The Day, Every Day

She woke up, letting her eyes become accustomed to the half-light, accustomed to the ordinary, to her life, to her half-life. The curtains, with their faded pattern of yellow roses, gave the room a sort of sickly, unnatural glow. She sighed and shut out the light, the half-light, knowing that nothing would, or could, be changed.

The alarm, its false cheeriness making her open her eyes, signalled the start of the day. The room, still veiled, held no surprises. All was as it was, as it would be.

The curtains remained closed, shielding her from the day, the jaundiced yellow light intensified as the sun rose. Clothes were chosen in an haphazard fashion, coverings for the body. As long as she was warm and dry fashion didn’t matter. What mattered was merging in with the wallpaper of everyday life, hiding, not being noticed. She achieved this most days.

‘Annie,’ that voice that she loved and hated in turns.

‘Annie! Are you there love?’

She sighed pulling her disguise around her.

The door was slightly ajar, as always, in case she was needed.

The curtains of that room closed, but this time giving the room a pink, rosy glow. The rose pattern chosen many years ago when her father had been alive. Annie made herself smile.

‘What do you fancy for breakfast mum?’

The same question every morning. And the same answer.

‘I’m not sure I can manage much. A cup of tea and maybe a bit of toast, if it’s not too much trouble.’ Annie understood the raised eyebrows, the shrugs and the twitches, remembering the time before when words had been recognised

The forced smile once again, ‘How about that nice jam I bought at the farmer’s market last week?’

A slight inclination of the head and a lopsided up turn of the lips was the answer.

Annie plumped up the pillows and made her mother comfortable.

The kitchen bathed in a soft blue light. Annie didn’t bother opening the curtains. The tray had been set the night before. All she needed was to boil the kettle and make the toast.

She sat at the kitchen table, waiting for the tea to brew, considering the day ahead.

Doris would pop round at about ten. Would sit with her mother and talk incessantly giving Annie a chance to escape, if only for an hour. She had little time when she was on her own and treasured it. Doris was good, understanding her need to escape.

The teapot with its hand knitted cover sat on the tray. A curl of steam escaped from the spout and rose to the ceiling. She watched as it dispersed and finally disappeared, much like the life she had once planned.

Her mother had never known about John.

Her eyes were drawn back to the tea cosy. A real smile touched her lips this time, bringing some warmth to the room. She could remember sitting and watching her mother knitting, weaving colours and patterns producing items of wonder. She had never mastered the skill, had tried many times but with little success. Memories surfaced, she could still feel her mother’s hands guiding hers as loops of wool were moved from one pin to another. Such patience!

The tea was ready, the toast buttered and cut into soldiers with just enough of the new jam. At last it was time to open the curtains, to let in the day. For a moment she was stilled as she saw what the sunlight had conjured from the ground. Bulbs planted long ago, biding their time until the moment was just right, had pushed their way through the frozen soil and now held their smiling faces up to that life giving orb.

The pink glow of the room had intensified giving her mother an almost healthy appearance; she opened the curtains dispelling the illusion.

‘Look mum, spring’s arrived.’ Annie indicated the daffodil which she had placed in a vase and put on the tray. Her mother tried to smile her thanks.

‘Do you think you might get up today? You could sit in the garden!’

It was one of her better days and by the time Doris came Annie had her sitting in the garden propped up with cushions with a hand knitted rug over her knees.

‘You go out and have a break dear. We’ll be fine. I’m going to show her that photo album that she likes. Don’t rush back. It’s lovely out here in the sun.’

Half an hour later Annie had sunk down into an armchair in the local tea room. A large cup of coffee and a cream cake sat on the table in front of her. Somehow she felt more at home here, more herself, didn’t have to hide behind the mask. She looked almost enviously at the young mothers; it could have been her, if only…

John had asked her to marry him. She had said yes but then things had changed dramatically.

‘Your mother will be fine,’ he’d said. ‘We’ll be close by and we can pay someone to pop in every day. You can’t put your life, our life, on hold!’

He’d been patient for a while but eventually had said she had to choose. She couldn’t so he had left.

Finishing her coffee she pulled her disguise around her once again and began her journey home, hiding her most secret thoughts and desires deep within her.