June 2020 Winner
Ritual
by Rosemary Stridee
Seagulls screech, heckle the two people on the bench, squabble over the occasional tasty morsel tossed in their direction.
The couple’s backs are towards me. The woman’s neck is swathed in bright pink and purple. A crocheted scarf, handmade. Grey wisps escape the constraints of a dark blue beanie. Knitted; also handmade. A quilted anorak rounds out her comfortable silhouette. Further along the bench another figure sits swaddled against the cold. White bristles, trimmed to a regimental short back and sides, rise above a jacket collar turned up against the breeze.
Both figures gaze out over the bay. Mesmerized. Behind me the sun is sinking below the houses and inky shadows stretch greedy fingers across the water toward the island purpling on the horizon, only its highest peaks still rosy in the dying throes of sunlight. The sea itself is glassy, waves flat-ironed by the gentle westerly wind.
Both figures are still. Only their hands move, lifting golden rounds of crumbed calamari and crunchy potato wedges to their mouths. If it weren’t for the intermittent tumult of the gulls whenever a generous scrap comes their way you’d think the elderly pair was unaware of their raucous hustlers.
And are they indeed a couple? Or strangers? It’s unclear. Just the two of them on the bench, but they sit a polite two feet apart; they do not appear to speak. But they act in tandem like a well rehearsed circus act, taking turns to toss food to the gulls, at apparently regular intervals. I’m intrigued. I don’t want to take my eyes off them in case the routine changes.
How long, I wonder, will they sit there. The bay has finally surrendered its silver ribbons to a uniform pewter and the island’s eyelids are heavy. Soon there will be no glimmer of warmth on the hills, no flurries of golden cirrus in the darkening sky. And surely those cartons of calamari and chips are almost empty?
I hear a crunch as cardboard is squashed, the rustle of a paper napkin being screwed into a ball. The gulls sense the largesse is coming to an end. One or two still scrum for crumbs on the footpath, others puff their chests in umbrage and stalk off in search of greener pastures while the rest turn towards the water, stretch their wings and head for night-time lodgings along the beach.
I’m so busy watching the birds I nearly miss it. A different movement on the bench flickers across the periphery of my vision and I turn just in time to see the old gentleman reach across the gulf, palm open to receive the woman’s crumpled container. He moves the rubbish into his left hand and stretches out his right a second time. This time another hand greets it, knitting their knobbled fingers together. They look at one another for the first time, smile, stand in unison and turn away from the shore hand in hand. No words are spoken. None are needed.