Voyeur

Voyeur

The man sat in the window seat, waiting for his tea to cool to room temperature.  He had already meticulously prepared it, adding three lumps of sugar �" two brown, one white �" and a splash of milk.  He then dunked in the silver spoon, after checking that it was spotlessly clean, and stirred.  Three times clockwise, four times anti-clockwise.  The spoon never touched the sides, and not a drop spilled over the lip.  Nonetheless he had insisted on a proper cup with saucer.  It was an important part of the experience.  As was waiting until the tea reached the correct temperature.  Subtly warm, but not so much so that one couldn’t savour the delicate flavours.  There was no accompanying biscuit.  Dunking was a disgusting habit, cheapening the purity of the event.  He shuddered at the thought.

To pass the time he entertained himself by watching.  Although there were plenty of potential candidates surrounding him in the cafe, he turned his nose up at the thought of delving into their lives, no matter how briefly.  Each person here, whether part of a group, half of a couple, or even alone, as he was, were putting on a show.  Aware that they were on display, each person was projecting the character they wanted others to think that they were.  Whether it was an added affectation, a deliberate casual posture, or a feigned fascination in cultural issues which really held no interest.  There was no honesty here.

No, he preferred to watch the world outside.  That was why he had chosen this particular seat.  The window of the cafe was large and unadorned with curtains or blinds.  Better yet, the lighting inside was muted, and he knew that in the bright, sunny day the glass would be like a mirror.  He was free to observe unnoticed, like a voyeur in a booth at a strip club.  And there was another reason why he had chosen this particular seat in this particular cafe.  The road outside ran perpendicular to the High Street.  Just a hundred metres away shoppers bustled up and down, laden with bags, intent on their business.  So close, but another world away.  This street was a road to nowhere.  Leading only to a small housing estate, there were few cars and even fewer foot traffic.  The pedestrians here felt like they were truly alone.  In their false sense of isolation they were naked, and the man’s eyes drank them in.

Right now his attention was focussed on an old woman tottering slowly down the path.  Although the day was fairly pleasant she was dressed warmly; a tweed skirt overlapped by a thick, padded overcoat in a sensible shade of purple.  Her claw-like hands were gloved in white wool, matching her flyaway hair.  Her back was hunched over, with age, with life, or against the assault of an imaginary wind.  From the man’s cosseted position it was impossible to say, and that frustrated him.  She was pushing a shopping trolley, the material concaved in emptiness, and was leaning on it heavily.  Each step was a shuffle, her feet, encased in sturdy brown shoes, barely daring to leave the security of the pavement.  It was slow progress.

The sound of childish laughter made his eyes flicker further up the road for a moment.  Two young boys were running down the street, kicking a football between them.  They seemed oblivious to the intrusion they were making in this quiet world.  They were innocent, free.  Quickly they caught up to the old woman and danced past her, one boy picking up the ball in an act of respect.  Calling loudly to each other, they ran on towards the High Street and out of sight.  The old woman lifted her head and scowled, but the man knew that it was not in temper at the noisy, boisterous lads.  No, she scowled at old age.  It was her greatest enemy.  It robbed her of energy and had turned her into this frightened, slow, bent creature that she loathed to recognise as herself.  The man was familiar with this; he saw it daily in his own eyes as they stared back at him from a face that wasn’t his.

The old woman paused at a dip in the pavement, almost directly opposite the large window that screened the man.  The curb had been lowered for the driveway at the woman’s back.  To her, though, it was an opportunity.  The safest place to try and cross.  Her lips tensed into a straight line, the deep wrinkles surrounding her mouth puckering.  Her eyes, he could now see, were coated with the ghosts of cataracts.  He knew the street would be little more that a mass of shapes and blobs to her, the cars that zoomed past merely racing shadows.  But to complete her mission, a simple trip to the shop to buy food, she was going to have to cross the road.  He felt suddenly anxious for her.  His eyes scanned the road, but there was no stranger to offer her assistance.  He suddenly wished that the town planners had thought to add a crossing or a set of lights here.  Not once did it occur to him that he might help her.

He watched her take a breath, look left, right, then left again, and ease the shopping trolley down the slight drop and onto the road.  His heart was in his mouth.  A red car, offensive music blaring from an open window, flew past and obscured his view for a moment.  The woman didn’t flinch, but edged forwards and into the path of danger.  Oblivious to the frightened stare of the man, she began the slow walk to her goal. 

“Is everything alright with your tea, sir?”

A voice to his left startled the man.  He glanced automatically towards the sound.  It was the blond, young waitress who had served him the drink.  She was eyeing his still full cup.  He looked down at it, too.  It was steaming gently.  Still too hot.

“No, everything’s fine.”  He offered her a tight smile, his thoughts still on the old lady.  The waitress returned the smile, then lifted her eyes above his head, her attention caught by something out of the window.  Her eyes widened and her lips parted into a horrified o as the man’s ears were assaulted by a barely muffled screech of protesting tyres and a sickening thud.  Instantly, he knew.  The waitress was already hurrying away as he turned to survey the scene, already knowing what he would see.

A large vehicle filled the scene outside the window.  It was blue and modern, the roof curving gracefully in an undulating, stream-lined shape.  The man behind the wheel was fairly young, maybe late-thirties or early-forties, and was staring forward with a shocked, frozen expression.   The man followed his stare, his eyes roving down the bonnet of the car, noting the crumpled, dented shape of the metal at the nose of the car.  Unwillingly his eyes travelled further.  At first he saw nothing but road.  But then, five metres from the front of the car, his eyes fell on a huddled shape.  Purple padded coat, whispy white hair, brown sensible shoes.  The form was unmoving. 

His view was briefly blocked by the rushing shape of the waitress scurrying past the window.  She passed by the stunned figure in the car and bent over the motionless blob lying in the road.  Someone else hurried towards the scene, pausing on the periphery, talking quickly on a mobile phone.  The man hoped whoever it was was calling for help. 

“Oh my goodness.  Did you see what happened?”

This voice came from directly over his shoulder.  The man stiffened, abruptly aware that he was no longer alone.  Patrons from the cafe were crowding around his small table, craning their necks for a better view of the carnage outside.  They were muttering about the speed of the driver and the foolishness of old people who crossed without looking.  He gritted his teeth and tried to tune them out.  He wished they would go away.  Couldn’t they see that this was a private moment?  Not something to be sullied by a prying, blood-thirsty crowd.  They sickened him.

Still, this was his window and he wasn’t giving it up.  He refocused on the scene, trying to quell the feelings of anger and frustration that forced his hands to curl into painful fists.

A small crowd had gathered outside now, and somebody was talking to the driver of the car.  He was shaking his head and looking tearful.  The man noticed that he still hadn’t left his car, and was gripping the steering wheel.  The driver’s stare was still fixed ahead, horror-struck.  A larger group jostled for position around the old woman.  Nobody had moved her, and few seemed willing to touch her.  His pretty waitress was kneeling beside her head.  She seemed to be trying to talk to the old woman, although from here he couldn’t tell if she was getting a response.

A piercing noise from his left jarred his thoughts.  Sirens.  The police, or perhaps an ambulance.  He wasn’t sure who he wanted to arrive first.  The police could dispel this inappropriate crowd, loitering around the poor woman, wanting their piece of the action.  They were obstructing his view, making it impossible to see clearly what was going on.  However, this woman obviously needed medical help.  Perhaps it was already too late.

The shrieking noise grew louder as a large vehicle nosed into view.  An ambulance, then.  The driver parked quickly and carelessly, turning off the siren, but leaving the blue lights flashing.  In this sun-soaked day they didn’t so much dazzle as irritate.  His partner jumped from the passenger side, lithe in his green jump-suit, his box of magical tools already in his hand.  He rushed through the crowd, which automatically parted, giving the man a momentary clear glimpse of the old woman’s prone body, still huddled and unmoving.  He frowned.  That wasn’t good.  The paramedic echoed his opinion.  After a brief examination he sat back and shook his head at the ambulance driver.  Some wordless communication must have passed between as the driver turned back towards the ambulance and returned moments later with a trolley. 

The man watched sadly as they loaded her up onto the trolley.  Although she was clearly gone, they handled her almost tenderly.  At that moment the police arrived, to the man’s relief, and began to move the small crowd along.  The man noticed gratefully that their arrival also dispelled the small crowd that had been gathered around him.  Nobody wanted to be caught watching.  The police had a brief chat with the driver, who was looking more distressed after watching the dead woman being loaded into the ambulance.  It looked like the policeman and the paramedic were trying to convince the driver to allow himself to be treated, but he continued to shake his head. 

And then it was over.  Just like that the crowd, the ambulance, the driver with his dented car, and finally the police, all seemed to melt away.  The man found himself staring at an empty window.  There was nothing to see.  Pulling out his wallet, he dug around for change and dropped a few coins on the table.  They fell with a clatter, scattering noisily across the plastic tabletop.  He stood stiffly and looked briefly at his cup of tea.  Still full to the brim it was stone cold now.  Wasted.  Dissatisfied, he took one last, long look out of the window, and walked away.

Reviews

[J. Swaney]

Very interesting read and the writing was very good. The words seemed to flow and actually blend into a visible scene. I not only read it but experienced it and that, in itself, describes a word-smith.

JS