Saturday's Storyteller: "Purple is my favouritest of all the colours."
by Belinda Roddie
"Purple is my favouritest of all the colours," announced Chadwick as he furiously scribbled in his colouring book. And he wasn't joking - everything on the page, from the trees to the buildings to the people to even the sky itself - was a rich violet, lovingly stroked onto the paper by a tired, half-eaten crayon. When Chadwick flipped the page, he began to fill in the body of a scientifically inaccurate Tyrannosaurus Rex in a swamp with even more purple.
I poured myself another glass of cider as Chadwick's mother, wrinkled around her cheekbones and graying at her temples, sagged deeper into her easy chair. The three hours I had spent thus far with them had been quiet and uneventful - we had had our supper, watched a cartoon on the telly, and now relaxed with drinks while Chadwick happily worked on his colouring book. Only this time, as I turned to gaze at Mrs. Alston, she looked even more exhausted than before.
"His father," she commented to me, loud enough for Chadwick to hear it but obviously still breezing past his ears as if they meant nothing, "tried to get him into something different. We told him blue, green, red. Black and white. But Chad won't function without something purple on him. If nothing else, he wears that old jumper of his. Or his sister's old scarf."
"Purple is a wonderful colour," I remarked innocuously, sipping on my cider. It nipped at my throat a little more aggressively than I had expected.
"Perhaps," Mrs. Alston sighed, "for his sister."
I left it alone then. Chadwick was eight years old, meaning that his mother most likely thought there was "hope" for him as he grew older. I knew just what her fears were, and how deeply she navigated her brain down the so-called slippery slope. And how apparently, if Chadwick got to the metaphorical bottom or said metaphorical slope, the consequences would be dire. In other words, if he were a twinker, as his father had adoringly called his own son behind his back.
At this point, I was not one to argue with or challenge Mrs. Alston. Mr. Alston had died a few months back, and part of my responsibility as Mrs. Alston's friend's daughter was to provide her company while her friend wasn't available. Now, as I finished my cider, I looked at the clock on the wall and was surprised by how late it really was. The fact that it was still light outside was what confused me, as I was never used to summer and the way the hot days passed.
"I will need," said Mrs. Alston, "someone to look after Chadwick the next weekend. I thought my nephew could do it, but he'll be in France for the next few weeks. Be a dear and see if you can fit it into your schedule?"
I told her I would try. My job at the chip shop was demanding (and of course, unfulfilling), and I was trying desperately to find a master's program in a university anywhere but here. Still, I had some free time. I offered Mrs. Alston a box of tea that my mother had encouraged me to bring over, but she had declined.
"I have plenty already," she told me before looking at Chadwick, who was still scraping purple wax all over his book. "Chad, say goodbye to our friend."
"Ta," mumbled Chad in reply, too engrossed in colouring a large robot. All purple, of course.
This week's prompt was provided by Arden Kilzer.
"Purple is my favouritest of all the colours," announced Chadwick as he furiously scribbled in his colouring book. And he wasn't joking - everything on the page, from the trees to the buildings to the people to even the sky itself - was a rich violet, lovingly stroked onto the paper by a tired, half-eaten crayon. When Chadwick flipped the page, he began to fill in the body of a scientifically inaccurate Tyrannosaurus Rex in a swamp with even more purple.
I poured myself another glass of cider as Chadwick's mother, wrinkled around her cheekbones and graying at her temples, sagged deeper into her easy chair. The three hours I had spent thus far with them had been quiet and uneventful - we had had our supper, watched a cartoon on the telly, and now relaxed with drinks while Chadwick happily worked on his colouring book. Only this time, as I turned to gaze at Mrs. Alston, she looked even more exhausted than before.
"His father," she commented to me, loud enough for Chadwick to hear it but obviously still breezing past his ears as if they meant nothing, "tried to get him into something different. We told him blue, green, red. Black and white. But Chad won't function without something purple on him. If nothing else, he wears that old jumper of his. Or his sister's old scarf."
"Purple is a wonderful colour," I remarked innocuously, sipping on my cider. It nipped at my throat a little more aggressively than I had expected.
"Perhaps," Mrs. Alston sighed, "for his sister."
I left it alone then. Chadwick was eight years old, meaning that his mother most likely thought there was "hope" for him as he grew older. I knew just what her fears were, and how deeply she navigated her brain down the so-called slippery slope. And how apparently, if Chadwick got to the metaphorical bottom or said metaphorical slope, the consequences would be dire. In other words, if he were a twinker, as his father had adoringly called his own son behind his back.
At this point, I was not one to argue with or challenge Mrs. Alston. Mr. Alston had died a few months back, and part of my responsibility as Mrs. Alston's friend's daughter was to provide her company while her friend wasn't available. Now, as I finished my cider, I looked at the clock on the wall and was surprised by how late it really was. The fact that it was still light outside was what confused me, as I was never used to summer and the way the hot days passed.
"I will need," said Mrs. Alston, "someone to look after Chadwick the next weekend. I thought my nephew could do it, but he'll be in France for the next few weeks. Be a dear and see if you can fit it into your schedule?"
I told her I would try. My job at the chip shop was demanding (and of course, unfulfilling), and I was trying desperately to find a master's program in a university anywhere but here. Still, I had some free time. I offered Mrs. Alston a box of tea that my mother had encouraged me to bring over, but she had declined.
"I have plenty already," she told me before looking at Chadwick, who was still scraping purple wax all over his book. "Chad, say goodbye to our friend."
"Ta," mumbled Chad in reply, too engrossed in colouring a large robot. All purple, of course.
This week's prompt was provided by Arden Kilzer.
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