Just Looking


I couldn’t help but notice her, she had settled in that well respected decade somewhere between 80 and 90 years of age. Her hair was a soft meringue of white curls with her diminutive body wrapped in a thick brown wool coat, incongruous on such a stifling hot day. She hobbled by, half her body weight supported by her indispensable wheeled cart and the other by a walking stick. She’d most likely had a stroke, her mouth was pulled across to one side and her eye was where her cheek really ought to have been. She took on the appearance of a Mrs Potato head toy, during her most experimental phase. Her sloping face screwed itself into a walnut of frustration and her words dribbled out much to the irritation of the shop assistant.

A what? He enquired, frowning at this unnecessary customer.

An oover, I want a little oover to do me stairs with.

A Hoover? He repeated, determined to correct her.

Yeah, an oover to do my stairs, a little one, for me stairs.

We don’t sell Hoovers, he replied haughtily despite wearing a badge clearly empowering him as Houseware Manager.

A little oover, the old lady persisted, for me stairs.

No, sorry, not here, you’ll need to try somewhere else.

His response so perplexed the poor old girl, any passer-by could almost see her soul banging the roof of it’s own body demanding a quick release to the spirit world.

Where, she managed, where can I get me self a little oover thingy?

Argos, I suggested.

They both turned to me, he with the reflexes of a cat, her taking almost an entire minute just to face me.

Argos. I nodded,

Yes, Argos, said the manager, relieved to have been of some use.

With that he fairly skipped across the shop floor and scurried away through a door in garden furniture.

Where?

Her lopsided face searched mine for some answers.

I gave her directions with the deliberation of someone talking to a three year old. Then repeated them again.

An hour later I passed her in the arcade, pushing her wheeled cart and close to tears. She was no nearer to Argos than before but I didn’t want to take her there personally, in fact I feared if I slowed my pace and stepped in time with her, I might never quicken it again.

Dixon’s I think, offered a young mum.

Dixons? Where’s that?

She gestured to her left and the old lady was off again.

I watched from the doorway.

A little oover, for me stairs, have you got one?

Yes, he said, over here.

A few minutes later she was by his side. He showed off his stock, a miniature handheld vacuum cleaner at only £14.99.

Shaking her head with her last thread of strength, she said.

Too big, too big, it’s only for me stairs.

She shrugged those bony shoulders and wandered out onto the street.

The next time I saw her she was coming out the front door of her ground floor council flat, she wore a straw bonnet on her head and dragged her trusty wheeled cart behind her, I wondered if the stairs she longed to clean belonged to a different house in a different time and whether she’d ever live long enough to find them again.