Not Blood Red, Cerise.

         The clouds brooded in the late afternoon sky, welcome relief from the sun, but there was grim promise of rain in the muggy hot air. October was meant to signal cooler weather, was the resentful thought that rubbed against a nagging worry that I’d be caught without an umbrella.

         I was just a turn away from one of my favourite watering holes and I decided to head there for a pick-me up. The first rain-drop that plopped onto my head was large enough to make me thankful for the timely decision. Another three people hurried in thereafter and we all scrambled to get seats.

         I needn’t have worried, the owner was an old acquaintance, she’d have let me sit on the counter if needed. However I coveted a seat at the glass-fronted bay windows, and I made myself comfortable there, smug and anticipating my ‘usual’, as the rain hissed at the window in frustration.

         “I’ve brought you a savoury puff, they’re hot from the oven,” beamed Meg, her defiant red curls making their impudent presence felt at the edge of her demure scarf. Their colour should have clashed with her pink uniform, but like everything else about her, the effect was pleasing.

         My fingers curled around an ‘Extra Large’ of the House Special Java. I closed my eyes and treated my nose to the pleasure of that heady fragrance of fresh roasted, fresh ground, coffee-beans.

         Meg hovered at the next table, little order tablet handy as she served fresh customers. I gave her a small wave of apology and thanks.

         My first sip told me it needed a few more moments to reach the temperature I liked; I busied myself with arranging my overstuffed bag. I drew out my book and pencil, before stowing the bag at my feet. I found inspiration in crowded places at times and I wanted my implements handy if muse struck.

         A little time was given over to baser activities and the glass became nearly empty; the plate was devoid of crumbs, so tasty had that snack proved. I now let my ears focus on the chatter that had been nudging me for some time.

         “…would you believe it, she just sat there and refused to talk. Her mother pays for French lessons and the child spends it clicking and cackling.” The tone was only half indignant; the undertone of laughter belied the complaint.

         “Now, Sara, she is only eight or nine”

         “She might be eighty-nine the way she looks you in the eye and delivers her strange pronouncements.”

         “Why, what do you mean? You always begin a story backwards, Sarah Channing”

         “Well, I needed company after dear Henri passed away and I decided a parrot might be a good idea. They require very little looking after, no walking or brushing and bathing. I though it would be amusing to teach it to say the usual phrases like ‘Polly wants a cracker’ in French. As a sort of advertisement or amusement for the French lessons I started giving.”

         The other two middle-aged ladies were nodding in sympathy and one leaned over to pat her hand in a vague reinforcement of understanding.

         “Well, I had just mentioned teaching Polly French too - before telling her a foreign language was an asset to any well-rounded personality, when the child positively glared at me. You know Nanni is nothing much to look at, but once she turns those big dark eyes upon you … my dear she resembled nothing so much as my disapproving mother-in-law. The silent reproach and the calm assurance that nothing I did would please her.”

         “You exaggerate Sarah, but go on,” was the impatient nudge to spin out the tale. I leaned back and drank in the threesome. The narrator was the eldest, probably late forties – well coiffed gray swirls and a regal air oddly at variance with our surroundings. The other two could not have been far behind, probably school friends a couple of years apart. They both tinted their hair, one an ashen-brown that blended in the natural gray, the other an impossible and lurid blonde. They had satchels not purses, so they might be teachers at the nearby school. Sarah, presumably did not have a job of fixed-hours variety, she had only a slim clutch purse.

         The tale had been free-wheeling on as I observed these details and was reaching the dénouement. I guessed the child had been upset at something the would-be instructor had said and had decided to rebel in this unique way.

         “So, she gathers up her books, my dear and says the only sentence I could understand that evening. No I take that back – the only sentence in English that evening.”

         “Mrs. Channing ma’am, it would be beneficial to the development of your personality if you learned a foreign language, perhaps a good one to begin with would be ... Parrot. It would certainly be easier for you than for Pauline.”

         There was a pause and an uncertain digression in hushed tones, “she always uses the full form of anyone’s name, always says Ma’am, but I still feel she is reproaching one for something.”

         “And then, she hunches up those thin shoulders, walks out and never comes back. Her mother paid me for that full week, but it still wasn’t enough to make up for the shock I got.” One hand is placed vaguely on the left of a swelling bosom even as the other reaches out for another of Meg’s Butter Walnut cookies.

         I waited until the three had finished their ‘catching up’, replete with talk of how they were persecuted and misunderstood - but with surprisingly intact appetites. They had two rounds of cookies and one of goo-ey brownies.

         Catch me ordering Brownies, not only are they calorie loaded, they are the only thing Meg can’t make. I shook my head to prevent the waitress bustling over with another huge special and Meg queried me with her eyes – Done? I scooped up pad, pencil and tote as I nodded.

         There had been a steady exodus as the rains had stopped and I had Meg to myself, so I pulled her to one side of the long counter and separated out two tens. I added another and gave her my ‘mischief’ glance, head half-tilted to see her reaction.

         She picked up on it immediately, “OK, whose beans do you need spilled now?”

         I did this as a routine, got fodder for my writing here and padded it with any local flavour Meg could add about the customer.

         “What was so interesting about those three biddies anyway? One is Henri Channing’s widow ...”

         “No, no ... it is the little girl I am interested in.”

         “There’s no little girl, Mrs. Channing’s daughter is eighteen and away at college; the other two are spinsters.”

         “I think they might be new to the neighbourhood, they called the child Nanni – Nani, something like that.”

         Meg’s face was split by this enormous smile; she even gave a throaty reminiscent chuckle. “Oh, Nanni, if you wait for five minutes you can meet her yourself, she always pops in to say a few words on her way home from school.

         “I suppose a couple of your tarts don’t make their way into her pocket, huh?"

         Meg would only shake her head and say, “Wait and see. She’s different”

         “Megan ma’am,” sang out a childish treble. Gosh, even the tone is different, polite and yet forceful.

         She stood at the door, a satchel dangling to floor level, not quite scraping the floor. Everything about her was thin and brown, the grave face, the arms, the growing body in too-short pants. Only the pig-tails down her back were thick, gleaming and lustrous black, swinging to her waist.

         Meg spoke in a voice I had never heard before, softie though she is to all. She literally cuddled with her voice; I understood, the figure was squared off in a stance that said I-am too-old-to-baby.

         “Nanni, meet Jen – Jennifer.”

         “Hello Jennifer Ma’am”.

         “Hello, Nanni, how are you?”

         I expected the usual polite rejoinder, this was obviously a well-brought up child; but she was staring at something near the entrance with avid interest. Ugh - It was a frog of scummy green; the lurid crimson stripe down his back spoke of mating season.

         Meg made as if to scurry away but a nut-brown hand arrested motion, a scrawny throat pulsed, as pale lips pursed - I would have sworn I heard a love-lorn frog. Croaking sounds came unceasing as with a quick lean forward, she swung the door open and the frog gave one wild leap to the street.

         “I made sure the lights said ‘Cross’ before I did that, he should be safely in the gutter by now.”

         Trying to gain her approval I stuttered something about his handsome blood-red stripe when those searchlights of disapproval turned full blast upon me.

         “Ma’am, it is not polite to use body fluids or parts to describe a glorious colour. I would say cerise is a better choice.”

         She picked up the brown bag Meg held out to her,” Thank-you for the day-old stuff, Megan ma’am.” she murmured as she made her sedate departure.

         Megan had that witch-like glee back on her face, but a shrug showed she was not laughing at me. “That Nanni ... she will insist on buying my 'stale' stuff, which I am not allowed by law to sell, so I give it to her – gratis. I think they spend a lot on her education but less on unnecessary things like tarts or frills”

         “I owe her too; she’s sure made my menu interesting!” She displayed a thick recycled-paper card of pale green that had some really innovative names. Gone were Meg’s famous 'Fish Fingers’, she now had “Plaice Mats” and “Sage Salmon”. My inquiring eyebrows were nearing my hairline when Meg explained that fingers might not be what people would picture as a pleasant thing to eat. This was a bit of Nanni-wisdom; even the finger-chips were now “Tater Straws”. Customers liked the ‘green’ paper and were manoeuvred into trying old food in new guise.

         “She is a staunch environmentalist, says that is her preferred choice of worship. She can croon cats into a state of purring ecstasy, and whispers as soft as a whiff of wind to fledglings fallen from nests, as she replaces them. Yet her voice has a sibilant menace when preaching to some children teasing a dog”

         I listened in wonder to the cataract of onomatopoeia in eulogy that was pouring from Meg. My prosaic Meg, who did not know a conjunction from a gerund! Meg stopped for breath and gave me a sheepish look that said I can’t explain it, I really like her.

         “Isn’t she a scream?” she asked in affirmation of her affection.

         I nodded in violent agreement but thought to myself – I just don’t know if the scream is one of Comedy or Horror!

         I walked out under a sky that was a gleaming deep blue. Like a car that has been to the wash, and there’s the mop too! I spotted a scrap of gray-white cloud forgotten in the very corner of sky, a tattered remnant of the sails that had dominated the horizon a scant hour past. My mood had been polished too, by a solemn child with an unusual slant on life.

         That child will not only go places, she’ll push and pull multitudes on her way! I looked to make sure I wasn’t stepping on any unwary beetles or frogs, which had never been a concern before today. But, it would be, from now on.


(Word count: 1951) Prompt: Use the words: Fish fingers, onomatopoeia and parrot. Genre Comedy or Horror