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One of those cold summer mornings where one shivers to
leave the front door. Or to step out the shower and, in haste, release the
window from its latch, to permit escaping steam, and a rush of fresh air across
the wet body, shivering – ‘Ooh!’ – and the rooftops undulate between lush
hedges. Or perhaps you went to bed with the window open and woke in the middle
of the night at the shuttering of blinds in the breeze, until, thin duvet
wrapped tightly, you surrendered, arose and closed them, and, in an instant,
missed the sound of nightly nothingness that had intruded upon your pillow.
One of
those cold summer mornings when all is blue and only about the lip of the sky
is there the thinnest sliver of gold. A rinsing mist swims through the suburban
lanes, like lost whales up the Thames. A layer of dew is spread over the road,
and in the worn rails of asphalt one catches hints of the firmament. Over the
pavement, adjacent a car spilled up the kerb, the pear tree has ripened its
fruit and soon, too heavy and swollen, they will fall; the garden from which
they sprout, the owners uninterested, will leave them to lie there and soften
as the shoes of passing schoolchildren slip them into mush.
And the
night before, walking home at half-eight, the death of summer was written on
the sky as much as it was the date. Indigo winds that came off the sea
throttled then caressed the soft sunstretched neck that extended towards the
streetlights which, at the exact moment one looked up, came on into the
distance. The paperbag of dusk rustled. Two girls lay bellydown on the grass,
their ankles crossed up behind them, the confidence of their discussion heard
by neither man nor beast. A family on scooters upset Sunday’s demise as they
shoved past in gleeful exclamations of—‘Slow down, slow down!’ And an old woman
pointed half-invisibly her lead to the terrier who sniffed away the grass
before her. It was cold. Cars punched through the mist that was beginning to
gather. Lights on the pier twinkled a mile away; gently orbiting ferris wheel
and illegible advertisements. The trees shushed as we passed; pines knotted in
their own needles and the sour smell of autumn creeping in.
Two men behind
the till are listening to the radio. One of them cannot be seen, only his left
leg bent at the knee atop a stool, his right arm writing upon a pad. The other
gentleman is counting notes from the till. The radio is commentating cricket
and at my arrival an Indian wicket has fallen; they pause their discussion and
listen, heads bowed to the single speaker. Then they talk quick and excitedly.
I had forgotten how much I missed walking into a shop and hearing cricket
commentary being played on the radio. They do not notice my presence for some
time, although I do not mind because I enjoy listening and watching. When he
comes to, he greets me warmly, a small smile underneath a slipping mask. I buy
a packet of tobacco. I do not need to, there are packs of tobacco in my
backpack back in the office, there are packs in the cupboard at home. But still
I buy the tobacco. I am buying packets of tobacco for no reason at all other
than to walk inside a shop and ask the gentleman behind the till for a packet
of tobacco.
