Lost in the Crowd - I.P

Lost in the Crowd. IP.

She gazed into the fog of faces, the swarm of Christmas shoppers. They did not see her, she who was invisibled by middle age.

Her laden bags bit cruelly into purpled fingers, rousing her, finally demanding action. On numbed feet she walked towards a lad begging in a doorway. She stopped in front of his huddled form, pulling a blanket from her bags. One she had bought for 'Him' to use when he sat in front of his enormous television.

            “Sorry,” she mumbled, “I don’t have much cash, but you’re welcome to my bus fare home. And please, use this blanket, it’s very thick, it should keep you a bit warmer.”

            The clatter of coinage moved her along as he called after her. “Hey Missus, you’ve dropped your wedding ring!”         

“Sell it,” she called over her shoulder.

Rubbing blood into the previously shackled finger, she hurried along to the bus shelter. It was crammed with bent figures, smelling of lavender and old musk.

“Don’t worry, I’m not pushing in,” she said as she approached the head of the queue. “Here, please, take these chocolates, share them amongst yourselves whilst you wait.”

She felt embarrassed by their stares, but could not stop herself, not now her mission was set. Opening the first of her bags she began pulling forth all the wondrous items she had collected over hours of shop trudging.          

Deftly, she divided the carefully picked goodies between the waiting raggle, taggle of elderly folk. A tub of sweets here, luxury biscuits, a Christmas pudding, mince pies and finally the turkey. Her bags grew light, lifting her shoulders and her mood.

“You can’t do this love,” one lady offered, “you’ll have nothing left. What’ll your family say?”

            “Who knows?” she said, meaning “Who cares?” but not daring to say it. “I’ve bought far too much,” she mumbled not catching their astonished eyes as she dealt out each morsel.

            The scarf she had bought ‘him’, nagged at her from the depths of the department store bag. She plucked it free, handing it to an elderly man with a tear drop dangling dangerously from his chilled nostrils.

            “You look cold,” she said, “here take this, wrap yourself up or you’ll catch your death.”

            Confusion swept the man’s features, as he stared at her through cataracted lenses. She snapped the labels from the scarf and tied it round him. He could not refuse, relishing the soft cashmere kiss to his throat.

            She took his clawed hands in her own saying, “And here are some gloves, I bought for my son, put them on or you’re sure to get chilblains.”

            Sensing their questions, she moved down the street with new purpose, pausing only to donate more of her shopping to any hands she deemed needy enough. Soon, all she held in her dishwasher’s hands were four empty carrier bags.

            Her reflection called to her from a shop window. “Who are you?” she demanded, noting the cower of her back, the dip of her head as she avoided even her own gaze. “I don’t know,” she mused, “I lost myself long ago when church bells rang and confetti rained.”

            Her mind played over the years, the Everests of dirty clothes, the thankless mountain ranges of ironing. The yellings of, “I’m not eating that! You know I don’t like this muck!” All the hours of, “Where’s my this?  Where’s my that?” She, who could be ignored, but must at all times be the oracle of all knowledge regarding the location and position of every household item or personal possession.

            Her pocket suddenly felt heavy with the responsibility of house and car keys. Plucking them out, she examined them one last time before dropping them to nestle next to half eaten burgers and cold chips in the bin dangling near the fast food restaurant.  

            She paused to look inside, wondering at the families there. The small children who would one day grow and turn to say with distain,  “Mother, you are so stuck in a time warp, what year do you think this is? Your clothes are a mess and your make up is so old fashioned.”

            And then, just like her, the mother would scrub her face clean, leaving only the lines as decoration. After all, her once just above average looks had long since dissolved in the vapours of a loveless marriage.

            She examined her freed finger, relishing its nudity. How long had her heart been so chilled? How long since the ice had invaded her miserable marriage bed?

            “Years,” she whispered to herself, “too many wasted years.” She spied the chemist’s display of toothpaste and secret smiled. A rudimentary teeth cleaning session was his idea of foreplay. Luckily, it gave her the chance to grip together her eyelids, not to mention her thighs, feigning sleep in a tight foetal position.

            “What did I do?” she’d asked 'Him' over again last night, “why do you hate me so?” He'd swept over her with despising eyes, dissecting her from head to foot, yet not wasting a syllable on her.

She sighed, opening her purse to extract the bank card of their ‘joint’ account, the one she was not allowed to use.

“The pin is 5,5,4,1,” she said tossing it to a group of drunken lads. “Have a few on me!”

The pulsating throng of shoppers had thickened to an ocean of faces. Pockets empty, she deposited her bags into the nearest bin. Then closing her eyes against the pull of the waves she took a lung filling breath. She had sunk before, but this time she would swim.

Freedom beckoned as she dived in, wallowing in its depths, soon she was lost in the crowd.