Our most recent homework assignment was to stalk...erm, follow someone for ten minutes. This could be any person, someone we knew or a total stranger. I opted for the latter. We were required to write a story incorporating not only their mannerisms but also our emotions, including an element of tension. Tall order! Once again, I enjoyed the challenge. Unfortunately I missed the class due to illness so I didn't get the chance to share my efforts with my peers. So I'm sharing them here instead!
Names and places have been changed to protect identities.
The Girl
At first I follow her with only my eyes.
She comes out of ‘Cash Exchange’, swinging
a carrier bag and talking enthusiastically into her mobile phone. I can’t tell
whether she is angry or happy as her expression changes from one second to the
next. She is re-living a moment, re-telling it. I glance at my watch and start
the process.
Ten minutes.
The Girl is painfully thin apart from
her pregnant belly which is straining to escape from under her top. She
reminds me of the Ethiopian children I’ve seen on the television; skin-covered
skeletons with bellies full of air.
It’s difficult to tell how old she is
but I hazard a guess at late teens, possibly older but still far too young to
be a mother. I am reminded of something my Dad would say to describe someone
who is a bit rough around the edges - Looks
like they’ve had a tough paper round.
I can’t decide whether her eyeliner is deliberately
smudged or whether it has slipped down into the creases beneath her eyes over
the course of the day. Either way it is stark against her gaunt, pale face.
My emotions take me by surprise. I
want to take her into the café next door, buy her something to eat. I want to
help her, protect her, save her. I can only hope the growing child
is managing to swallow a small amount of nutrition. She finishes her conversation
and slips the phone into the pocket of her jeans. She is smiling, remembering
something funny. She looks totally at peace with the imminent arrival of the
small infant that she will have to care for. I am intrigued by this. I think of
myself during this late stage of pregnancy; an anxious wreck too frightened to
leave the house, not least because I was worried Greenpeace might attempt to
rescue me. I wonder whether The Girl is aware of this small person growing
inside her. Perhaps she has not yet made that connection. Perhaps she is
oblivious to the fact that underneath her stretched skin there is a helpless human
being – years of sleepless nights, endless worry and empty purses.
She slides a plastic bottle from the bag.
The bright blue contents slosh around as she takes a swig. It looks like she is
drinking screenwash. She heads towards the escalator, pushing through the crowd,
belly first. She walks faster than her size should allow and the effort to keep
up with her makes me sweat. At the foot of the escalator she is intercepted by
a cocky salesman advertising personal injury compensation.
“Had
an accident in the last three years, madam?” he asks, skilfully blocking
her way.
“Aye,
aboot nine mumphs ago, can you no tell?” she answers, patting her bump.
The man laughs awkwardly and moves aside.
She is like a little powerhouse. It’s
like she’s trying to prove something – I’m
coping, I’m good at this, I’m ready. Or perhaps she is simply in a hurry. She
hops onto the bottom step of the escalator and I prepare myself to sprint up
the stairs two at a time behind her. But she uses the few seconds to
look through the contents of the bag. As she scans the cover of a horror
DVD she absentmindedly rubs her belly with the tips of her fingers; little
circular motions. I notice her nails are chewed. There is a heavy ring on her
index finger: chunky gold capitals that spell out the word MUM. She has done
this before.
The top half of her long hair has been scraped back by a clip, a messy mixture of colours clearly in need of a wash. I
suspect that some of the hair is not her own; cheap fuchsia extensions pulled tightly to reveal her white scalp. The jeans that cling to her skinny legs are tucked
into scuffed boots, the kind that are usually worn on a building site. They
look too big for her and I briefly wonder if they might belong to someone else;
a man, the father of this child. The T-shirt does not reach her waistband and I
spy the top of an elaborate tattoo - possibly thorny roses or barbed wire -
scrawled across the base of her spine. White tissue paper skin.
She turns her head and one of her huge
hoops earrings smacks the side of her face. I catch her eye and curse inwardly.
She probably felt the cold sting of my judgement seeping through her clothes. Rather
than look away, I smile and she smiles back. Her eyes belong to a much older
woman. I feel an overwhelming urge to
comment on her pregnancy, to offer her some words of support, to tell her how
wonderful it is being a mum, to advise her to relax and enjoy the first few
months for they will pass quickly. But I don’t want her to remember me. I plan
to follow her for the next 8 minutes. Wherever she goes, I will go. I need to
be as invisible as possible.
She steps off the escalator and heads
for the Chemist, walking so
fast that her hair can’t keep up. I follow her into the shop, flashing a smile
at the beefy security guard so he will stay off my case. I have no intention of
buying anything. I am here to observe.
The Girl marches over to the counter and flicks through a leaflet while she waits for some assistance. I slide
behind the make-up aisle and immerse myself in the lipsticks. If I tilt my head
to the right I can still see her. She is chewing on her thumbnail. The confident
air has left her and her eyes are darting nervously. The pharmacist greets her
with a smile and asks how she can help. The Girl would like some nicotine
patches please.
“How
far gone are you?” asks Nice Pharmacist, eyeing the stomach which is
squeezed up against the counter.
“I’m
two days overdue,” replies The Girl, with a hint of apology.
Nice Pharmacist takes a small step backwards
and stares down at the bump like it’s an unexploded bomb. She jokingly asks The Girl to keep her legs crossed until she gets home. The Girl laughs a gravelly
laugh.
“If
I’d kept my legs crossed nine mumphs ago I wouldnae be in this state now!”
There’s a conversation about the benefits and the potential
risks associated with nicotine patches during pregnancy. The Girl rests her
hand on the top of her bump and listens intently, nodding in the right places.
Nice Pharmacist advises that it would probably be best to wait until the baby is
born before starting patches or gum. The girl laughs and says she will start
smoking again once the baby is born; this is just to see her through until the
birth, which she hopes happens soon. The smile on Nice Pharmacist’s face slips
but quickly returns. I notice a twitch in her left cheek that wasn’t there
before. The Girl realises she has made a blunder.
“I’ll
make sure I’m in a different room when I’m having a fag,” she adds quickly,
“and I’ll clean my teeth before I kiss
the bairn.”
The security guard has started circling
me like a vulture. I attempt to look
nonchalant as I read the small print on a Super Duper Lash Enhancing Mascara.
To my annoyance, I miss whether The Girl makes her purchase. When I look up she is
gone and a fat lady with a headscarf and a hacking cough has taken her place.
I leave the shop as quickly as I can
without arousing further suspicion. I spot her striding out of the main exit,
carrier bag swinging back and forth like a pendulum. Aren’t pregnant women
supposed to waddle, be red-cheeked and out of breath? As she marches through
the people, they step aside, creating a bubble of air around her. I glance at
my watch.
Three minutes.
I’d better move fast if I am to catch up
with her. Out in the open I find her chatting outside ‘Bargain Busters’ with an older woman who has borrowed the same hair
dye. I pretend that the perfume display in the window has caught my attention
and position myself at an angle where I can see what is going on behind me in
the reflection of the glass. The older woman is leaning against a buggy.
Strapped inside is a toddler who is clutching a half-eaten sausage roll. The
woman is telling The Girl about something that happened at the Job Centre
earlier that morning. Her language is turning the air blue. She says something
that makes The Girl laugh her gravelly laugh. The toddler starts straining to
escape from his buggy. He screams out in frustration, kicking his little legs
until one of his trainers fly off.
“Stoap
it, ya wee git!” shouts the woman as she attempts to push the shoe back on.
He kicks his legs and screams until his
face turns pink. The woman smacks his
leg and he throws the sausage roll on the ground in protest. The Girl picks it
up and offers it back to him. I imagine the germs swarming over the pastry.
“Are
you havin’ a bad day, son?” she asks with a gooey voice.
The woman gives up and tosses the
trainer into the hammock beneath the buggy.
“I
swear tae God I’m gonnae kill him!” she hisses through gritted teeth. “I didnae get a wink ‘o sleep last night and
Billy’s oan night shift all week.”
In the reflection, I catch The Girl’s
eye. I have outstayed my welcome and I start to panic. But there is no need
because she turns her attention back to her friend.
“I’m
sick of this bairn,” she groans, pushing her knuckles deep into the small
of her back. “Kaden wiz nearly two mumphs
early but this yin is never coming oot.”
“You
need tae smoke,” says the woman. “Trust
me hen, they come oot quicker and they’re much wee’er so it’s an easier birth.”
“Huv
you goat a fag?” asks The Girl tentatively.
Her friend pulls a new packet from the
compartment at the back of the buggy and peels off the cellophane in one swift
motion. She discards it and a gust of wind snatches it before it reaches the
ground.
“Mama!”
whines sausage roll boy.
His tears have made tracks down his
grubby cheeks.
“Shut
it!” she spits before lighting a cigarette, cupping her hand around the
flimsy flame.
She takes a long draw before handing it
to The Girl, who sucks hard, inhaling deeply, savouring the moment. She closes
her eyes when she exhales, blue smoke streaming out from her mouth and
nostrils.
It’s now I realise it was not this
emaciated girl who caught my attention and brought out my nurturing, protective
streak. It was the child inside her with its seashell fingernails and
gossamer eyelashes. Floating in a cocoon of warmth I now imagine its wrinkled
face screwing up as this mouthful of smoke floods its living space. I imagine the infant choking, gasping for air, kicking its tiny limbs. Perhaps that will
encourage you to pop out, I think.
I think of the months I spent fretting
over every morsel that crossed my lips. No soft cheese or runny yolks. No
coffee or Paracetamol. I think of my refusal to enter the kitchen
if the microwave was on, the panic over the bottle of champagne I consumed
before I knew about the tiny seed blooming inside me. And after he had left my
body, the struggle to make everything safe remained and always will.
I recall
the tears over my failure to breastfeed, the piles of literature about the MMR jab;
the hours spent chopping grapes into tiny pieces to reduce the risk of choking.
I think of the care I take now to make everything perfect for my growing boy, the
labour of love that will ensure he lives a healthy life until the time comes for
me to let go. And even then I won’t let go. Above all I feel a profound sadness
that I was unable to be Mum to more children. Precious, wanted lives that never
were.
I know I cannot protect this woman’s unborn
child any more that I can protect those broken little Ethiopians that live
inside my television. I cannot save everyone.
I can still hear The Girl’s gravelly
laughter long after I’ve walked away.
© Hazel Allan 2013
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