While I am at the window, watching the foot traffic, putting the science fiction back into order, I am thinking that I might go to the bakery. But I can’t. There’s a group of ladies at the door. They don’t come in. They are reading my sign aloud, please come in, and looking through the glass.
They don’t come in. There are about seven ladies. They move up and peer through the larger window; I am right there, but they don’t see me. The sunlight on the glass makes them screw up their eyes and look cross. They are cross. One lady says the books are second hand, another lady, Joan, says they are new. She makes a shrugging movement with her handbag.
‘At any rate, we’re not going in. It’ll be expensive.’
‘Well. Well, I might. I just might have a look. It says, “used books”’.
‘They’re not used, they’re new. We don’t have time. Get the timetable.’
Another lady produces a pamphlet folded in an efficient way. They all lean in, but only one lady reads it.
They all look at each other. Then the lady who had argued with Joan sails for the door, and there I am, opening the door, please come in, indeed, we look at each other triumphantly.
One lady comes up behind the troublemaker and says, we’re going on, Gwen.
Outside, the group hesitates, wavers, moves to one side, watches a child on a small bike ride past. They move on slowly. They have rallied, they look good. They have a list of things to do, a timetable, and time.