A day in which nothing much happened

I once saw a man die. Correction: I once watched a man die. Many people watch others die. I mean, let’s assume that aging is a degenerative process that leads to death. Who hasn’t seen someone die – grandparents, parents, neighbours? Some of us, less lucky than the others, may have watched other degenerative processes eat away at our loved ones. To hear a relative plead for release from cancer is truly awful. To visit an older person who no longer recognises you – terrible. But these are not the circumstances of which I write.

I once watched a man die. One Sunday morning, after breakfast, I went down to the newsagents to buy the Observer. As I drew near to the shop I noticed an old man trip over on the pavement. He fell almost gracefully, with the slow and deliberate ease of movement that old people often display, but which was so out of place in a fall.

His walking stick landed just out of his reach. His arm reached out towards it, fingers flexing in a futile attempt to grasp it, or, more likely, in a reflex motion, knowing only that he ought to be holding something; yet forgetful of what it was he had lost.

He was not wealthy. His grey gabardine coat was patched and grimy. It was buttoned up on the two remaining buttons and underneath was a shabby dark suit. Perhaps he had been an office worker, maybe even an executive who had fallen on hard times, eking out a less than adequate state pension whilst endeavouring to maintain the dignity he had once, and still felt was his. He had tortoiseshell plastic frame glasses lying by his cheek, one of their arms fractured in the fall. There was blood at his temple.

I rushed into the shop and told the newsagent about the old man, but I wasn’t the first to have done this and an ambulance had already been called for. I returned outside. Two or three others stood around. How many had first aid training or had cared for sick or injured relatives? None stooped to talk to the old man until I did. I told him an ambulance was on its way. He looked straight through me. I know he heard me though because he reacted – a blink and a vague movement of his lips. No sound came out. I stood up again, feeling redundant.

It’s astonishing how useless we can be at such times. Should we search him, find out where his home is? He might have someone waiting for him. The need to know he’s been hurt. No one moved to do this. It would invade his privacy. Maybe this was why no one wanted to get closer, talk with him or make sure he was comfortable. We all enjoy our personal space and try to respect other people’s. The blood had formed a tiny puddle on the pavement.

We waited there in the quiet of that Sunday morning. There was little traffic and no other passers by so we all heard the old man. A sigh or a moan escaping from him; no words discernible, scarcely an emotion. We watched. His eyes no longer blinked and his lips began to change colour, taking on a bluer hue. His face greyed.

The ambulance arrived.
Businesslike ambulance men pronounced him a gonner. They lifted him briskly yet respectfully onto their stretcher, took him into the back of their vehicle and drove off. No sirens. No speeding. No point. The newsagent emerged from his shop with a bucket of water and a yard brush. He swilled and swept away the blood down a drain in the gutter. Nothing remained of the old man that I watched die except our thoughts. It was truly as if nothing had happened.