So, there’s a man and woman who come into the coffee shop in
Uttoxeter every week while I’m taking my relaxation after I’ve trudged around
the charity shops and discount stores, eaten my lunch, and chatted with Millie
the Pigeon. I would say they’re both probably in their mid-seventies.
He is the very model of ageing conformity in all matters of
dress and bearing. If you passed him in the street I doubt you’d notice him at
all, much less give him a second glance. His wife – and I assume she is his
wife because their interaction has that curious quality of looking bound
together but with an undercurrent of distance which characterises the long term
married couple – is rather different. She’s fascinating, not least because she
bears more than a passing resemblance to Dame Edith Evans in the old British
sub-classic movie The Whisperers, a
still from which is appended here:
So why is she so fascinating that I can’t stop watching her?
(And I think she’s noticed since I’ve been doing it once a week for several
weeks.) This won’t be easy, but here goes:
She’s a small, slightly built woman who looks as though she
fidgets but actually doesn’t. Only her head fidgets. She’s constantly moving it
to look at people passing the shop, people in the shop, the décor on the shop
wall, the tables and chairs in the shop, the lights hanging from the ceiling of
the shop, and the people who work in the shop. And when she’s had enough of
that she stares at random empty spaces, no doubt seeking variation to add
interest to her observations and meaning to her day. She rarely talks to her
husband, nor he to her.
And let’s continue the head theme because it’s a very interesting
head, at least the front of it is. Her eyes droop slightly as eyes usually do
with advancing age, and yet there’s still a keen interest there which belies
the impression that there’s little or no mind behind them to process the
information. Her jaw recedes quite noticeably, but above it her rubbery mouth
has a permanent pout. And when she opens it, the front upper incisors are seen
to protrude noticeably more than their companions. So now I’m coming to the
interesting part:
You might remember I mentioned the author who claimed to
know which animal or animals had been the repository of a person’s soul in a
previous life. Well, this woman has the body type and head movement of a
fretful bird, the lips of a fish taking flies from the surface of the water,
and the front teeth of a rabbit. And that’s what holds my interest –
speculating on the question of which order they came in. I intend no
disrespect, really I don’t, just the admission of being fascinated.
So that’s why I watch her almost constantly. I stop when she
turns her stare on me because that’s a little unnerving.
And why do I call her the Tea and Toast Lady? Because every
week the nondescript husband goes to the counter and returns with a tray
bearing a cup of Americano for him, a pot of tea for her, and four slices of
buttered toast. That’s two each. Every time.
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