Just waiting

I vaguely notice that the edges of the lace curtains have lost their crispness. My constant pushing them aside to look for the taxi has made them limp. He is not coming, yet.
Stop aimlessly wandering around the room. Sit down by the fire. Read the newspaper and wait. Pour yourself a drink, do something positive. But I take no notice of my own good advice and return to watch from the window. fidgeting with the curtains has smudged the panes, and my breath has left misty marks. “O.K, O.K”, I say to myself, and I sit down, but the chair is uncomfortable.
Looking round the room for something to do, I twiddle with the radio knobs. The music grates on my nerves, and the voices drone on and on. For goodness sake, why can’t they give a decent talk? I grumble at the radio, the fire, the furniture - at anything. The radio continues to shriek and whistle, so I click it off. I seek for the poker and give the fire an unnecessary poke. Hot ashes hiss out on to the grate. Damn! I reach for the shovel and brush. I look at the table. Something is not quite right. With just a small pot of daffodils on the big shiny table, it looks meagre. Perhaps I should have bought flowers with more colour? Yellow does look a bit wishy-washy.
Lloyd’s Shipping paper distinctly states “SAMARIA” e.t.a. 11.00hrs., Tilbury 25th. That’s today. I haven’t got that wrong, so I should have heard something by now.
There are footsteps on the path…My hands won’t stop trembling. I push the lace curtains aside and with a big smile, I wave. But it’s the woman from across the way. My smile, wave and curtains fall flat. Oh, God. What does she want?
She drops the knocker on the front door and it cracks like thunder. “Go away, go away”, I scream silently. “I don’t want you here when he comes. He’s n to been home for a year.” Standing four square at the door, she waits for me to open it. I open the door an inch or two. “Yes?” I say in a squeaky voice.
“Anything wrong, dearie? I’ve seen you standing by your window all day, on and off.” She smiles a nosey smile. Shaking my head I begin to close the door; she ignores the move.
“You look peaky, how about a cup of tea?”
My thoughts rear - “If I had a gun in my pocket I would kill you. GO AWAY!”
Unexpectedly the phone trills. We both jump. I bang the door in her face and stand with my back to it, breathing heavily. I stretch out my arm and lift the receiver.
“Hello”, I whisper. A pause. Tears roll down my face as I hear him say, “Sorry, darling, there’s been a change of port - we have docked in Liverpool.”
“’Bye”, I say. “see you sometime.”
Slowly I return to the sitting room and draw the curtains tightly across the windows, then sink into a chair. God, I feel so tired. Why, I’ve done nothing all day but look out of the window and hope. My drink has slopped onto the table, and I watch as the rivulets sluggishly slip off the table and drip down onto the rug. My foot rubs ‘the water of life’ away. In a dull way I think this is symbolic. Huge oceans of water separate my husband and me for months and months at a time. Finally I suppose we both will be washed out of existence.
“Have another drink”, I say to myself. I tip the bottle high. What the hell, as I throw a shovel of coal on the fire and renew the blaze…

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