The Bread Man

Every morning the bread man goes past the house where we stay for three months each winter. From the rooftop terrace one can hear his distant whistle getting closer bit by bit. From time to time he will call out in his language "Bread, fresh bread". And people will emerge from their homes to eagerly greet him.

His vessel is a rather old bicycle, which he pushes as he walks along. There is no tyre on the front wheel. A large wooden box is attached precariously to the rear of the bike. It is filled with long loaves of crusty bread fresh from the oven.

I was standing on the terrace, looking out over the town at the turquoise sea as is my early morning custom. From this perch I do my stretches. This is a ritual I started many years ago to alleviate the aches and pains of ageing. The bread man's whistle pierced the silence and his call announced his coming. There he appeared, round and jolly. He glanced up and greeted my usual rooftop wave with a vigorous one of his own.

I watched as he turned the corner. I heard an old woman's voice call out "Wait, Wait". It came from deep inside the house across the road. He stopped by the garden wall and dutifully waited. Meanwhile, people appeared from up the street waiving their money as they ran. They came on foot, on bikes and scooters and in cars for their loaves of daily bread.

I returned to my exercises. As I lay on my mat, I assumed that he must have moved on when I had heard nothing further. But when I looked over the railing several minutes later, there he was, still standing at the wall. His bicycle was at his side. From time to time he looked into the garden - just waiting.

I thought how inconsiderate that old woman was to keep him so long from his routine. In fact, the house had newly changed hands, so I was not sure who this person was. I had heard that an important government official had moved in with his family. Perhaps this was his mother.

Eventually, after many more minutes, she appeared from a door at the side of the house. She was wearing a long pink nightdress. Here hair was dyed unnaturally black. It did not suit her wrinkled complexion. Because of the height of the wall, I could only see her torso. The house was being renovated and she took a rather circuitous route, carefully shuffling through the reconstruction debris.

I was annoyed that these people felt so entitled that they would hold up the progess of the breadman. People would surely be waiting anxiously for his arrival further along the route.

As the woman drew closer, the breadman peered over the wall and reached out a hand. When he retireved it, he held in his hand a large mug of what I assumed was hot coffee. I could only see the head of hair of the old woman on the other side of the wall. The two chatted as the breadman drank his coffee. He  looked pleased and handed the mug back over the wall before he took hold of his bicycle once again. He disappeared up the road lost eventually in a canopy of trees. His call "Bread, Fresh bread" being sweetened, no doubt, by the lingering taste of good coffee.