STARLING ALLEY

The lane was uneven in every possible way. The brickwork gutter ran not quite down the middle creating an uneven slant to both halves of the dog-legged little byway. Even during peak hour traffic or the busy city nights, there was never any traffic. In the window of one of the town houses that backed onto this urban capillary stood a thin woman in an old fashioned house dress. Her silver hair gathered in a hastily prepared but still perfectly shaped bun.

Beatrice stared across the lane at the car park of the old shoe factory, the faint mumble of activity within the corrugated iron shed rambled back to her, as it had for all eternity. Just audible above the announcers babble on the radio.

“Do you know Geoffrey, I actually miss that confounded racket the boys would make playing against the wall.” Her lamentation was punctuated as Beatrice plopped the diced potatoes into the stew.

Geoffrey was a big man, his hands were callused and nursed a cup of tea in one and the paper in the other.

“That’s an odd thing to say after all these years.”

“I know. I was just thinking out loud.” The old knife sliced hard down through carrots, “And missing the....”

“You shouldn’t dwell dear. The boys aren’t around to play handball, and besides, you always made quite a racket yourself when they did.” The diced beef burst into a cacophony of sizzle as it hit the hot pan.

“I’m not dwelling, just reminiscing, and I wish I could see them again. Now where did I put my big spoon?”

“Its on the shelf above you. You know how busy they are. It’s not like my carpentry shop. The boys are running something much bigger. Besides, they have enough trouble spending time with their own children. He finally looked up from his paper at sounds of struggle.

“What are you doing?”

Beatrice was wrestling with some peas in a pod.

“The blighters won’t come out.”

“Is your arthritis acting up?”

“No!” Beatrice added more water to the stew, it was thickening too quickly. Her tone was one of defiant warning.

A starling darted into and out of the lane, pilfering the crumbs from the ground. It danced, then a second dropped in and looked around for what was so interesting. A third zipped by, taunting. All too soon the alley was empty of play once more.

“Do you know what I think dear?”

“What Geoffrey?” Beatrice was now tussling with the light in the oven, it refused to come on.

“We should fly over to see them.”

“All that way, we cannot possibly pay for such a trip.” Beatrice then found a ten-cent piece under the oven and placed it in the tin by the telephone.

“Of course not, but you know perfectly well the boys have offered more than once to fly us there themselves.”

“You know I hate the wet weather over there.” The peas were poured into the pot, splashing soup onto the stovetop.

“Well, if you are not willing to make the trip when you have the time. Then why should they when they have not?”

“Get the salt please dear?” Geoffrey stood up, moved past his wife in the cramped kitchen, returned with the salt and sat back down.

“I know its easier for me to go, but it would be nice to be visited.”

“You’re just scared that they have forgotten you.” Some dramatic classical piece was on the radio.

“That’s silly!”

“Is it? Then why is it so important for them to make the effort.”

“That’s not fair, you’re using logic.” Beatrice furrowed to a frown.

“Only because you’re being illogical.” Geoffrey wore a rye smile

“I am not. I just want my boys to think of me occasionally.”

Just then the phone rang.