If there was red to see, she saw it. Red in the flames flickering out of the peat. Red in the curling cable of Mrs White’s Bakealite phone. Red in the poppy curtains in the wash house in Dunston Street. Red in the tweed at the bottom of her dead sister’s bed. She saw red in the rouge of bossier women’s cheeks. She saw red in the second note of the starling’s song. She saw a red bus, a red anorak, a red rag, a red bull and a redshank.
She spread red jam on teacakes, stewed red apples for strudels, washed red pants with white sheets. Shite.
She saw red where there was no red. She did that for spite. Spite was her thing. Like spit and flight and poor eyesight. She banged on about red. To the postman, the fireman and the fish man. To the lollipop lady and the men that dug up the streets, put them back together, and dug them up again.
The village called her Better Red Than Dead, or that old bat, depending on who was listening. Walls have ears. Even the red ones.
It’s not right, the village said, that she killed her husband with the red book and got away with murder. The vicar demurred. After all, it was his red book. What else could he do? She’d lifted it from his bedside table when she’d been in to ask advice about the neighbour’s sons slicing down her red hot pokers.
The local red top had her all over the front pages.
PENSIONER SEES RED IN PRAYER BOOK RAMPAGE
The village was agog, aghast, agate. The village removed as much red as possible. Bunting. Road signs. Red tiled roofs. Red cars and red socks and even the vicar’s moccasins.
Who’ll be next, they whispered at the bridge club. We should burn the diamonds and hearts said the women who’d taken to wearing blue.
She bought herself a red cape. Velvet with white rabbit fur trim. Took her walks late into the night. Gliding down the cobbled lanes looking for scarlet, pillarbox, cherry, strawberry, rowan, crimson, penny red. Looking in windows. The village windows. At the flickering red flames. Children’s pyjamas. Husbands’ smoking jackets. A cashmere throw. A satin cushion. A prayer book hidden behind a chair.
Poor Jim, the vicar preached, our dearly beloved Red Baron not even ninety-five. Taken before his time by a woman gone mad for a colouring crime, god rest his soul.
The day the last red car left the village was the last day. A pale face staring from the rear window, a red lips kiss on the misted pane.
This was a writing exercise using the prompt ‘red’.
SANDERLINGS 