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He listened

There was the calling again Like the last cricket of the year, like the last rustle of the last oak leaf of the season At the front door, at the back, at the bay s Oh, there would be a million slow footprints in the meadon tomorrohen the sun rose

Was she listening?

“Ann, Ann, oh, Ann!” Was that what he called? “Ann, can you hear me, Ann?” Was that what you called when you came back very late in the day?

And then, suddenly, Mr Widmer stood up

SUPPOSE SHE didn’t hear him! How could he be sure she was still able to hear? Seventy years s of ti for some peop

le until they live in a universe of cotton and wool and silence Nobody had spoken to her in thirty years, save to open theirthere in her cold bed now like a little girl playing out a long and lonely gah her flake-painted door, sorass around her locked house? Perhaps not pride but a physical inability prevented her fro!

In the living roo the bedroom door to be certain he hadn’t wakened his wife To the operator he said, “Helen? Give me 729”

“That you, Mr Widht to call her”

“Never mind”

“All right, but she won’t answer Never has Don’t recall she ever has used her phone in all the years after she had it put in”

The phone rang It rang six ti happened

“Keep trying, Helen”

The phone rang twelve ti perspiration Someone picked up the phone at the other end

“Miss Bidwell!” cried Mr Wid in relief “Miss Bidwell?” he lowered his voice “This is Mr Wid”