My house is tucked away from the road, almost hidden. It is nestled between two bungalows that have seen better days, a bit like me. Mine is older, and smaller. It has overgrown bushes that cover its façade and a small verandah at the front that provides a covert vantage point. A place to sit and watch. I watch the birds that stop and rest in the trees, I watch bees that buzz in the Jasmine bush that is tangled and woven around the brush fence that separates my house from Number 7. The postie greets me most days and I wouldn’t recognise him if I saw him at the shops, because his face is always covered by a helmet. Nevertheless, his wave and greeting are welcome.
Galahs cause a racket every morning as they fight and wrestle in the gum tree in the reserve across the road. In autumn, their frenetic activity knocks large chunks of fruit from the tree and litter the road like witnesses to a crime.
People walk past as they hurry to work, from work or dally to school. Fit and healthy couples powerwalk or run past on weekend mornings, and women with strollers chatter as their babies sleep or sit up and watch the same things I do, but with greater expectation and less cynicism.
It has been a while since I have been an active participant in conversation with these people. I could talk to them, get to know them and interact with them. But my perspective provides a candid view, an uncomplicated snapshot of humanity and the exercise lends itself to guess work, and this is the purpose. My guessing game: who is this lady? Who are they going to see today? Who will greet them at work? What do they do for a living? Do they look caring, busy, arrogant, disengaged, depressed? And when they come back in the evening, I like to assess their countenance, to try to work out if they have had a good day, if they have had to fire someone, or if they have been fired that day.
Do they have a lover? Are they married? Lonely? Serene? Sick?
The speed at which they walk, the lean of their body and the steps they take reveal so much. Of course, I never have a true answer, it is all hypothetical. Like a detective game that has no end. It gives me back a sense of purpose and labour. One that has been long since gone for me.
Sometimes I knit for hours waiting for someone to walk past. Sometimes I sit inside to watch, especially on Halloween afternoon when large groups of people march past and knock at my door. The sense of mischief and fun is gone, and any sense of magic is obliterated in the crowd. I leave some sweets at the verandah and watch from inside.
Entire stories are revealed to me, and a sense of belonging that has long since eluded me accompanies my days.
There is a woman who reliably walks past every day. She stands barely 5 feet, and her fast-paced walk is urgent, and at the same time leisurely. She walks quickly a few steps, and then stands and looks back, behind her, and waits. She carries a bag with her, and on rainy days she has an umbrella that is never open. She has walked past for at least 5 years. Every day, without fail. And 8 steps behind her (for I have counted) walks a white dog that is only white by strict definition. A grey grimy tinge covers him, and he walks three steps and pauses to pant noisily before continuing. He must get a wash every now and again, but he is never truly white. He is not matted, but he looks like a worn-out jumper that has been loved and is pilly, but lovingly kept, threadbare and safe.
He is fat, his belly almost touches the ground, and his tail hangs low to the ground. I imagine that he is in pain, maybe his joints ache and that is why he must stop so often. And still he follows, accompanying the woman. Her hair is only a shade darker than the mutt. Her skin wrinkled and stained by many hours spent in the sun. I think the dog’s skin must look similar under the filthy coat.
They walk past, and just past my jasmine fence, they change course and cross the road into the reserve.
A few times when I haven’t been paying attention, I miss the woman walk past, and I only look up when she has already entered the reserve. A few times my heart has missed a beat as I have not seen the dog follow and only realise as she pauses to wait for him to catch up that he is hidden by the long grass and merely taking his time, as is his way.
I have heard some people say dogs are cute and have in the past been very much in agreement with this. However, I could never say that decrepit dog was cute. He was like a coarse and stiff garment that has just been starched and must be worn repeatedly before its stiff edges give enough to be comfortable. His short-legged waddle always the same. For years I saw them walk past, and for years I thought it must be his last walk that day, for he appeared aged and used up from the very first day I spotted them.
She was the same. Old and worn from day one.
I never saw her show any true affection for the dog. They appeared just to work together. A quiet understanding in their manner, a patience that made me look away one day because it seemed I had eavesdropped into an intimate moment that I was not entitled to.
I grew used to the pace of it. Her eight steps, her patient wait, his slow appearance. Without missing a beat, their slow dance continued all those years.
And then, last week, I saw her walk past and counted the steps. And this time, she did not turn, she did not slow. She continued. Five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven. I stopped counting as she crossed the road into the reserve and continued walking without him.
It took me a few moments to comprehend, and as the truth dawned on me, a torrent of emotion accosted me, and I heard the sob before I realized I was the one making the sound. The loneliness and the grief surprised me. It was a selfish grief. I was merely used to it, or so I told myself. I was missing the predictable nature of their dance. I was clinging to the idea of continuity, of things staying the same. Because they never do. And I had foolishly grown used to their predictability and synchronicity. The marching of time without the passing of it. The comfort of something that was not ending, that was allowed to continue. Maybe I had imagined it was a film printed on a ribbon, and all it was doing was playing on repeat, just for me.
They were a point of connection and comfort. A string with an end to it, one I could understand and predict. But far enough removed from me that I didn’t need to experience their joy or sadness, or tiredness, or their bills, their family dynamics, and their regrets. For they also left that day.
She walked past again last Tuesday. On Wednesday, her pace was slower. My picture was on playback at half speed, it seemed. And on Thursday, for the first time in 5 and a half years, she did not come.
On Friday, I sat out all day, in case I missed her.
On Saturday, I waited until the stars had begun to make freckles on the skin of the firmament.
And on Sunday, I spotted her grey curls as she appeared, reliably, on the right of my viewpoint. The pace was back, her spring had returned, and she walked the eight steps I had grown so used to counting until last week.
And then, she turned. I had never felt any expression in her before. I think she smiled, although I never saw her face move. Or maybe it was me that smiled, it is hard to tell. And then, on the right of the frame, a brown curly thing, barely as tall as a full-grown raven appeared, following her. He did not stop, he did not walk three steps, he was just slow and small, so the requisite eight steps and the pause were essential. He had a peculiar smile on his face, with a tongue almost as long as his ears. His tail was a circle that ended where it had begun, and as the woman crossed the road, I watched them disappear into the park and wondered if this new film was as predictable as the last.
A new comfort settled into the hole the ragged bitzer had left a few days before.
The bus did not slow at bus stop 31 this morning. This driver is not good at slowing for passengers. I have noticed that. The older guy we get on Mondays is a lot better at remembering who will be at the bus stop.
I saw the woman who walks the white dog, except this time she was walking a little brown dog. Cute dog, I thought.
As we got close to the brown fence next to the white house with the grey patio chairs, I looked for the other, older lady. She is always half hidden, almost as if she is buried by the bushes that obscure her from the road. She is always sitting with her head turned towards the hills, and she cranes her neck to peek over the roses just beyond the bushes. I noticed her sitting inside when we came trick or treating with the kids at Halloween. I didn’t blame her, they were noisy, and high on sugar. If they weren’t mine, I might have hidden too.
Today, she wasn’t there. A big truck with red letters saying “Removals” stood at the front of the house. I wondered fleetingly where she had gone, but the bus had moved on.
