Like gentle fingertips running across her dozing face, the cool breeze gently stirred Amanda from her dreams in the lulled world between sleep and wakefulness. She squinted as she opened her eyes to the summer afternoon, with sunlight flickering between the leaves of the tree she was resting under, creating darting shadows and patterns on her bare legs.

Her book had fallen open to her side, where it had slipped from her grasp during her slumber. Her small picnic basket was still open, inviting Amanda to pour a glass of cola and munch on another egg sandwich. Glancing at her watch, Amanda realised she had dozed for longer than she had thought in the warmth of the day, so stood up, brushing away the bits of grass and leaf that had adhered themselves to her. Amanda packed away her picnic and book, a supermarket thriller, and looked around the meadow again, the peace interrupted only by the birdsong and the faraway hum of a light aircraft.

It was her favourite place in summer. She would always come here to get away from the hubbub of town and the humdrum activities and little jobs around the house that seemed to occupy her so much nowadays. Rejuvenated, Amanda hopped over the stile and strolled over the footpath that led to the clearing where her old Morris Minor was parked.

Sleepy days like this where she could seemingly float into a pool of thoughts and memories were what motivated Amanda. Her mother had always told her off for daydreaming so much, as had her teachers at school, but she couldn’t see the harm in drifting off to another world, hazy as it was, and sinking into the comforting marshmallow thoughts that drifted into her head.

For years, Amanda hadn’t had the time to daydream. Her days had been taken up with two young children and a husband, and all the chaos that they seemed to generate. “I never have a moment to myself,” she used to complain, while secretly relishing being needed and being kept busy, both with domestic duties and helping out at the OAP pop-in centre at the St. Matthew’s church hall.

Those years seemed to be a never-ending stream of runny noses, grazed knees, organising meals and meeting a continuous gaggle of similar women at school fetes and church jumble sales. Mountains of laundry, heaps of washing up and the everyday struggle of juggling money for mortgage and bills had taken their toll on Amanda, though she had told herself always that she was fulfilled. Real fulfilment, however, had always been elusive – not far away, but just an inch too far for Amanda to grasp. Yet she had never known what to do about that niggling feeling, always putting it away in the bits and bobs drawer at the back of her mind. Amanda had always counted herself lucky, compared to those who had nothing and were always on the six o’clock news having their poverty conveyed the world.

Though she still looked good for her age, the sheen had been lost from her blonde hair, and her eyes, once sparkling were dulled and tired. Her features were starting to show the strains of the fatigue that a life of discontentment could bring.

She hadn’t even seen it coming that her marriage was suffering. After all, their routine was the same as countless families the length and breadth of the country. She has stayed at home to look after the children, the female emancipation movements of the seventies almost passing her by unnoticed, whilst her husband went to work each morning, catching the 7.24 to London.
The same routine, day in, day out; year in, year out. It was wearisome, and there was always a feeling that she could have done more with her life, but each day she reminded herself what a pleasure it was to feed and nurture her nuclear family and told herself that she was satisfied.

She had forgotten when her and Andy, her husband, had stopped talking to each other. It wasn’t a conscious kind of not talking, not like sending someone to Coventry, and there was nothing acrimonious, just one day, Amanda, clad in pink Marigolds, stopped washing the dinner plate and realised that she hadn’t had a proper conversation with Andy in years. Other than the mundane comments of daily life, such as “pass the salt” and “I think the bathroom could do with a lick of paint,” they hadn’t actually sat down and had a proper talk for as long as she could remember. Yet when they were courting at university, they used to have passionate discourses about politics, music and animal rights long into the early hours. They were so alive back then.

Now, of course, the children had flown her little nest. The silent marriage was really inescapable then. Robert had moved away and set up home with his new wife Sally and they had twin boys. Gretchen was still travelling the globe, making her mother both proud and envious. Without their rowdiness, the house seemed to die a little bit, the home she had spent years making just no longer existed.

Andy had kept up his routine to the office five days a week (Amanda never was exactly sure what he did) after they had left, until his retirement a few short years later. That really put the cat amongst the pigeons. Andy sitting in his armchair, reading the Times, as if each day was Sunday, while she tried to Hoover around his feet. At first, they went off for little excursions, maybe a museum or lunch at a country pub, but they would end up looking at each other, in silence over their scampi and chips, not having anything to say to one another.

Amanda supposed that they would just mosey along forever, in their small nebulous world, enjoying the fruits of retirement, such as their grandchildren and golf and dawdling about with dahlias in the garden. They seemed to inhabit a languid land where nothing happened or was expected to happen and the ticking of the clock seemed to echo around their house and the silence contained therein.

But one day Andy left Amanda. He said he was just popping to the shop to get a crossword book. Amanda had waved him on his way, adding to please get a pint of milk and some sugar while he was there, never having an inkling that would be the last time she would see him in her house.

Time began to get on – she realised he had been gone over half an hour after The Archers had finished. Sitting down with a cup of tea, she reasoned he had probably stopped at The Red Lion for a pint and a packet of pork scratchings on the way back from the shop and got back to reading her book.
After an hour and a half had passed, she began to get annoyed. They were meant to be going to Homebase today to get some plants and if he didn’t hurry up there wouldn’t be time. Restless after three hours, Amanda was worried. She still loved her husband, despite the reticence that seemed to partner their relationship. She was sure he felt the same.

Amanda pulled her coat on and left the house, as the phone began to ring. She shut the door behind her, “if its important they’ll ring again,” she reasoned. Amanda stopped off at the corner shop to enquire whether her husband had been in. She was answered in the affirmative and reassured that her errands had been carried out.

Amanda turned to walk down the hill towards the Red Lion. There was quite a crowd of people outside by the beer tables, unusual for the time of year, but no doubt taking the opportunity to enjoy the spring sunshine. They seemed to be making a lot of noise too. As she neared, she saw a figure lying on the ground. It was wearing a familiar tweed jacket. “Silly old fool, what’s he playing at,” was the thought that occupied her mind in the split second before the cold realisation that something was seriously wrong.

She pushed her way to the front of the crowd that had formed around her husband. He looked grey and as she stared at him, she knew he had left her. Even as someone let her away by the arm and the wail of sirens got closer and closer, she knew that the world as she had known for three decades had collapsed. Amanda felt as though she was in a bubble that might burst at any moment and make this nightmare end. But the bubble didn’t burst and she was alone and purposeless.

That was last year, and Amanda had, after the grief had subsided and the family had flown once more, begun to find herself, after years in stasis serving her family, forgetting who she was under the habitual routines of suburban family life. Like a butterfly unfurling its wings for the first time, Amanda felt free, as free as the breeze that once more ruffled the wisps of hair that framed her face. This was the beginning of Amanda’s story.