Viewpoint 1
Hazel
September 1980
As she came to, Hazel slowly blinked at the silver alarm
clock by the bed. Its screen blinked on,
off, on, off; the digits reading 6.09am.
For a moment she wondered if Frank had set it early and had already
risen and was getting washed in the bathroom.
However none of the usual closing of cabinet doors, or running of taps
ensued.
A few years ago, Frank had received the job offer he had
been waiting for that brought the family up North. He had travelled up alone before Hazel and
the children to look for a place to live and start his new role at the Theatre
Royal. Following Frank a few weeks
later, Hazel had driven the couple’s Morris 1000 Traveller up the A1, their
four children strapped into every available seat, chubby arm against chubby arm
amidst Chewits wrappers and leaking Tommy Tippee cups.
Arriving after the long drive from Bristol, head fuzzy from
the incessant demands for toilet stops and squabbling, Hazel found Frank
pulling out weeds in the small paved garden in front of their new home- a
semi-detached bungalow in Newcastle’s west end.
“Welcome home!”, Frank beamed as he opened the driver’s door
for Hazel, making a low theatrical bow as he did so.
“Welcome home”, she returned, stepping from the car and
stretching her back, her arms falling around her husband’s waist, embracing him
tightly.
With their southern accents and growing brood, Hazel and
Frank stood out, the locals viewing them as exotic and charming.
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The noise that had awoken her came again.
The idea that the twins and Marian were exchanging early
morning missiles across their shared bedroom flipped into her mind. Nearly 7, it wouldn’t be long before Marian
lost patience with sharing a room with her younger siblings. The twins, Frances and William, were four and
a half, and still clung on to the boundless enthusiasm of a toddlerhood, even
on this, their first day of school.
Often Hazel and Frank found themselves standing for minutes
at a time, blissfully gazing at the contented faces of their sleeping brood;
faces glowing from the warmth that rose to their cheeks, produced by the deep,
sound sleep that comes to a child at the end of a day when every inch of
available energy has been expended. It
was at these moments that Hazel and Frank felt utterly fulfilled as parents. Yet
there was something in the purity of the scene that carried a tinge of tragedy;
a reminder that these moments are fleeting, and that one day they would become only
be a piece of nostalgia; one that the couple would gently pull out and pour
over, as though it were a precious and ancient text to be handled only with
specialist gloves. If these moments
could be bottled and savoured, Hazel often thought. Such is the beauty of life.
At the third time of asking, the noise caused Hazel to sit
upright in bed. Her body heavy, not only
with sleep, but with the 7-month old baby nestling safely inside.
_________________________________________
It hadn’t been
the twins and Marian after all. It was
the door. At once, the sight of the alarm clock, together with the smooth
sheets where Frank should have been reminded her that he had not slept here
last night.
She lowered her legs to the floor and prepared to
stand. The warmth of night combined with
her late stage in pregnancy had meant that she had slept naked. It was early September and as was typical,
the British summer had decided to put in a late appearance, short-lived though
it was bound to be.
The Burtons didn’t do dressing gowns, or much in the way of
sleep-wear for that matter. Hazel momentarily considered what she might throw
on to answer the door, before opting for an old work shirt hanging on the back
of the door that Frank had been wearing that week whilst glossing the skirting
boards in preparation for the arrival of the new baby. Loosely buttoning the shirt, she walked
quickly past the twins’ and Marian’s room, and then past the room shared by
Hattie and Maud, three and 18 months.
Catching a glimpse of the
children’s faces as she passed, Hazel saw that the knocking had not caused them
to stir yet from their cocooned slumber.
