Francis Gay

MY WEEK

THE woman – dressed in Middle Eastern style – got on the bus with half a dozen children.

The fact that she paid the fares with local authority travel vouchers and all the children spoke a language she didn’t understand made Sarah wonder if they were a refugee family.

The man sitting across from her obviously thought so. He grumbled and spat on the floor.

“This,” he muttered to Sarah, waving at her, her children and the bunch of flowers she carried, “this is how it should be. Not… that!” He then pointed at the other family. When her stop was nearing, Sarah stood up and organised her children.

Then she gave the other woman her flowers and said: “Welcome.”

Now, that, my angry friend on the bus, that is how it should be. THE visit is a regular part of his day and we often meet for coffee beforehand. He grew a little thoughtful with the last sip, then he spoke.

“In all the years she was there, I never really knew who replaced the toothpaste when it ran out, who put fresh soap in the shower for me when I needed it, who dusted… It was just always done and I assumed it was her.”

He stood up and put his coat on, ready to catch the bus to the care home.

“She doesn’t know me when I visit. She sometimes winces when I kiss her goodbye.

“But I hope that sometimes, some part of her sees the flowers and assumes it was me who left them.”

He pushed an untouched cookie to me as he left. I took a bite. But, I couldn’t swallow.