The Watcher.

Spring.

The sun’s delicate rays are beginning to warm the spot by the window. The spot where she likes to sit, a watchful sentinel on patrol. A plump pigeon struts, proudly, pompously on the tarmac. Doesn’t it know all this is hers? A soft breeze ruffles its feathers and her ears twitch at the rustling of the hawthorn and elder and dog rose, which are only just in leaf. A sudden high-pitched wail startles her and she turns instinctively towards the sound. A child with a grazed knee. A harried parent, torn between exasperation and sympathy. Sympathy wins this time, as she envelopes the child in a hug.

The rumbling of a car’s engine as he leaves for work, as he does every day. She knows it will soon be followed by the sound of the door opening, as mother and child depart, laden with bags, always in a hurry, a flurry of activity for a few brief minutes before all is quiet again. The mother will be back soon, but the house will be quiet until much later. She wonders what goes on in there.

The sparrows are fledging. They flitter about like little paper aeroplanes, barely visible, hard to focus on any single one. She knows catching them is impossible from this side of the glass, and yet she hunkers down, mesmerised, some instinct inside her still hoping for a chance.

The sound of the car door slamming sends them scattering, startling her too out of her reverie. He’s leaving early this time. The curtains in the house are still drawn. Much later, out come the mother and daughter. They look more flustered than usual, in more of a hurry. The mother is red-cheeked, her tone clipped. The daughter’s hair is unbrushed.

Summer.

She yawns and stretches, her fur glossy and shining in the warm sun. This is the perfect time for dozing here, curled up, listening to the sounds of the humans as they bustle around getting ready for the day. Blackbirds chirrup their morning song. Doors slam and car engines stutter. Footsteps crunch on gravel path. The sky is blue and cloudless.

The girl is walking with her friends. Their laughter reaches her ears and she stretches slowly, arching her back, as cheerful “goodbye”s are called and the front door opens. He isn’t home yet. Later he arrives, carrying an enormous bunch of flowers. All the windows are open to the world and the happy sounds of families chatting and cooking together with distant music playing drift on the breeze.

Later, much later, as the sky begins to turn pink and gold, the mother steps out onto the doorstep, glass in hand. She looks tired.

Autumn.

Leaves of red and gold skitter mesmerisingly in the wind. There’s a chill in the air, but the spot by the window is still cosy for now. The crunch of leaves as small children run and jump delightedly. He leaves in his car as usual today. This time he doesn’t return until late evening.

The girl walks alone today. Her friends have already been passed, their usual chatter nothing out of the ordinary. But the girl walks with her head down, shoulders hunched against the wind. When she reaches the house, she doesn’t go in. She sits on the doorstep, scratching at the dirt with a small stick. After a few minutes she stands up, takes a deep breath and opens the front door.

His voices rouses her from her slumber. He’s outside, on his mobile phone. Daylight is fading. It’s almost dark when he goes in. Raised voices from inside the house.

Winter.

She is curled up snuggly, her blanket of fur a blessing against the cold. The trees are leafless now. Fewer birds flutter, but the squirrels are active, gathering the last of the food for their stores before the long, cold nights draw in.

His car leaves earlier and comes back later these days. She’s become more accustomed to the sound of his voice talking on his phone outside the house, despite the cold. The front door opens and the girl leaves for school. She walks alone now, independent, self-sufficient. After a kiss goodbye, the mother turns back towards the house, and she can see her eyes are red-rimmed.

She wakes up to the low, guttural grumble of a van by the side of the road. He is there with another man. Loud voices calling to one another as together they move objects from inside the house, loading up the van. The mother is nowhere to be seen.

Sometime later, the sound of doors slamming. The mother emerges, a warm cardigan wrapped around her against the chill, slippers on her feet. They stand apart, not touching one another. They both look sad. They talk in low voices. Somehow she can sense this is the last time she will see them together. The engine starts up again with cough and a splutter. A mournful, steady sleet starts to fall as the van departs.

Spring again.

Fresh flowers are planted in the window boxes. The sun is finally beginning to lend its golden warmth to the front garden, and life is beginning again. The girl is taller now, and walks with her head held high. She yells “goodbye” to her mother, and races to meet her friends down the road.

A man comes to erect a long wooden post with a corrugated sign on top. Later, a young couple come to the house, accompanied by an official-looking woman with a clipboard. Smiles are exchanged. They look around appraisingly. Half an hour later they leave, looking happy and excited.

The pigeon is back again, gathering odds and ends for its nest. A pair of goldfinches too, making a rare appearance, flashes of colour among the branches that are already beginning to green. She yawns, stretches and curls up contentedly in the sun.