On Mrs. Chesterfields Street

Mrs. Chesterfield was very lonely. Her husband died five years ago and she was confined to a wheelchair. Her daughter and son would take turns looking after her, spending the night with her during the week and on weekends her small apartment would be filled with her small, loud grandchildren.

Mrs. Chesterfield didn't do much during her day. At eight o'clock every morning she would be wheeled from her bedroom to the bathroom and then to the dining room table and she would eat a quiet breakfast with one of her children. They would then park her on her balcony where she would remain until dinner.

Her children never spent time with her, save for fifteen minutes at breakfast and dinner. Though she couldn't see them from the balcony she could hear them tidying, working, cooking, looking after sick kids, having angry phone conversations with their spouses or even watching television. Her children never included her in any of these activities and it often left Ms Chesterfield very bored and very lonely.

At first, she'd taken up knitting, but in a month, she managed to knit about a thousand scarfs and didn't know what to do with them all – people received them as gifts for months. The she tried Sudoku and crosswords, but Mrs. chesterfield wasn't very good at those and often found herself throwing the books off the balcony and onto the road below to her apartment when she couldn't find an answer quick enough.

There wasn't much else for her to do. She couldn't use a computer or phone. She was never very good at drawing or painting. Playing an instrument for hours on end didn't appeal to her and she couldn't watch the T.V. because her children were always watching programs they liked. So, Mrs. Chesterfield – quite unfairly – was stuck by herself with nothing to do but sit on her balcony all day. She mentioned to her children many times that she was probably better off in the nursing village or home, but they wouldn't allow it, they could look after her just fine.

From her balcony, Mrs. Chesterfield had a vast view of the street she lived on and had found amusement in watching people. The footpath on the opposite side of the road to Mrs. Chesterfield's apartment was near enough, that she could see the expressions on the countenances of people walking on it. There was no other apartment block on the street, just boring brick houses of various sizes and colour roofs. The same people walked the street every day and cars came by every hour or also, save for the rush in the morning and afternoon.

At the beginning of the fifth year without her husband Mrs. Chesterfield watched the street every day, with an extreme lack of interest, but had gotten into the habit of watching three characters on her street.

One Monday morning in late January, as Mrs. Chesterfield was being wheeled out to her balcony, a seemingly tall man wearing the dullest button up shirt and suit pants Ms Chesterfield had ever seen, quitted his house. He walked sulkily, with his shoulders slightly hunched, his head down almost on his chest. His steps were small and he walked without purpose. Although Mrs. Chesterfield hadn't been watching the street wholeheartedly before, she had seen enough to know that the man was walking in a different direction than he normally would. Instead of walking down the footpath to his right, he turned left and walked in the opposite direction. Either he'd forgotten his way to work or he had a new job. Chesterfield watched him walk down the street in his wearisome way, brief case in hand, until he was out of sight.

Many cars left their driveways and garages, their drivers honking as a way of farewell to their loved ones inside. Children were taken to school, bags hitched high on their backs and their socks neatly folded around their skinny ankles. But one school boy in particular, caught Mrs. Chesterfield's eye. He looked like an average school kid, but his enthusiasm set him apart. He was practically dragging his mother to the school. He was marching ahead as far in front of his mother as he could get, while holding her hand. He was younger and smaller than the other school kids on the street - he was probably in his first year of primary school. Soon he got sick of being held back by his mother and let go of her hand and ran ahead. His mother's eyes never left his back.