It was Saturday morning
when I knocked
on Ingrid's door of the flats
her mum answered
and stared at me
want to come in?
she said
(she would never
have said that
if her husband
was still alive)
I noticed she was red-eyed
looked drawn
her hair was in a mess
thank you
I said
she let me in
I walked down
the passage way
to the lounge
where I had been
just the once
when Ingrid's old man
had been out
and I went to see her
Ingrid was at the table
eating breakfast
her mother was behind me
want a cuppa?
she said
yes that'd be nice
I said
she looked at me
then wandered out of the room
I went to the table
where Ingrid was
and sat near her
what you doing today?
Ingrid said
morning film matinee
I said
can I go?
she said
course you can
if your mum will let you
I said
I'll ask her
Ingrid said
she ate her cereal slowly
any news
about your old man's death?
who stabbed him?
I said
she shook her head
no the police came
and asked Mum questions
but they think he got
in a fight
or upset someone
and that was it
bottled outside a pub
Ingrid said softly
sorry for you
and your mum
I said
(even though he beat them
and made their lives misery
I guessed they missed him)
can't believe it
Ingrid said
I wait for him to come in
some nights
I dream he's come home
him and Mum
are arguing again
and he's coming to my room
to leather me
then I wake up
and realize he's not
coming back anymore
are you glad?
I said
him hitting us no
but him as my dad yes
she said
her mum brought me
a cup of tea in
a chipped cup
on a chipped saucer
but the tea looked
the right colour
and was sweet
she went off
back to the kitchen
what time
is the film matinee?
Ingrid said
in an hour
I said
looking at the clock
on the mantelshelf
over the fireplace
best get ready then
and ask Mum
about going
she said
finishing off her breakfast
after she'd finished
she went off
to get dressed
in her day clothes
I sat in the lounge
looking around
it was odd
no shouts
or screaming
in fact no sound.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The calm after many storms. But change is hard to adjust to and relationships more complex than we, as outsiders, imagine. Good one, Terry. Tom Billsborough