A damp Manchester pavement runs like a conveyor belt full of people past the towering sentinels of commerce. Some peer in through glass frescoes that offer the world on sale today, others cling onto vain dreams of themselves draped in the latest disguise instead of the attractive mannequins on display.
Moving slow among the frenzied droves that swing bulging bags of designer gear around their heads - the stench of currency leering heavy in their nostrils – shuffles an old grandmother fighting against the tide, pushing on and making slow gain, counting the paving slabs along Cross Street. People exchange irritant glances at each other as they try to weave and dodge around her; she is an unwelcome obstacle in their strident path, she is ambling like an aging turtle moving to water, not able to keep pace with the rapid white waters that swirl along clasping plastic cups of chain-house coffee all the while.
The lines on her face map out every road walked, every journey made, every day ticked off on the calendar; through weary eyes she sees a world seemingly stuck in a fast-forward montage that has long since accelerated past her speed. She clutches a paper bag containing a sausage roll and a sticky iced bun from a nearby bakery, the pastry hot through the paper. Divine young couples dive in and out of bars and perfume boutiques with matching leather jackets and fancy scarves, they are all tan despite the time of year. Two young men in hooded jackets goosestep through the crowd that parts instantly to let them through. They are the type whose eyes rove across faces like violent searchlights in an attempt to meet the eyes of others. A teenage girl with a nose ring and black dreadlocked hair blows bubblegum and moves past, brushing the old woman with her backpack which is adorned with scruffy patches of various gothic insignia. One such patch – the largest on the bag – declares ‘I wanna fuck you like an animal’. A bunch of over-dressed middle-aged women guffaw and strut down the pavement in a chorus line, their stilettos clattering and scraping against the concrete.
And on the old woman trudges down Cross Street and into Albert’s Square, fountains dwarfed by the imposing spire of the Town Hall that is playing host to a Saturday afternoon wedding; the crowd of smartly-dressed well-wishers congregating around the blushing bride and groom by their horse-drawn carriage. A teary mother, a bored distant relative who doesn’t really know anyone, a horny nephew who can’t wait for the champagne reception. Three Chinese tourists with expensive cameras dangling from necks jabber amongst themselves, all three apparently talking at once as they point and shoot at statues, at trees, at the pigeons that peck at the cobbled square. A harassed mother drags a screaming toddler by the head, her tangled hair windswept and neglected. The siren infant escapes his mother’s grasp and falls upon the floor, kicking and beating his anguished fists against the dirt and cigarette butts. A sad reflection of the inevitable future character of the child being whittled and honed to bastardized perfection thinks the old woman as she sets her weary frame down on a bench.
She unwraps the paper bag with hands ravaged with arthritis; grateful for the warm glow of the sausage roll, a contrast against the cold nip of the winter breeze. As she enjoys the food pigeons start to show an interest, their senses aroused by the scent. A couple of the birds creep up, apprehensive by her feet and she tosses a few crumbs for them to quickly devour. Encouraged by the old lady’s kindness several shier pigeons land from flight and scuttle round the bench. She takes a last bite and scatters the crumbs onto the floor from the lap of her long skirt remembering with fond clarity feeding the ducks in the canal near her home with her young brother and sisters. A mere lifetime ago she thinks with a sad twinkle in her eyes.
She glances across the square at the wedding party as they assemble themselves into order for photographs on the steps of the Town Hall, before taking an indulgent bite out of the iced bun. She is hungry but still has a strange pity for the pigeons bobbing about by the bench and so breaks off a few more crumbs for them which they fight amongst themselves for. Simple pleasures she thinks to herself. All of a sudden, more grey-breasted pigeons begin to appear, swooping down from nearby tree branches, not one wants to miss any of the activity unfolding. One brave bird acting as an example to the others, lands on her bony knee but she is too busy enjoying her iced bun to wave it away. Following the lead, more of the birds wheel down, landing on the bench and on her shoulders, all eager to get involved.
Those on the cobbles scavenge at her dainty feet whilst the more adventurous hop along her legs and perch on her silver head. She barely seems to notice, she just keeps on stuffing the tasty bun into her mouth, icing smeared around her mouth from the urgency of the act, as more and more pigeons cartwheel through the air to cling onto her clothes, digging tight clawed feet into the thick wool of her cardigan and knitted shawl. They are silent in their numbers, just a feeding mass and as she becomes completely covered in the swarming creatures there is no resistance, no screams for help; the old woman just continues lifting the last of the sticky iced bun with an arm laden-heavy with the birds to her waiting open mouth.
Around the square there is no move to offer assistance, to raise the alarm. The mother has long since regained control of her wailing offspring, the Chinese tourists are stood a way off taking fast-paced pictures of the fountains whilst still chatting furiously amongst themselves, and the wedding guests are busy trying to fix even more prominent grins on their happy faces so as not to allow anything to sour the special day. The pulsing mass of pigeons are like bees round a hive, until they disperse and ascend in symmetry back up into the hidden depths of the trees, scattering away like thrown confetti leaving nothing behind, just an empty bench; no trace, no remnant, just a few discarded pastry crumbs ground into the cobbles of the square.
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