awaiting

She nipped out to the Co-op. It was cold out, but she didn’t have a jacket because she didn’t think she’d need a jacket because she wouldn’t be that long. She tucked her head into her chest and hurried along. Her toe caught on the roots of the trees which have cracked the tar and created tributaries covered by fallen leaves on Cedar Avenue.

‘Fuck.’

She scuffed her hip. Scrambling up quickly, she brushed herself down. Hopping about like a daft school kid and hoping nobody had seen her. It felt not so bad, even though she was the wrong side of fifty.

A Honda Civic came crawling up behind her, its headlights on. She could see her breath as she held up a skint hand and waved at a neighbour that was leaning forward and peering at the road. Completely absorbed in the hopscotch of spaces between cars each side of the road and the next turn off which the Civic edged forward towards.

Her neighbour was car-blinkered and hadn’t seen her fall and didn’t see pedestrians or much else and—if truth be told—shouldn’t have been driving. Her arm dropped to her side and she felt a bit stupid, but glad she hadn’t been seen. She could go through the park or down the main road. Going through the park was slightly longer or she could go the corner shop at the bottom of the hill.

‘Excuse me.’ The latch on Mrs McCreal’s gate rasped. She stepped out from behind overgrown privet. Grey hair sprayed into place like the hard lacquer on Dürer’s Praying Hands emerged from a head and colourful tartan shawl she’d flung over her coat which smelled of the dampness of old half- pennies and the grave. ‘Are you alright?’

‘I’m fine.’    

Mrs McCreal’s eyes were seagull sharp.  ‘You sure?’

‘Aye.’

Mrs McCreal stepped in front of her to peer at her face. ‘You could be in shock,’ she decided. ‘Maybe I should just phone an ambulance. Just in case?’

Not trusting her voice, she tried to explain. ‘No, honestly, I’m alright. I’m just going to the shop for milk.’

‘But you’re shaking,’ her neighbour sighed. ‘I mean, I don’t blame you. Sometimes your body just knows best.’

She spoke through clenched teeth, chittering.  ‘But it’s freezing. And I just need to get to the shops.’  

‘Maybe we should just get you inside.’ Her gloved hand pushed at the rusting gate, rattling it backwards and forwards. ‘You’re too thin. That’s your problem.’ She poked at her shoulder to prove her point. ‘When I was your age we were out in all weathers. But we’d never think of dressing like that and going out with no clothes on.’  

‘I find it hard to eat anything, or keep it down.’

‘There you go.’ Satisfaction oosed out of her. ‘You need to eat mair.’ 

‘Aye, I dae.’

‘Healthy foods. Porridge and potatoes. None of that foreign muck.’

She made encouraging noise. She was reminded of nuns and black babies and starving children in Africa. And the pennies her primary school gave towards saving them. It was a straight choice between buying sweets at the van or eternal damnation. She understood that better that most.

Her son asked when he was that age when they asked lots of questions. ‘Do angels have feathers?’

‘I’m no sure.’

‘They must have. If they have wings.’ He convinced himself he was right. His conviction made her smile and that convinced him too.

‘What if the angel has black feathers?’

She’d laughed.

‘Angels don’t have black feathers.’

‘Yeh. They dae.’

‘They don’t.’

‘They dae. I’ve seen them.’

‘I’m so sorry.’ Mrs McCreal found the handkerchief in her pocket and handed it to her. ‘Sorry.’ She took off her gloves and stuffed them into her pocket. Not sure what to do with them or herself now.

A black feather drifted and settled on the pavement between them.

Neither of them looked at it or remarked on it.

‘I’m in a bit of a state, right enough.’ She dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose. She tried to smile. ‘I’ve maybe said too much.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Mrs McCreal and after an intake of breath and a bout of coughing. ‘Nonsense. I best get in. I’ve got a pot of soup on the boil.’

‘Wait…’