I watched her for longer than I should have. I had places to go and people to see. A sharp wind swept down O'Connell Street, and people passed quickly, not wanting to linger any longer than necessary outside the Gresham Hotel or the Happy Ring House or Burger King.
I don't know why she drew me, the woman with the walking stick. Because I had better things to do, and I was cold. I had just come out of an early-morning movie, but this woman held my attention for longer than anything on the screen - and, PS, I don't think much of Hilary Swank in this one.
So here we all are. A small army of people passing by, at paces ranging from the gentle stroll of a man wearing a pioneer pin to the full-on thrust of a group of boys with today's version of the mullet, which is when you go mad with the peroxide and your elder sister's hair straighteners.
And then there is this woman. Commanding a space down the middle of the wide path. She is bent almost double. Her stick propels her forward, so slowly that she is more like a moving statue than a person. She draws stares from either side. Her head and face are completely covered by a brown patterned scarf. Her ankle-length dark-grey silk skirt is pleated and pocked with what look like cigarette burns. Her coat is green and warm-looking, but she wears no gloves, and in her right hand she is clutching an empty milkshake cup. I drink it all in, even the writing on the paper cup. Thicky, it says.
This woman walks as though part of a funeral procession. Her back is almost parallel to the path. I unlock my bike as she passes. Then I hear it. The low mewl, the keening that comes from her. Eeeeehh. Eeeehh. Eeeeehh. That's when I really start watching her. And listening. Eeeeeehh. Eeeeehh.
There is a choreography to her movements that the casual observer will not notice. I stopped being a casual observer 20 minutes ago. I am moving along beside her now, slowly walking my bike down the path.
What happens is that she walks for about 10 minutes and then finds a doorstep. When she settles in the doorstep she takes a paper napkin from a pocket. She puts the napkin to her nose and shakes her head up and down, as though she is crying. Sometimes she adjusts her scarf, and you see a glimpse of a smooth brown face. She looks younger than you might think. After a few minutes she gets up to walk the path again.
Coming up to Christmas, I'd like this to be a story of my charitableness. But really it's a story of how I am charitable but only on my own terms. This woman has turned begging into a performance art and I resent her for it and, oh dear, now I appear to be stalking her.
Charity? I bring my niece on adventures around town, and I point out this beggar and that homeless person, and we talk about what their lives might be like and what might have led them here. She asks me for coins, and then she drops them in the cups. Sometimes the person on the street will say "thank you, love" and she will reply "you're welcome" in a sweet voice.
I do this so that when she grows up she won't look down on people who have less than her. I do this so she will see a person, not a bundle of foul-smelling rags. I do this so she will have compassion for the person behind the scarf, not scorn for the opportunistic Romany Gypsy on the make.
On O'Connell Street on any given afternoon there are plenty of people who come up to scratch. The ones I don't stalk, the ones I pity. The outright winner today is a dark-skinned man with one leg who goes past with a gappy smile. He settles down not far from the woman to ask for money, and I watch him too, but the woman walking slowly earns more. You have to hand it to her. She is a bigger draw than a one-legged man.
After a while she notices me. Takes off her scarf to complain loudly in her language. I reckon she is saying, what is your problem? Why are you following me? And I just look back at her blankly. She seeks out other beggars, the ones with babies in slings, and they look at me, willing me to leave. And I do. Realising that all begging is performance art to a certain degree. And that we, the audience, have expectations that must be met. The woman with the stick, with the shtick, is probably there for the matinee again today. At this time of year it's the panto of the street. Oh yes it is.