text: THE WIND IN THE WILLOWS He finds it difficult to tear himself away from the window and, even when something draws his attention, the ringing of the landline in the hall or the sound of his cell phone, back he returns, involuntarily, to the French window that looks out onto the vast lawn and the cluster of trees that border the edge of the grass and the beginning of the embankment that stretches down to the river flowing hurriedly past his garden. It was always the same when she went away. The first two days, he would almost revel in his solitude; eating what he wanted, when he wanted. Staying up as late as he liked, watching the programmes that he preferred but rarely got a chance to see and sleeping as late as he wanted the following mornings. But, invariably, this novelty began to wear a bit thin by the third day though he usually managed to find something to amuse him, pass the time. Perhaps, a visit to the shops, loading up on “treats” that she would normally nag him into avoiding: chocolate being top of the list. But it was always that third night alone, going to bed, when her absence seemed to bother him the most and he would feel his loneliness forcing its way through, preventing him from sleeping, lying in the darkness, realising just how much he missed her. The very first time that she had mentioned visiting Sydney to see her daughter, he had become upset at not being invited. He had never been on good terms with his step-daughter and, in all honesty, even if he had been asked, he almost certainly would have said no. But it was the principle after all; he was big on principle. He should have been included. Of course, he understood that his wife had every right to visit her daughter and, above all else, all he had ever wanted was her happiness and it had become accepted that the week long trip would be a regular occurrence that he would just have to come to terms with. Always, he made sure to drive her to the airport, bid her farewell with a smile and a hug, message her before her boarding time to wish her a wonderful trip and assure her that he would be here, ready and waiting in seven day’s time to pick her up. In his own mind, too, by this time, he had started to look forward to his own “freedom”. Then, as per usual, around about the third day it would usually begin to pall. He had never been one to have a bunch of acquaintances. Like his father before him, he was a solitary person who could, at best, count those he considered to be real friends on two fingers. Not one for small chat, he was slow to warm to people and kept his feelings close. He was also extremely set in his ways, spotlessly clean, morally upright and found fault with anybody who did not come up to his exacting standards. Because of this, he gave off an invisible aura that kept most at arm’s length. His wife was his life. That was it in a nutshell. More than just loving her, he was devoted ; wanted only to make her happy. Oftentimes, he knew that, if not for her, he would, almost certainly, stop going to the gym daily, cease making an effort with his diet, his appearance. It was all for her, never wanting her to think less of him, craving her approval. Those final few days before her return from the latest trip were the most difficult for him. He would fill his daytime hours completing crossword puzzles, reading, following the instructions that she had left behind regarding the watering of plants, the exact amount of washing detergent to use, which rinse cycle to set the machine etc, desperately wanting everything to be in shipshape fashion upon her return. But, always, those last nights as the week progressed were the toughest; their huge kingsize bed somehow becoming more empty, each night, guaranteeing a lack of sleep. When he did collect her from the airport at the end of each week away, there was always an initial tension that they never spoke about. She would be reluctant to tell him of the things she had done, thinking that he might envy her for having had a good time without him. He would be loathe to ask about her time away, not wanting to openly acknowledge his feelings of just how much of an an outcast he was in the lives of her family. Why this was exactly was hard to pinpoint. He had never been less than supportive to his step- daughter and, when she had given birth to her only child, it had been he, on his regular business trips to Sydney, who had always made the time to drop in and see the boy. It was he, not his real grandfathers, who wrote long letters to the boy on a regular basis that included stories, jokes, cartoons and riddles that he would often labour for hours over. Yet, they never seemed to be appreciated. His step-daughter had simply outlawed him when he had lost the business, blaming him without knowing the true facts and nothing would ever change her mind. He had been responsible for the downgrade in her mother’s life and that was all there was to it. Despite the injustice that he felt, he had come to terms with this, years before, and it was only on these jaunts, that seemed to be occurring more and more regularly, that this situation really hit home, making him realise just how lonely and empty his life actually was without his wife. He had come to dread being told that she was going off again. Always, that initial notification cutting him deep but he had become a master at hiding his feelings, assuring his wife that there was no problem, lying to himself about what a good time he could have while she was away. And he, initially, did...up until around the third day. Now, here he is, staring, trance-like, out into the soft drizzle that has just begun to fall, the wind blowing it back onto the window. The telephone in the hall rings yet again and he forces himself, against his will, to go and check the number: 02. Sydney again. He doesn’t pick up. The ringing stops but, almost immediately, his cell phone begins to ring; the same number. Her number; his step-daughter’s. Once more, he declines to answer. Back he goes to the lounge window. The rain has stopped. The wind forces a break in the clouds and a streak of sunshine comes struggling through and the darkness of the wintry grass nearest to him is suddenly lit up. As more clouds part, more rays shine down and the entire lawn is slowly bathed in sunlight all the way to the bottom of the garden where the wind is blowing the willows as they bend forward trying to reach the river. He is mesmerised. They say that a criminal always returns to the scene of his crime. It had been her cellphone that had given the game away. As she had showered in readiness for her departure, her phone, being charged, had pinged as he’d come in from the garden. Automatically, he had glanced at it: “Can’t wait to hold you in my arms again. Jack. X” Jack? Who the hell was Jack? It had felt like an ice pick had been thrust into his heart. All this time? All these trips? All of his sleepless, lonely nights? What an utter, contemptuous fool he had been. He understands that there will be no picking up from the airport ever again and his loneliness will be cast in stone forever for, as he stares, tears in his eyes, at the willows swaying back and forth, he knows what lies beneath them.