Mawn
When I moved from Bedforshire, England, to Edinburgh twenty years ago, I immediately formed the opinion that people here were less racist than down south. Unheard of in the south, was strangers smiling at this dishevelled brown little old man as our paths crossed. Noticing this difference, I quickly dropped my guard, and began to engage with people on the streets, after I had spent a lifetime avoiding eye contact with people.
I was surprised when on my way to the newsagent one morning, passing outside a florist, there was this woman in her late thirties, I guess, working with great speed moving the flower pots from inside her shop to the pavement, and arranging them for display. I watched her in awe as she dashed inside and in a matter of seconds came out with three or four potted plants. She lined them outside and quick as a flash she was in again to collect another lot. My self-indulgence stopped me making such physical effort, but I usually approve of others who can. So I smiled my appreciation at the good lady. I was rewarded by a blank stare, which I sadly read only too well as, I don’t want anything to do with people like you, unless you’re buying flowers. On another occasion, our paths inevitably crossed again, and as our eyes met, I muttered a, Good morning, to her. She did not look at me, but gave a grudging, “mawn” and a quick nod in response. Subsequently I found it easy to avoid her.
On the neXt thousand days, our eyes met no more than twice, when we eXchanged curt nods. She never smiled at me, although I soon gathered that she was warm and effusive to Scottish passers-by.
Over the years I noticed a young lassie who was obviously her young daughter, who, I presumed went to school nearly. There are 3 or 4 schools within a radius of a hundred metres. She sometimes came to help her mum on Saturdays and during the holidays. Interestingly she was a smiler, and often when our eyes met she would give me a shy little smile.
Time passes, as Dylan Thomas says. I am still living in the same place, and the florist is still there, but I never gave any conscious thought to her. A few years ago, I somehow realised that the florist was no longer there, and I never even asked myself any question about what might have happened. But after I don’t know how long, she was back. She had lost weight, and I noticed that she was much slower in her motion. The daughter was now in the secondary school which is on my road, and I sometimes saw her with her friends. She had probably forgotten me by now, and I was not surprised when she never looked in my direction.
More time passes, and one day I noticed that the lady had regained her energy levels of yore. Good for her, I thought. By now I no longer acknowledged her presence, nor she mine. It is easy to avoid contact with people you only know through seeing them regularly by virtue of your inhabiting the same neck of the woods. If I was run over by a cyclist on the road, for eXample, she might say to a client, it’s this bloke who lives around here, I see him all the time. I would remember her as, that hard-working florist round the corner.
One day I as I was passing outside a university building I recognised the daughter as she emerged with some friends, chatting happily. This gave me a certain pleasure that this little girl who used to smile at me seemed to be doing well.
A few months ago, I saw a pram outside the florist’s with a little brown baby sleeping blissfully. A few weeks later I caught sight of a young man who shared at least my skin colour inside the florist’s talking to the lady, and she was laughing. Usually shoppers rarely enter into the shop, as all negotiations happen outside, where the bulk of the flowers are. The thought that the brown man was the daughter’s boyfriend or partner occurred to me.
This morning on my way to collect my newspaper, although I was wearing a mask against Covid19, a woman merrily shouted, Good mawn, to me. It was my florist walking towards her shop.
