When someone says my name

Who was first to notice the silence? We still don't have an answer. I can only tell you when it occurred to me that it was happening. 

I was walking the perimeter of the field, having completed my daily custom of browsing the shop, picking up biscuits or multibags or stuffed olives from the fridge section, carrying them around, realising I don't want any of it, then returning each item slowly before leaving the shop empty handed. 

I saw Vivienne in the long grass area of the field, walking with a stick she must have found. I like Viviene. She is not quite a friend, but we have bonded in ways that are strangely intimate for us to be only acquaintances. She has been my partner for doubles snooker several times, when we were both having a solo evening, but keen to join in. Also, more recently, Vivienne's dwelling fell foul of the halopeter plague, and I had to crawl under her bed with a broom to get one out. We'd both had them on us that day, clutching on to our backs, vibrating. We drank a lot of tea together. Litres of the stuff it must have been, over those times of playing snooker and deinfesting her dwelling.  

That day on the field, Vivienne and I waved to each other, and adjusted our trajectory so we would cross paths. We got closer and closer, soon we were within range to start speaking. We had open mouths. But no sound came out. We smiled instead, waved again, and passed each other without a word. A few minutes later, I found the slight ache of the unspoken greeting still there in my mouth, at the back, just at the arch of my throat. I had been about to speak, and the muscles were still waiting to relax. It made me wonder, when had I last spoken? When had I last had a conversation? 

I decided to say something to myself, something outloud. I was about to just say 'shoe heel' because I was setting a foot down in the grass. Shoe heel, but the words remained inside me. Only in my head did I say them. Like this, now, like I'm doing here, just in my head. No sound. 

I'd been alone all the previous day. I'd seen the yoga class going through their actions in the minor clearing at wood-edge. Were they speaking? They never speak. You copy the body of the body in front of you. I've been many times. Bending and shaking with the muscle ache. I'm no good at it. But I never interrupt the others. To be honest, I find it all very alienating. I don't go any more, because I do feel that I hold them back, even though nobody in the yoga group would ever articulate such a thing, with or without speaking. It's really beside the point though, what I think of yoga. Most important detail is that they were silent. 

Also the touching. I've been touching people more, I realised. Pats on the back. Who started that one? Oh, look, I might say to myself, Simon has dropped his photograph of Harmin, so I'll tap him and point at it and smile. Simon looks around. He can't see what I'm pointing at, so I pick up the photograph of Harmin myself and hand it over. In return, Simon pats me on the shoulder. Brushes some grit away from Harmin's photogenic body. Speaks not a word. 

Not a single word! Nobody has said a single word, I realised. I kept walking, trying to discover when I had last spoken or been spoken to. But nothing. There must have been a time, a final time when someone said something, but it was lost to me. It remains lost. 

I can't ask people what they think of it - it would now be an unthinkable act of vandalism to break the silence. Some people have sent me notes, but they do not refer directly to the silence. It's more like, Can you come and help me tidy the clearing of picnic debris? or, Have you seen my spare mop? 

A few days after my silent encounter with Vivienne in the field, Audrey sent me a note inviting me over. Come round for tea, it said. We can try to fly! It's been so long. So I went over. We went up the ladder and attempted, in silence, to become weightless. To think completely hollow thoughts, and become birds, but we didn't speak.

 At one point Audrey raised her cup of tea to me, and I to her, and we cheersed, but without a sound coming from either of us. We allowed our eyes to meet, to acknowledge that we no longer speak, and then we drank tea. I have to say, it was a very enjoyable day there with Audrey. We held hands for a while. It was the first time we have really touched each other, save for stumbles on our long rambling hikes, or of course to prevent falls from the ladder during the bird bone attempts. 

So as I said, everyone touches everyone else a lot more than they used to. Is this a good thing? I'm trying to make my peace with it. some people, like Audrey or Simon, fine. You can touch me. Vivienne? Yes, a simple rub of the upper arm, why not. But then some of the others - I hate to say it, but no. No no. 

I say I say no, but in fact I am silent. Completely silent, and will be for some time longer I think. I've got plenty to be getting on with. I'm not bored. The words I have not spoken rest, like sleeping guards in the cave of my mouth. They're ok. I've got a cake, I'll roll them over again with a slice of that. 

Soon, I feel convinced, someone will hail me by saying my name. I will hear my name. I long for it, the sound of it, but the longer I wait, the sweeter it will be. whoever's idea this was, they're ok in my book. I think this is just fine. I have so much cake.