The Sound of Autumn
By Erica Peachey
The Hoylake garden was bursting with the colour
and scents of late summer. The grass and flowers, though beginning to
look slightly dusty and tired, still retained their wonderful charm of a couple
of months ago. The grass was green, the roses were red, the sky was blue.
Everything was as it should be, except for the man.
The man was troubled, he gazed without seeing at
the garden stretching out in front of him. The time he had lovingly invested in
it, the beauty, the perfection, all went unnoticed. He stood still, like a
rock; a small, squat, aging rock.
He was fond of his wife. They had been together a
long time and he could neither imagine nor remember being with anyone else.
Till death us do part, he had promised. He didn’t imagine she would die, but
she was…in decline.
Failing eyesight was one thing – they had
graciously accepted the challenge of varifocals. Forgetting the odd thing was
no big deal, he felt everyone did that at times. But his wife was losing her
hearing. He would speak to her and receive no answer. It didn’t occur to the
man that his wife may have been ignoring him to prove a point, their
relationship didn’t work that way. But he was concerned that she was beginning
to fail. Where would that leave him?
There was always something to worry about and he
worried about this for several weeks. He could have spoken to her about it, but
he liked to know facts, he liked to be the one telling, not asking. Besides, he
didn’t want his wife to be upset. Bad enough for one of them to be bothered,
without them both having to deal with it. There would be time enough for that
in the future.
***
He finally decided that he had to speak to
someone, so he trudged wearily down to the pharmacy on Market Street. Damp
drizzle found its way through his thin jacket. He didn’t notice, he was
grumbling inwardly. “Why can’t you speak to your doctor about this?
Why is no-one interested nowadays? Time was when you could make an
appointment and speak to your own GP, someone who would know you and care.”
As he entered the large, bright chemist shop, the
young man looked suspiciously at the older man across the counter. “Can I
help you?” he asked politely.
“Can I speak to the pharmacist?” Tension
made him more brusque than he intended.
“That’s me, can I help you?” he repeated as
patiently as he could but his irritation showed.
The man was astounded, he had assumed the lad was
on work experience or whatever it was called these days. Could he know
anything, being so young? What did he know about hearing, aging, worries,
shaving? He stuttered for a while, flustered.
“It – it’s my wife, I t-think she’s going deaf.
How can I find out, without upsetting her?” His voice dried up. He
had planned to say so much more.
The young man smiled to cover his annoyance. He
had really thought that his career choice would have led to something more
exciting than this. He reached under the counter and slapped a leaflet in front
of the older man.
“Contact this place. You can arrange for a
thorough check; they will fully assess your wife’s hearing. It only takes about
an hour. They use a tiny camera and examine the health of the ear canals and
ear drums.” He was warming to his subject now. He vaguely wondered
if he could retrain as a hearing consultant. “You can even watch on
screen,” he tailed off as he heard a gasp from the other man.
The older man looked at the leaflet in horror. An
audiologist! He hadn’t realised it would cost money! And a lot of it. He
took in the price, the enlarged writing which seemed to be shouting at him, the
picture of a smiling woman with grey hair, glasses and wrinkles, wordlessly
telling him that all was well. His gaze returned to the young man, pleadingly.
The young man caught the glance. He decided to
work on his compassion and tried to show a kinder expression. “If you prefer,
you could evaluate it yourself first. Just pick a time when your wife isn’t
looking at you. Say something and if she doesn’t respond, take a step nearer
and say it again. It’s not really scientific, but it will give you an idea.”
The older man thanked him gratefully, feeling
that maybe he did, after all, know a little bit.
He left the leaflet, with the patronisingly
smiling woman, on the counter.
***
The opportunity arose a few days later. The
weather was colder, the nights were approaching quicker. The summer hadn’t
really lived up to the promise of its early days. In reality, it had been
mostly cold, damp and quite dreary. But even that was over now, replaced by the
dinginess of grey days and cold, dark evenings. The colour was fading.
His wife had prepared their dinner, it was in the
oven and she was washing a few dirty dishes at the sink.
He stood behind her. The chicken casserole smelt
wonderful; the sight of the crockery clattering was reassuring. The house was
cosy, even though the chill of autumn was in the air. Surely nothing could be
wrong, nothing could shake his world which he had worked so hard to secure.
“Love, when will dinner be ready?” he asked,
tentatively.
No answer. He took a step closer.
“Dinner? When will it be ready?” he
muttered, now not really wanting to find out his fears were realised.
Silence.
But how had he not noticed that her waist was
thicker than it used to be? The hair a little greyer and wispier than he had
realised, her movements slightly slower and stiffer.
He took a step closer. “When will dinner be
ready, love?” he asked a little louder and bolder.
Still no response.
Through the window, unnoticed in the gloom of the
darkening evening, a rose petal dropped onto the damp soil.
He was right behind her now.
“Love, how long before dinner’s ready?” He was
getting desperate now.
And then she turned to him. She sighed slightly
and smiled. Her face looked younger, more animated, more confident.
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