Night Shift

- Helen M Walters

I can never get used to being alone in the house at night. Even though we’ve lived here for nearly 30 years now and it fits us like a well-worn glove.

By day, I know every nook and cranny, every creak of the stairs and whistle of the wind in the chimney. But at night it seems like a different place. As it breathes in and out in the darkness, it sometimes seems full of ghosts. Ghosts of the past.

A memory of us moving in as newlyweds catches me by surprise in the sitting room. This is where we opened all our wedding presents and threw wrapping paper at each other in the sheer joy and excitement of being married, of having our own house and being able to fill it with the endless potential of our lives until it was fit to burst.

Ghosts of when the children were small are everywhere. Kay used to run around in her knickers kicking a football, until we had to stop her because we were worried we wouldn’t have an unbroken ornament or vase left in the place.

Sam, always quieter and more serious than his older sister, would play at the piano for hours.

“He’ll grow up to be a concert pianist,” visitors would say.

“Yes, and his sister’s going to play for Manchester United,” we’d quip back.

So many years ago. And now they’re both grown up and I suppose I feel a bit sidelined.