‘The Serenity of Silence’ by Charlotte Birtles
The crying wakes her. Again. She takes a couple of breaths. She’s so tired. Tired to her bones. Her husband sleeps.
She sighs. Louder than necessary but part of her wants him to know that she got up first. Again. She knows he needs to sleep, but she can’t help the involuntary pull of resentment.
The crying continues. She drags herself out of bed, pulls on her dressing gown and carefully picks up the wailing hot bundle from the cot. Breathes in the warm milky aroma of her son.
She carries him close downstairs. Gently rocking him. Kissing the tears away from his hot red cheeks. He’s teething.
Automatically, she changes his nappy. Pulls out the formula to make a bottle. Fills the kettle, switches it on while she bounces him on her hip. Rubs some soothing gel on his sharp gums and puts a teabag in a cup while she waits for the kettle to boil. She prepares a bottle, squirting a small amount onto her wrist.
She relaxes with him in the armchair near the patio doors. He’s quieter now sucking on the bottle and the chair is comfy. She forgot to make a cup of tea. She doesn’t move.
It’s dark outside. A light illuminates an upstairs room in a house across the garden. Early shift? He suckles on.
The sobbing has subsided, but he’s alert. She puts him into his bouncing chair. He reaches for the attachment that makes a crinkling sound. She sits back. Bounces the rocker with her foot.
It’s getting lighter. Movement in neighbouring properties. A distant rumble of an engine.
Damn. She forgot it was bin day.
Briefly she considers staying put, then remembers that the outside bin is full because she forgot last week. The baby looks content. She pulls out the bag from the kitchen bin and ties it. Touches the side of the kettle. Barely warm. She clicks it back on to boil.
She opens the front door quietly, the cold morning air hitting bare skin. Pulls her dressing gown tighter round her neck. Drags the large bin to the side of the road and squashes the new bag on top. Activity across the road. Mr Sampson waves at her pulling his bin. She raises her hand slightly and walks quickly back to her front door, embarrassed to be caught outside in nightwear. Why is he fully dressed at this time? He must be almost eighty.
The baby is gurgling. Happy sounds. She pours hot water from the kettle onto the teabag.
A patter of footsteps. The door to the kitchen flies open. “Mummy. Did you know a Stegosaurus brain was the same size as a nut?” Her eldest son developed a fascination with dinosaurs shortly after his 5th birthday which hasn’t diminished in 18 months.
“That’s lovely sweetheart.” She kisses him on top of his head. He smells of warm bed.
“Do you want breakfast?” He nods distractedly. He hugs the baby making her heart melt. The baby smiles reaching for his big brother.
“Did you know dinosaur eggs were as big as rugby balls, and they could live up to 300 years?”
She thinks it was 200 years last time he mentioned it but acts surprised. “Really? Wow!”
She moves around the kitchen. Weekday morning muscle memory kicking in. Dishes up porridge for the baby. Nutella on toast for her elder son (she knows it should be Weetabix, but she’s too tired for the inevitable argument), pouring juice. The half-made cup of tea is lukewarm. She pours it down the sink. Fills the kettle. Clicks it on.
She fastens the baby’s bib and sits opposite him at the table spooning porridge.
“Where’s your cup of coffee mummy?”
“Tea sweetheart. Cup of tea. I’ll get it when he’s had breakfast.”
The 14-year-old walks in. The eldest of her three children. There’s some stray mascara on her cheek. She decides not to mention it.
“Can I have coffee?”.
“‘Good morning’ and ‘no’.”.
A sigh and eye rolling.
“You know the deal. Eat breakfast and we’ll consider coffee. I’m not sending you to school functioning on coffee alone.”
“Tilda’s mum lets her.”
Bloody Tilda’s mum.
“Do you want breakfast?”
No reply. Her tiredness nearly makes her cave in, but the eldest child rolls her eyes and walks out. “I’ll get something at school.”
Finally, he’s here. Bumbling into the room looking flustered, tightening his tie.
“Did he wake early, love? Sorry I didn’t hear him.” He kisses her cheek. Reaches for the bread and pops in into the toaster. “Can I get you anything love?”
“Cup of tea would be lovely.”
“Coming right up.”
She watches him put a teabag into another cup and click on the kettle. He focuses on the expensive coffee machine she bought him last Christmas preparing the perfect latte for his journey to work.
“Daddy! Did you know a Nigersaurus had over 500 teeth? Isaac’s dad said he’s taking him to football tomorrow. Can I go?”
The middle child leaves the table. A mess of milk around his bowl. He’s kicking a yellow football that she doesn’t recognise against the kitchen island.
Husband stumbles over his words, but the gist is that he’ll think about it.
“Don’t kick that in the kitchen.”
“Sorry Mummy.”
He’s still kicking absently. It’s giving her a headache.
She frowns at her husband over the baby’s head. He nods, understanding. Finishes making his coffee. Eating his toast. He collects the yellow football with one hand his travel mug with the other. He’s forgotten about the tea.
“Come on Buddy. Get your shoes on or we’ll be late for school.”
Quick kisses as they leave the room.
The chatter continues in the hallway.
“We’re off now Love.” The front door closes and their car starts outside.
The distant voice of an American girl giving tips on eyebrow shaping.
“Mum! Tilda’s here.”
“Take care…”
The front door slams. The American voice leaves with her daughter.
The baby is falling asleep in his highchair. She lowers him gently into his cot.
She empties the kettle filling it with fresh water. Stands over it while it boils and pours the hot water over the teabag in her favourite mug. Leaves it for 4 minutes. She removes the teabag and adds a splash of milk.
She settles into the armchair that faces the garden. Cups her hands around the warm mug. She pauses.
Silence.
She smiles.
Charlotte Birtles wrote this story in response to the prompt Simple Pleasures, as part of August’s Just Write! short story competition.
