I first saw the bald woman early on Wednesday evening. If I’m honest, I found the experience extremely upsetting and it is only now that I feel able to tell you about it.
Since the onset of the drought, I’ve taken to watering and weeding my half-plot at the village allotments as the sun begins to sink behind the deer woods. Early enough to avoid the nagging gnats and midges which plague my sensitive flesh at eventide, late enough to miss the sunburn, the threat of skin cancer: my moles turning black and bleeding. Wednesday evening was still hot though, the air searing my nostrils, parching my mouth.
Feeling scratchy, stiff, and irritable, I wound my hose, packed my gardener’s basket, and waved ‘so long’ to the gardener and his son busily breaking down baked soil at plot forty-one.
The bald woman was standing on the grassy path which led to the car park, next to the manure heap, staring at the shattered greenhouse that lay in the long grass smashed into cruel shards of glass and twisted metal.
Their full-sized plot was overgrown with weeds, but here and there I could make out frost-yellowed leaves, neglected potato plants, withered flowers, spindly, dead raspberry canes.
She was blocking my way. I wanted to say something; fright caught in my throat. I’m ashamed to say I stood and stared at her. Forgive me for saying this, but I thought she was a man at first. She was built like a man. Tall, broad, lean, muscular physique. Or so her body seemed. She had her back to me.
Intrigued, I inched forward to take a closer look. All manner of notions crawled inside my reluctant mind:
Stare at the bald woman and face a lifetime of despair.
I can hardly bring myself to say this. This is what I saw. Her bald head was swollen and pinkish white, rippled with distended varicose veins. The bristling pate, her undulating scalp, reminded me of a blind baby rat’s body, freshly born from the vermin mother’s womb. She was wearing cheap rose cotton pyjamas, flip-flop slippers. Her forearms and calves were bare, strewn with wiry black hair, bloated as far as my eyes could make out.
To my horror, I realized. This poor, bald woman wasn’t muscular at all. Her head, the whole of her body, was bloated: a suckling. Revulsed, yet fascinated, I lowered my head and stared at the trendy, lace-less Adidas walking shoes my son gave me for Christmas, then I looked up again.
She turned to face me. I tried not to stare, honestly, tried to look away, but couldn’t.
You see, the bald woman was wearing cheap black rimmed spectacles and she had no breasts.
My heart went out to her then, my heart cried for her pain and suffering. As she lifted the burning cigarette to her lips and took a heavy drag. All hope was lost, in her heart. All hope was lost, in her life.
I vaguely recall saying something trite, like: ‘Isn’t it a lovely evening? Err, would you mind if I got past you? Social distancing? Please?’
She moved off. She padded off, fag in hand, crossed the shale car park, and disappeared behind a tall privet hedge. I followed at a safe distance, as far as my respect, my growing admiration for her struggle, her fight for life, would allow me. Stood beside my car, watched, and listened.
I despaired at the sound of children laughing, fondest words of love and pride, hailing from the garden of the pebbledash cottage behind the privet hedge.
The bald woman was her husband’s wife, her son or daughter’s mother, the children’s grandma.
I last saw the bald woman early on Thursday evening.
She was standing on the path beside the bench staring at her shattered greenhouse. She was blocking my way.
I wanted to speak to her; doubt caught in my throat. I stood and stared at her.
She had her back to me. Intrigued, I inched forward to take a closer look. She was wearing her cheap rose cotton pyjamas, flip-flop slippers. She turned to face me. She showed me her hand.
I tried not to stare, tried to look away, couldn’t.
You see, the bald woman wasn’t wearing her wedding ring. My heart went out to her, my heart cried for her loss. She lifted a burning cigarette to her lips, took a heavy drag.
All love was lost, in her heart. All love was lost, in her life.
She pointed at the inscription, on the bench:
In Loving Memory of Alan and Molly Blessing, Allotment Holders, 1971 to 2020.
‘He wears my ring, you know,’ she murmured.
She moved off, padded, fag in hand, across the shale car park, and vanished, into the hedge. I never saw her again; I didn’t need to:
Stare at the bald woman and face a lifetime of despair.
