Someone to turn to. A shoulder to cry on. That’s me. A repository of worn-out clichés. My adhesive labels. They phone me with their troubles and I comfort them. Seems it’s my role.
‘Oh, Barbara! I can’t stand being alone. It’s grinding me down. I’m sleeping badly and I wake to find I’ve clawed my arms until they bleed. Red spots on the sheets. Then I can’t be bothered to change them. So I go to bed in bloody bedding and that upsets me.’
I listen while my dinner burns then we go through changing the bed and she feels better. I hear the next day she slept well. I didn’t.
‘Oh, Barbara! You’re the only person I’ve spoken to this week. I have this heavy cloud around me. I miss my son. He could phone me but he doesn’t.’
So we talk about her making the call. No, she says. He should do it.
I persuade her while my washing gets soaked in a heavy shower.
‘Oh, Barbara! We had such a lovely chat!’
I try not to sigh.
And a couple more cries from a couple more friends. I should be glad – I was once – but it’s not enough. There’s a storm inside me. I stand in the shower to wash away the panic. In water and in tears. I can feel the thunder in my head and flashes like lightening make me screw up my eyes. Who helps the helper?
The phone rings. Yet another ‘Oh, Barbara!’ call?
I search for my compassionate voice.
‘Oh, Barbara! Just thought I’d give you a ring to see how you are. I love talking to you. It’s been too long. I’ve got some good news to share…’
She didn’t realise what she had just achieved.
By Linda Fawke (author of A Taste of his own Medicine and A Prescription for Madness available on Amazon).
This entry was highly commended in the Wokingham Writers Group summer writing challenge, on the theme of Stormy Weather.
