Norma in the Snow

Snowflakes, light, uneven, like god shredding cold clouds up above, they fall, almost like a dream that evaporates when it touches your skin –

The asphalt is covered in sludge, ice and mud, people catching hold of one another as they hurry across, slipping out of their thoughts and into the present before they hit the curb.  The buses are running late.

The sky has been white all day, like a blank canvas – no paint, no inspiration, it’s all been done before and maybe god doesn’t feel like sketching a replica today.  It’s darkening now and the street lights switch on, automation, magic, call it what you please.

An old man wearing a navy beanie sticking like a gnome’s hat on his head rolls onto the bus stop.  He is sitting in a scooter, a grocery bag stuffed in a small black basket on the front.  His eyebrows are bushy, sticking out in all directions – with eyebrows like that, his expression was forever a scowl.  “Greg died five years ago, Norma!” he says, his voice half a decibel away from a shout. 

Norma has also rolled onto the bus stop in a scooter. 

She isn’t wearing a hat and although the snow melts as soon as it touches the ground, it sticks to her, catching in her hair like glitter, peppering her cheek like frozen tears.  She is wearing a jacket that is too big for her and it is only half zipped.  Maybe the old man is almost-shouting because she is hard of hearing? Her replies are almost a whisper, the voice of someone who has just woken up after a deep sleep, slightly dazed, not quite sure where she is, or what day it is.

“Where are we going?” Norma’s voice is frail, almost painful to hear.

“I’m taking you to Sara’s house. That’s where I picked you up from, Norma!”

“But I want to go back to my house.”

“You don’t live in that house anymore, Norma. You moved out years ago. You live in the old home now.  You are staying at Sara’s house for the weekend. That’s where I picked you from and that’s where I’m taking you now, Norma!”

“Will Greg be there?”

“Greg died five years ago, Norma! You live in the old home now. We’re going to Sara’s house. That’s where I picked you up from.”

“But all my clothes are at my house...” Norma is shivering.

The flurries are getting faster, madder, and there is a sharp biting wind that’s sweeping the tiny snowflakes up, down and across.  An artist gone mad.  Maybe inspiration has struck.

“You don’t live at the house. All your clothes are at the nursing home but you have some at Sara’s. I’m taking you to Sara’s house, Norma!”

People at the bus stop are getting a little uncomfortable now.  A small boy, perhaps 12, unaccustomed to old age, raises his brow and looks questioningly at his mother who shakes her head discreetly.  He walks on close to the two scooters but neither Norma nor the old man notice.

Norma whispers something, her thin sad confused voice getting lost in the wind, while the old man’s exclamations are still loud, still annoyed, persistent.  She seems to be saying the same things again and again, and he always answers her, in the same irritated loud tones, punctuating the end of the sentence with a strident incredulous ‘Norma’!

The tram is here and as the doors open, the old man steers confidently aboard.  Norma is sitting still, shivering.  “Come on, Norma!” he shouts at her from inside the tram. 

People at the bus stop shuffle.

People inside the tram shuffle.

“I can’t,” Norma says, “I don’t know how!”

“Yes you can. Come on, Norma!” he yells.

People scuff their boots in the snow.  You can see the thoughts form in little bubbles above their heads: “should we help? But how? Can the tram driver see? I hope he doesn’t drive off...”

“Norma!”

“I can’t...” the scooter finally stirs, for a second it starts reversing and once again everybody freezes – fortunately Norma figures it out and manages to get it moving forward.

“This way, Norma!” the old man is gesturing stridently.  Norma is first aiming for the other door where it might have been easier to enter because there is more room but his voice makes her turn.  She finally, slowly, rolls onto the tram.

The doors close.

People at the bus stop take a collective sigh of relief.

“He was horrible to her, wasn’t he?” the young boy’s mother says and I nod in assent, although I’m not sure if I agree he was the horrible one.