Disraeli Avenue by Caroline Smailes

Author:Caroline Smailes [Caroline Smailes]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2014-04-22T00:00:00+00:00

Number 17

Mr Lewis

Yellow front door

Green garage door

No car

The old man in the queue

They stood in the Dewstep Butchers, which was also New Lymouth Post Office, and proudly displayed a smiling pig’s head in the window. There were huge queues, as usual, it was pension day, it was benefits day. A cold grey rainy Tuesday.

Mr Lewis stood at the front of the queue. Beside him a female companion stooped towards him. She was arch-backed and her hair was a mass of grey tight curls, nestled under a plastic rain hat.

‘It doesn’t matter how healthy you are or how much money you have,’ Mr Lewis stated, ‘when your time’s up, death will find a way.’ He spoke loudly, his voice bouncing along the queue. His companion nodded, she agreed.

A younger woman, standing directly behind the old couple, couldn’t help but listen. She thought about Mr Lewis’ words. She wondered if talk of death was a sign of old age. She wondered if the old man was waiting for death, was longing for death and even, perhaps, needing death. She shivered.

The queue was long, slow moving and soon Mr Lewis’ companion began to flutter on the spot.

‘I need to catch the bus to Coastend to buy some fish,’ said the old woman.

‘What about your pension?’ Mr Lewis’ words were unheard.

‘There used to be a fish shop near this post office, you know?’

Mr Lewis nodded.

She continued, ‘Asda fish isn’t that fresh, you know?’

Mr Lewis nodded.

After a moment of indecision she turned, she hurried, flustered, out from the post office, trailing her canvas trolley on wheels behind her.

The younger woman turned and watched Mr Lewis’ female companion barging herself through the queue. The younger woman found herself smiling. She willed the little old lady to hurry, to catch the bus, to buy fresh fish for her tea. As she turned back towards the post office counter, Mr Lewis was staring at her, searching for eye contact.

‘See that lady,’ Mr Lewis pointed out of the shop and in the direction of the old woman. ‘That’s Betty. She used to collect ticket stubs at the old Odeon cinema. I used to go there when I was a laddie.’ He smiled, his entire face smiled.

The younger woman nodded, not a patronising nod, just enough movement to support his words. Mr Lewis had finished his story. He turned his back on the younger woman, facing the counter, waiting.

The younger woman was left wondering what had happened between Betty and the old man standing in front of her. He had a sour smell, he was tiny. His skin was slack, it swung from his cheeks. He was old. She tried, but she could only see the old. She wondered what images were jumping around and making the old man smile. She tried to think of him as young, full of life, living life. She tried and she tried, but she couldn’t. She could only see the now, the old man waiting for his tiny pension, waiting to die.

She hoped that Betty would have enough money to buy fish.

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