An Empty Bench

She sat there as we drove past in the heat.  A few seconds worth of a brown patterned nylon dress and home knit cardigan stretched over her squat and square body as we peered through the back seat window.  Her face watched us back.  She sat slouched on a rickety bench, her thick legs splayed apart, showing a pink blush of knee length bloomers.  Her face was like a nut coloured boxing glove; her hair a disc of grey beneath a crushed cotton cap. 

The morning heat was stifling in the car as we headed out.   It was like that everyday of our holiday and everyday the car threw up dust from the road as we passed the old woman, sending a small cloud which exhausted itself around her plimsolled feet.  She was there, stationed on her bench, when we left and was still there when we returned in the evening, tired and ratty.  We sniggered to each other, squashed into the car, and she looked back at us, intruders into the calm and dusty silence of her village. 

She wasn't there on the bench the following year when we returned for more excursions along the dusty road.


Time up.
Inspiration.  I'm tired but I wanted to do a character study tonight and this woman came into my head yesterday as we reminisced about a holiday some years ago.