. The lawn sloped upwards towards a thick, thorny
hedge, part of a field boundary from the days before the estate was
built. Two old apple trees supported a hammock. She lay there,
listless, in an oversized red and white striped cotton sundress. An
empty milkshake glass lolled in the tree roots, next to an annotated
copy of Hamlet.
In the distance an ice cream van jingled a nursery rhyme. She thought
about running down to the house, pulling on the white sandals and
dashing out to grab a 99. But then she thought better of it. By the
time she got to the road, the van would probably have moved on. And
maybe she should be cutting down on stuff like ice cream, she thought,
remembering the suspicion of cellulite she'd glimpsed in the bath last
night.
A plane droned overhead. A blackbird rustled in the hedge. Her left
thumb made its way towards her mouth and she sucked absentmindedly on
it for a couple of minutes. Then she sighed, rolled over, and picked up
the copy of Hamlet.
Inside the house the phone began to ring. She waited three rings.
Should she get it? It could be for her. But more likely it was some
work call or other for Dad, and she'd have to ferret around in the jar
in the hall for a pen that actually worked and the back of some
envelope to take down a message. One of these day's she'd say, "I'm not
his bloody secretary, you know!" and slam the phone down. Maybe that's
what she should do now. The phone continued to nag.
She tilted the side of the hammock so a toe rested on the grass.
Despite the sun, the ground was damp underfoot, with surprising crunchy
bits, twigs and stuff, which dug into the soft flesh under her toes as
she ran towards the conservatory. At the French doors, whoever it was,
decided to ring off.
Slowly she made her way back up towards the hammock, muttering swear
words - there was no one to hear, after all.
Hamlet was waiting for her. Boring bloody Hamlet with his interminable
soliloquies. What a whinger: should I do this? Should I do that? I
know, I'll be brave and do this...oops, too late! If she'd been in his
position she wouldn't have wasted all that precious time banging on
about it. All mouth and no trousers. No. She would have just gone out
there and done something, not been a 'prisoner of inaction' or whatever
the quote was on last year's exam paper.
She shivered. The sun had suddenly gone in, turning everything hard,
greyish.
She picked up Hamlet and turned around. Perhaps it was time to take a
study break, have a coffee. It was nearly time for Neighbours,
anyway.
- Log in to post comments