Perspective

It was a hot July afternoon, and Matthew hated the sun.

The heat swelled around the village like a balloon, trapping unaware victims in a haze and turning skin a blistering red with the suns prickly touch. Plus, the sharp rays had cut through the gap in his curtains that morning and left him feeling particularly annoyed for since then.

What he, however, hated even more than the sun, was the newspaper sitting at his door when he emerged to brave the beating heat. It crinkled in the faint warm breeze and had all the use of a beaten doormat. He snatched it up from the ground only because it sullied the appearance of his porch and scowled at the note stapled to the top.

‘Free copy, from us to you!’ How ironic, considering this weekend’s task.

“I am not falling for your schemes to get me to subscribe.” He muttered, enjoying the satisfying dull thud of the paper hitting the bottom of his outdoor bin.

His sense of self-appreciation at his disregard of useless money schemes was quickly put out by the squeeze of the heat around his body, and at the sight of an elderly figure tottering down the road.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” He groaned, before picking up his pace to get around her before she could notice him. As he got closer, just as he guessed, he could tell the woman was his neighbour, Mrs Palmer, whom he avoided like the plague. The woman could speak for the whole country, though she was both half deaf and visually impaired, so his hopes were usually high of sneaking past her unnoticed. Matthew crossed to the other side of the street and found something very interesting to look at in the opposite direction.

“Matthew?” Her slow waddle stopped as she squinted at him from across the street. “Matthew dear, is that you?”

The sense of guilt from ignoring her was overpowering, so he reluctantly turned and gave her a forced smile.

“Mrs Palmer, I didn’t see you there!” He said through gritted teeth, though continued desperately before she could start talking, “Terribly sorry, but I’m too busy to stop and talk today. You see, I have this assignment to write a…” He trailed off and sighed when he noticed she wasn’t listening, rather focusing on uselessly tugging her walking stick from where it was wedged in a grate.

“What have I done wrong?” He complained quietly, before conceding and walking back across the street. Wondering how she got about her day-to-day life and how on earth she’d managed to jam her walking stick in such a small grate, Matthew gave it one hard yank and freed it.

“Oh, thank you!” She said, startled by the sudden movement that rocked her. “Did I tell you, Richard told me he might stop by on Sunday?” Mrs Palmer offered him a crooked smile, unaware of Matthew’s disdain for her money hungry son.

“Hmm, right.” It took all his willpower not to roll his eyes and remind her of Richard’s behaviour; he did not feel like repeating the same long conversation again.

“Come on Mrs Palmer, let’s get you to the village.” He took her arm gently and guided her down the street, though she only tottered slightly faster than before. He knew, however, that nobody else would come to help her because she had nothing to give in return.

Arriving at the small coffee shop an hour later than he intended, Matthew ordered a black coffee and went to sit in his usual booth. The employees knew him as a regular, and now knew to recognise the air of frustration in his manner and to leave him in peace when he came with a tricky assignment.

Opening his laptop, he typed the title of his task onto an empty document.

Gratitude Journal.

Matthew sat back and forced himself not to dwell on the stupidity of the weekend assignment he’d been given at the last minute. He frowned, almost certain the task came from his colleague Emma who was an insufferable optimist and often fell out with Matthew over trivial matters, such as his hatred for motivational speakers.

What did he have to be thankful about?

He had begrudgingly stopped off at a market stall with Mrs Palmer on the way, at which he had bought an apple that he now held in his hand. I suppose I am thankful I have this apple. He thought to himself, then hovered his hands over the keyboard before sighing in frustration.

Writing about an apple seemed beyond useless, especially as he scowled to think of how the vendor would probably have laughed at him for the mere idea of it, while at the same time pocketing Matthew’s money with glee.

The man had had some pitiful story about how his apples were a product of hard work and resilience, nudging his Tupperware container full of pennies towards them with an eager gleam in his eyes.

Matthew shook his head with a frown, and put the apple down, suddenly overcome by a disappointment in himself for giving out his change to the man.

After an entire afternoon spent with the sun in his eyes from a broken blind, and a frustratingly slow pace of typing a sentence only to delete it, he was left with a blank document by the end of the day. Shutting his laptop, he dabbed his brow with a tissue and wished his assignment was of the opposite nature, so he could find inspiration from his dislike of sticky heat.

The walk home was slow and tiring, the sinking sun still managing to make his clothes uncomfortably damp with sweat.

He would try again tomorrow.

It was Saturday, and the heat had only worsened.

By the time Matthew stepped out of his house just after lunch time, it had gotten so bad that the strap on his laptop case immediately became hot and chafed against his hand. The grass was yellowing, and the sun glared down in disapproval at the village blurred in the distance from thick rolls of heat.

He made his way down the street all the same, though almost turned back when he saw Mrs Palmer almost in the exact same place she was stood yesterday. In fact, it looked as though her walking stick was again wedged in the same grate on the path.

Needing a moment to compose himself from the growing exasperation he felt, Matthew headed over to her, reminding himself how nobody would ever help her because it did not benefit them.

“Mrs Palmer.” He sighed, “How have you managed this again?” She blinked at him, confused, before the recognition lit up her face.

“Oh, Matthew!” She gasped, “I-I don’t know…” Furrowing her brows, she gave the stick a weak pull before looking at him helplessly. He took it from her and again yanked it out of the grate.

“Now, I have that same assignment to complete, so I really don’t have time to-”

“What?” She interrupted, “Assignment? Where?”

“My assignment. About… gratitude.” He almost spat the word out, still apprehensive of his task.

“Ahh, that shouldn’t be hard!” She smiled, “There are lots of things to be thankful about!”

Matthew stared at her, giving her old, faded clothes and chipped walking stick a tight smile, and resisted from asking what those things could possibly be for her, though she seemed to read the question on his face.

“Don’t give me that look! I’m not completely blind you know; I can still tell what you’re thinking.” She looked beyond him thoughtfully, “Richard! He said he might pop by tomorrow, that’s something to be thankful about.”

“Oh, Mrs Pearson.” Matthew sighed, avoiding her eyes. “You never learn.”

“He’s coming, you’ll see.” She gave him an odd slow wink and began to totter back down the street with a hesitant Matthew in tow.

The coffee shop was much busier than yesterday, though Matthew was almost pleased to find his usual booth unoccupied, until he registered the spill of what he hoped was apple juice over one of the seats. Mumbling about how his assignment could not possibly be made any more difficult, he sat in the clean side of the booth and got back to his work.

About an hour into his failing attempts of forming a first paragraph, a large family seeped in through the doors, which appeared to almost burst at the seams with the sheer volume of people.

At the head of the group stood a middle-aged woman in a yellow summer dress, whose face was rosy from the heat outside. She spoke loudly, so Matthew caught the end of her conversation.

“…so I said well, I think it’s great! Might be uncomfortable but gets the kids outside!” She laughed a hearty laugh, and Matthew assumed she was speaking about the weather.

He watched as she sauntered over to a barista, who blushed deeply at the revealing neckline of her dress as she spoke to him sweetly.

Matthew scoffed and shook his head. More like the weather is great for you to show some skin and get a free coffee voucher.

Sure enough, the barista passed her one over the counter, grinning ridiculously wide and looking slightly disappointed when she walked away. She had such a smug expression on her face, the kind that Matthew detested, especially as he sat with less and less to write from the people around him.

Feeling particularly hot and bothered, Matthew spent another unsuccessful afternoon staring at a blank page and struggling to muster something positive to say about anything around him.

He stayed until the sun bobbed down in its orange sea and hid behind the clouds. On his walk home, the heat remained like a musty smell in an old room.

Sunday. And the assignment was due in the next day.

Matthew had struggled to sleep, racking his brain to no avail for a single idea to write about gratitude.

The heat was still almost unbearable, which he was hit with as he trudged outside with much less hope than the previous two days. Matthew had never been unable to complete an assignment, and the thought was weighing down on him just as much as the heat.

Turning the corner, he was anticipating Mrs Palmer’s presence, and there she was. The only difference today was that she was looking straight at him and gave a little wave when she saw him looking back.

Beginning to accept this as part of his routine, Matthew dragged himself over to her and braced himself to tear her walking stick out of a grate again.

It was, however, surprisingly not stuck today, and he gave her a puzzled look, wondering why she had waved him over.

“Richard couldn’t make it.” She smiled sadly.

“What a surprise.” He muttered sarcastically.

“No, no, he said he could try next weekend instead!” She said with a sense of triumph that pushed Matthew’s tired brain over the edge.

“Mrs Palmer, your son hasn’t come to see you in years.” He said, frustrated. “Because he’s not interested in taking money from you anymore since you barely have any to give.”

“He still calls me occasionally.” She protested.

“He calls you to keep his conscience clean Mrs Palmer. People only care when they get something in return.”

She was silent for a long time, looking at the ground. Just as Matthew began to feel he’d been a little harsh, she spoke again.

“I think I’m going to head home.”

“Mrs Palmer-”

“No, I don’t fancy the village today.” She attempted a smile, before leaving in the opposite direction and leaving Matthew with a heavy feeling of guilt.

Walking through the village alone felt much different, and Matthew decided if he saw Mrs Pearson again on his way to work tomorrow, he would apologise for being so blunt.

A young child busking on the street distracted his thoughts, as he paused to watch her play the violin slowly, as the crowds gave affectionate ‘aww’s. She wore dirty clothes that were several sizes too big for her, and a sign on cardboard was propped up beside her claiming she would appreciate any donations. A small tin can was already half full of pennies and notes.

Matthew looked over the scene sceptically, not failing to notice the pristine condition of the violin and what looked like a branded purse wedged behind the sign.

He knew exactly what he was looking at, especially as he spotted two people who were obviously the girls parents hovering at the edge of the crowd, eyeing anyone holding a purse or rummaging in their bag with a gleam in their eyes.

It’s like I’m being teased for this stupid assignment, he thought.

Not sparing the parents a disapproving stare, Matthew headed back on course towards the coffee shop, for what was likely to be another very unproductive day.

Monday had come by extraordinarily fast, and Matthew dressed slowly, feeling very apprehensive of his day ahead.

Stepping out the door with the burdening knowledge that he carried a laptop with nothing to show but his empty document, he dreaded the smug look on Emma’s face when she found out her assignment had defeated him.

“Cue Mrs Palmer…” He murmured as he walked onto the next street.

But today, she was not there.

Matthew could not help but feel to blame and felt a crushing regret from stamping on her hopes of seeing her son, even if he had known all along that the guy wouldn’t show up.

Deciding to go the long way to work though the village, Matthew hoped he’d bump into her on the way.

The streets were much quieter without the hustle and bustle of the weekend, and by the time Matthew was walking past his usual coffee shop he’d lost hope of catching up to Mrs Palmer.

Feeling even more defeated, he glanced inside and was met with a surprise.

Mrs Palmer was sat inside, surrounded by people. Matthew’s curiosity took the wheel as he opened the door to the light jangle of the bell and stepped inside. The group looked over at the sound, and he was shocked by what he saw.

Richard raised his eyes to meet Matthew’s, and the regret in them was almost overpowering as he held his mother’s hand that crinkled like old leather in his own. But what was more surprising still was the three people stood around their table.

The vendor held a small crate of apples wrapped in a rich purple ribbon tied in a bow, and his eyes were soft as he placed it on the table with a smile.

The woman in the yellow dress had her hand on Mrs Palmer’s shoulder, and a wobbly smile hung on her face; her free coffee voucher lay reflecting the sun on the table.

And the little girl with the violin, who had a bright smile on her face as she raised her arms to place a full tin can of money beside the apples.

“Thank you.” Mrs Palmer said, as she looked at each of them in turn with a grateful smile on her face and tears lining her eyes.

All of a sudden, it was as though Matthew had been struck hard in the chest with realisation. He glanced down at the laptop still clutched in his hand and drifted over to his usual booth.

Sitting down, he cast a gaze outside the window. The sun was no longer angry but seemed to smile at him from in the sky, casting a gentle cloak of golden warmth across the town. It was the same sun, in the same town, at the same time, but everything had changed. For beauty can be found in any place, he thought, if you just know how to look.

Matthew opened his laptop. And began to write.