That’s grandson 1, looking through the door and noting how the hot coloured slabs of glass bake the light into something we can digest.
I said, ‘That’s from the door slamming.’
‘I do that. And Finny and Noah’, he says, pleased.
‘Maybe close the door a bit more softly.’
‘Maybe. Where’s all those bits of glasses from?’
‘From a bridge?’
‘Near a bridge.’
‘It’s good how that glass looks like superhero clothes.’
Then he lays his head and shoulders on the table in a dramatic gesture to show me that he is under the light, and the light is on him and he is not melting, but maybe some of his bones are melting, but luckily it doesn’t matter because they will just grow again. And we sit there together under the evening light melting.
A man put his head in the door of the shop and called, ‘Nathan, I’m going back to the car.’
But there was nobody in here. I didn’t get time to tell him though. He backed out and got into his car and waited in the driver’s seat. Soon he got out and rang someone on his phone. He moved against my window to talk, ‘Well, where are you then? And where’s the ladder?’
Outside, the air is gold, with splits of light and leaves moving all through it. It’s warm. Visitors say, ‘It’s glorious outside.’ I sit and look out at it.
There’s a baby in a pram in here, singing, and the mother is looking at the books, tapping a water bottle. She has brown hair and so does the baby. Can she hear her baby singing? It lays there, making soft noises all on different notes, looking at the mother, one foot hooked over the edge of the pram.
Over the road a bus driver is helping a lady in a wheelchair onto the bus, and someone has reversed has into a rubbish bin in the car park behind the bus stop. Doesn’t matter; it’s glorious out there. A young woman is crossing the road slowly, despite the traffic, and the light is all over her clothes.
Painting by Diane Leonard
The unexpected warmth, we aren’t used to it yet.
Everybody who comes into the shop stands briefly in the doorway and the day outside flares blue over their shoulders.
People with dogs, pulling and pulling, stopping, pulling, jerking forward again, a girl reading in the sun over the road, drinking a bottle of coke slowly, two old men running across the street, the arms pumping powerfully – but not the legs. The legs will not be hurried. They rock back and forth with imagined speed, and shake fists at the motorbikes that made them run in the first place.
Hot footpaths. People standing outside cars to eat instead of climbing grimly inside them. Cars parked with people asleep against the hot windows. Walking is slowed down, people glance at the sky, stand still to drink coffee. Laughing and talking at the kerb, not trying to cross the road immediately, happy to wait in the sun, finding extra things to talk about.
Two ladies rugged up sensibly outside the shop say, this won’t last.
Kids belting past yelling – I’m not even playing on Saturday, is Sam?