(I thought no-one could see me).
It was late Autumn when I passed her on the railway bridge. Jack Frost’s first touch lingered in morning shadows. Tawny leaves and litter skittered in truck-rush as she strode along. It was just a glimpse amidst the sooty twang of trackways siding; a flash of billowing brightness, coffee toned calves and swinging arms. When I blinked left for the depot, there was no sign of her in the side mirror.
Before lunch, I saw her again. This time, she walked towards town, her dilly bag low and bunched against her hip, its faded, khaki straps dividing her breasts. What struck me was the gracefulness of her carriage; head held high, lengthy, even strides, neither hurrying nor dilly-dallying. At the speed bumps outside Sacred Heart College, I shifted into first and waved to her as I passed by. On she walked; face set and rigid, one forearm pivoting from the waist with upturned palm as if remonstrating to drive the point home. It was then that the penny dropped.
Back at the depot, there was a raft of theories over lunch. When Sandy breasted the counter for a customer, Jimbo whispered ‘she was a high-class pro until ice cooked her brain.’ When Sandy came back, she said ‘she has the most beautiful stride. Perhaps she was a model’. Robbo called her ‘the Amazon’, and reckoned she was fifty-five. ‘Hard to tell but’, he said, scratching his head ‘… them ones from Barbados or wherever. Check out the chimps’ cage out at the zoo, if ya know what I mean’.
When wattle, wild peaches and cherry blinging the roadside verges, the Walking Lady also bloomed. In shorts and sleeveless tops with her dark hair cropped military style; burnished brows aglow in bright sunshine, she drank warming rays, and walked with the hint of a smile. At the speedbumps, I always waved to her before she cut across the footy-oval, aware by this time she was connected to God rather than blue-tooth. Amongst manicured lawns, a marble statue of Mother Mary watched her go, staring through blank eyes.
It was much later, when the summer-sun became a burning disc that I set about writing her a note. That night, with bugs thick on the fly-wire, I licked the envelope and addressed it ‘To the mysterious walking lady, from me.’ For the next few working days, in anticipation of an opportune moment, it burned a hole in my top pocket. The following Friday arvo, I braked and crawled past her outside the College, then pulled into the curb a discreet distance from the shared zone. When she drew abreast on the walkway, I fell in step beside her; letter in hand, tipper-truck at idle, red, flashing lights blinking a warning behind us. ‘It’s Alice’, she said after a glance at the envelope; her accent thick and Jamaican, her even stride unbroken as she tucked it into her bag. ‘I thought no one could see me. I hoped.’
by Steve Hawe
A WORD-OF-THE-DAY STORY FROM A RECENT CWG MEETING
Carindale Writers Group 