Swept Away

It is a mistake to observe one’s shadow too closely, certainly to fixate on it. One could find oneself unaccountably alarmed. Fears leapt out from shadows for fretful types; of course the proverb too had not arisen out of thin air. It easily happened. It was a mistake also to observe the night Sweeps a few days ago after having followed the shadow up from the Guillemard bus-stop and over the bridge. Daylight hours it was bad enough watching the Sweeps at their work. That morning at the Wadi table the Sweep had passed by hot-footing up toward the Changi corner, flushed of face and almost panicking it appeared. A Mainlander with rake and pan under arm, plastic bag in hand in his yellow colours. A mean supervisor possibly the concern; perhaps he was late for the pick-up truck. 10pm on Guillemard corner four or five Mainlanders they may have been raking under the low hanging branches of trees, across the grass and path. One was shoveling along the drainage canal that had him standing up a couple of feet as if out of a grave. Only dim lights on that corner and across the park, the pick-up truck that usually waited at the traffic lights with the lucky driver slumped at the wheel with the aircon blowing through the windows was absent. Most of the passersby would wince a little coming upon that spectacle. In middle years of high school when Mother saw the football mania taking root she had warned of that particular fate waiting if school continued neglected so badly. A village woman who had never known Sweeps. In the new country she must have made the acquaintance and been equally appalled. Across the street Mr. Vic worked on the roads in the gangs laying asphalt across the Western side of town, which was one rung above sweeping. From the German camps to the roads in Australia was not so very bad, but bad enough. We had pitied Mr. Vic all together without anyone breathing a word out loud.