Summer’s Day by Ian Carass
It was one of those summer days when everything seems to be seen through a filter; when a soft golden glow traces the outline of each leaf, reflects off pavements and adds subtle colours to grass. This light has a mood of its own, that is partly nostalgia, partly a hallowing of the moment.
Andrea stood at her kitchen window, looking out. She could see the gardens of three of her neighbours from this position. Her neighbour to the right was trundling an old-fashioned mower across his strip of lawn. To the left, children were playing on a trampoline. At the back, another neighbour was just sitting, reading a book, sipping a drink. No sound rose above any other, all were slightly muted, smoothed into a harmonious scale.
Andrea took up her washing basket and went outside to peg out her washing. The clothes felt almost dry before she even hung them. They swayed lethargically on the line, a slow ripple of motion; no breath of air seemed quite able to lift them.
Indoors, Andrea’s phone began to ring. She was loathe to go back inside, to desert the graceful airs of the garden, but she finally turned around.
“Hello,” she said, picking up her phone. She had half-expected it to just give up the effort of ringing, before she reached it.
There was no immediate reply but Andrea thought she heard someone on the line take a gulped breath. A hesitant, “hello,” followed and then silence.
“Hello,” said Andrea again, after a pause, “can I help you?”
“I just wanted to let you know – I thought you ought to know – that Rachel has died.”
“Rachel?”
“Yes, Rachel Marshall.”
Andrea did not know the caller, did not recognise the voice, did not know anyone called Rachel Marshall.
“I see,” she said, not knowing what to say, but cautious not to cause hurt. “I appreciate your telling me.”
“I know you two were no longer in touch – and I know the reasons why – on both sides. But, still, just to acknowledge the whole history of you and Rachel, I felt I must let you know.”
“Thank you,” said Andrea, “I am sorry.”
There was silence now on both sides of the call. Andrea was about to hang up, when the other person spoke.
“I’ll leave you in peace. I hope I did the right thing.”
“Thank you again,” said Andrea.
The call was over. Andrea went back to the window. The neighbour on Andrea’s right was still mowing his meagre portion of lawn, hardly making progress. The neighbour at the back was just turning a page. Half-tones of the children playing, still blended into the chords of the day. Even that small cloud to the left of the sun – the only one in the sky – had not moved a fraction.
Everything was precisely the same as when Andrea had looked out of that window earlier.
Except, Rachel Marshall was dead.
Ian Carass has spent most of his professional life working in education, but has published occasionally. Since scaling back work commitments Ian is spending more time writing and in the past few years has had poetry, micro and short fiction published both on-line and in print publications. He has a couple of novellas available on Amazon Kindle and is currently finessing a novel. Ian is based on the coast in the East Riding of Yorkshire.
Image courtesy of Ian Carass
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