It used to be the case that our house was full of unaccountable noise.
In the night, there were bangings and crashings. Doors opening and closing with tremendous force. Whispering voices in the small hours, then howls and sudden bursts of cackling laughter.
It was like living in a horror movie and it was, frankly, terrifying.
Then something happened.
Last week, my partner Susie, like Cole Morton, Sarah Joseph and a million other parents, drove our youngest, Linus, to university.
And then, like in a million other houses, silence descended.
The Silence of the Boys was always with us in one way, I suppose.
After a noisy night, there were quiet mornings to relish before the beasts would stir again, sometime around lunch, driven by the need to graze, or play FIFA.
But the silence of the boys’ absence is different.
Partly it’s different because I no longer have them to moan about.
And, partly, it’s because we are less boy-busy and it’s left Susie and I feeling strangely rattly and the house rather empty.
Once upon a time, the prophet Elijah was assailed by noises – by wind and earthquake and fire – but he could not find God until all was quiet and he could hear, as the Bible puts it, some three millennia before Simon and Garfunkel, the sound of silence.
So now the question, I suppose, is what is the sound of silence?
Well, it’s not the pinging of text messages from the East Midlands, since Linus appears to be maintaining an almost Trappist regime of non-communication. I am certain this is because he has no time to do anything except study. Obviously.
No. What’s mostly in the silence now is me and Susie. And so, instead of the distractions of boy-laundry and beast feeding, there arises the possibility of our actually hearing each other.
Now, I’m not suggesting that Susie will therefore listen with rapt attention to every detail of my day, every day. Trust me; that would be too much to ask of anyone.
But I do hope, for all of us now abandoned by our noisy beasts, that in this brave new world we’ll each enjoy the space that has suddenly been created in our lives – and that into that space, we might be able to fit one another, every once in a while.
At least until the end of term.
As it turns out, Linis got poorly and came home in the middle of term, so disorder was restored. He’s fine now (his washing is done and his belly is full).
The picture is of our boys, Sam, Linus and Silas, on a gate at the top of Treen Cliff in Cornwall.