|
|
|
A London Square in Summer
A man in a peaked cap keeps the grey grass neat. He brushes it with a spiked broom. He is walking slowly with an air of indifference. Nothing much disturbs him from his labour, Except perhaps a pretty girl or litterlout. A woman sits on the grass, under an umbrella maple, Caressing her bare arm when its sticky nectar spits. She has arranged her things about her neatly: Mobile; pager; latte; sun-dried tomato sandwich. She is flicking through the pages of an overfull filofax in a bored fashion, Wondering whether her client will turn up early. A couple, necking, catches her attention. The boy lifts his head and smiles sweetly at his prone love. The sunlight plays across the girl’s face and she shades her eyes. They are both skipping this afternoon’s lecture, even though she doesn’t know it yet. He has planned this for days. They met in the Union bar last Thursday night. She is the first girl he’s met since the year started who hasn’t slept with him on the first night. He is intrigued. A shout disturbs them both and they sit up as the football game approaches. The boys weave in and out of lunching suits and entwined couples, Paying no heed to speed or placement of ball. It is a ragged game with no winners and no goals. This is all about showing off skills, dribbling without standing on sandwiches, Heading into trees just to prove you can, Only passing to your best mate at the very last minute, kneeing it into his chest. Finally one misses and the ball goes slamming into the side of the ice cream stand. This makes the little man who serves in there jump and raise his fist at the boys, Who giggle, pick up their ball and run away. The ice cream man sighs and serves another tourist with an over-priced, over-sweet confection. He rests on his elbows and dreams of returning to India. He’ll build a big house so when his relatives come to visit they will all see. His sojourn to Britain was not the waste of time his mother said it would be. His job was not the menial employ that his father said that it was. His life was not the boring, empty shell his doctor sister implied it was, Every time he talked with her. In his secret heart though he knows the truth of this. He makes his own ice cream. Vanilla, usually. If any one asks, he will serve them some. One of his regular customers comes to the stall and asks for his home-made marvel. She walks away with his special Vanilla in a cone. She laps the edge of the melting ice with an appreciative murmur. The vendor’s ice is so much better than Haagen Daazs. She sits on one of the picnic benches and applies herself to the cone lasciviously. A sandy haired man watches her with interest and approaches cautiously. They engage in the odd sort of conversation that strangers make, A stilted, hello, who are you type of chatter that warms slowly with deepening knowledge. The park empties of suits at a leisurely pace though it still seems as full as more tourists venture out. Vanilla lady and her sandy haired man chatter more enthusiastically. She has just left her husband. He is with his kid for the first time in two months. The warming honey afternoon lingers on their breath. She leans back on the bench, shoulders back, legs stretched out in front of her. He rests his head on his knuckles and watches her. She doesn’t have any kids and he didn’t want any, which is why she left him. Thirty-four is not a good age to find this out and the blackness escapes. Crying on a perfect stranger is easier than on your friends. He understands and proffers a tissue from a handi pack. The man’s son runs up shouting the game is over and he wants a McDonald’s. He scribbles his mobile number on a tissue with a ballpoint pen. She takes it, wonders if she’ll call him and dries her face by turning to the Sun. An amiable breeze rustles the trees behind her. A conker splats gratifyingly and she realises autumn is not too far away. She picks up her bag, checks her mobile and pager, then rushes to meet her client. The man in the peaked cap picks up a latte cup from the picnic bench and ambles away.
JD 2000
|