Brush

I first saw her in the car’s wing mirror when I raised my head briefly from my book. There was no one else around as I waited in the car for my mother to finish her slow browsing around the antique fair, and any semblance of diversion was a welcome one as the book I was reading was swiftly boring me.

It was the movement of the woman's arm that intrigued me. She appeared to be brushing her hair, but the hand sweeping up and down held no brush or comb. Her face was soft, round and held a gentle, childlike smile, which gave me the initial impression of vagueness or some mental retardation.

I closed my book as I watched her walk along the pavement, her figure hidden from view now and again by the cars parked bumper to bumper along the roadside.

She walked slowly, with no sense of purpose, carried no bag or purse. Her clothes were plain. The only item, which caught my eye, was her broad pink hair band, which seemed so incongruous being worn by a woman I deemed to be in her mid 40's.

Every few steps she would stop, brush her hair using the same sequence of strokes and continue walking.

It was as if the Sunday morning air had thickened and seemed charged with static as before a storm, though the sky remained blue and cloudless. I began to lose any sense of my own physicality as everything polarised into my line of vision. The distant sound of a steam train hummed in my ears, though I knew they did not run on Sundays.
And it was then that I knew of her, gradually her life and being seeped into my consciousness like a whisper. She was almost alongside me when I felt the first wave of pain.

A little girl sitting on her bed in the dim light, singing to her doll as she brushed it’s hair. Her small feet, a lifetime away from the floor, swinging softly in rhythm, shoe heels meeting now and again with a sweet click.

She was leaving my range of vision. My book slipped from my lap to the floor as I got out of the car, the door clicking shut with a soft thud . I could see her across the road, and began to cross it, part of me wondering why.

The girl's bedroom door opened, casting a large shadow on the carpet. Her feet were suddenly still, the doll clutched closely to her chest. The girl pushed back, the pink hair band falling across her eyes, absorbing her quiet tears.

The train hummed once more, barely covering the sound of a child's soft crying. I was on her side of the road now. I looked around, shielding my eyes with my hand against the glare of sunlight. I couldn't see her. I slowly scanned all the parked cars, even leaning down to look underneath them.

There was only the brick wall. 8 feet high, she could not have climbed it with out being seen.

My chest ached as it attempted to fill with air.

It was soon over, and he left, closing the door behind him. The girl stood slowly, catching sight of her reflection in the mirror as she pushed the hair band back onto her head. She still held the doll and the brush, clutched in a tight fist. She began to brush.

I walked along, following the wall, still looking inside each car, but I knew she had gone. I reached the walls end where it was replaced by a wire fence, and I could see below to the abandoned railway tracks.

She had grown, raised her own family, been happy at times, a giving, tender mother. I knew her life, but I didn’t know what had happened to revive her childhood nightmare and cause her to throw her life onto the track.

I turned to walk back to the car, watching as my mother loaded her bags into the trunk.

Glancing back I wondered how long the pink hair band had been left lying on the railway line.