Time-out at the Mugdens'.(Short story)

I suppose for want of a better name you would call it a guesthouse, although there was only room for a couple of families. There were no bookings. You were invited, and normally we stayed for two weeks, which seemed to be about the same for everyone.

For some reason a fortnight with the Mugdens always left you ready to face another twelve months as if all the burdens of life had never existed.

It's hard to put your finger on it. There was no regimen or rules, no signs--just a kind of pervading quiet. Looking back, I can't recall ever heating a motor--petrol, electric or otherwise. Not even the ping of a microwave or the whirr of a blender. I guess there must have been a washing-machine somewhere.

Days were spent reading, walking, swimming in the dam or perhaps listening to music. If this wasn't someone playing an instrument then it was a vinyl record. (Even if the kids had brought their CDs there was nothing to play them on.) Of course, there was conversation.

Perhaps it was that which made it different. Old Bob Mugden would be weeding the vegetables and he'd see you. He'd say with a glint in his eye, "Oh, I guess that can wait," and you'd go over to a shady spot and start talking.

Like me, it seemed most of the guests were frazzled suburban ministers--or sometimes overseas missionaries back on furlough before having turned fully native.

"Helen's looking a bit tired," he might say and soon I'd be talking about all the things that really mattered to me but which I normally couldn't sift out from the noise of everything else.