Read is not a colour

View original tweet (warning, contains nostalgia)

“May I go out to play, Mother?” The room was dark, a little gloomy.

“I think there’s a storm coming, Field.” Mother glanced out anxiously at the heavy sky, then lit some candles. “You love candlelight. Maybe you could read to me instead?”

The boy’s chin dropped. She lifted it softly with her fingertips. “Oh, someone stole your smile… it won’t be long until the storm passes.”

Dad didn’t say a word. He smiled and winked. Cleared dirty plates from the table.

Field gazed through the window. At the wind-ruffled fruit tree and… who was that girl, perched on the wall, picking an…?

The boy’s bright eyes beamed. “Mother, could I read you an apple?”

“But all the apples have been read, Field.” Mother frowned. “I’ve indexed them all. Look.” She picked up the register, showed him each fruit of the year’s harvest, written out, line by line.

But his eyes grew so sad, she relented. “Okay. Be quick now. If you can find one that hasn’t been read, you can come read it to me.”

Field ran out into the oncoming storm. The black clouds covering the white sun. The light black grass swaying, a rush of sound. His loose shirt flapped like an old sail.

The girl stood on the wall. Apple in hand. High in the sky beyond, a white kite danced. Its string clutched tight by some far-off hand.

The boy paused, hid behind a holly bush. Then, when the girl’s attention was drawn to the kite, he climbed into the apple tree. Knotted himself in its black branches.

From this vantage point, he watched the girl once more. How her head moved in tune with the kite. Her skin was so fresh, white, like cotton sheets. He rubbed his own arms, deep black, so black he expected to see stars. He smiled.

The girl polished the black skin of her apple, until it shone. All the other apples hung from their branches, ‘read’ carved deep into their dull skin. But the fruit in her hand was unblemished. The boy’s heart raced. The girl lifted the apple to take a bite…

“No! Don’t!” Field shouted. Reached out. Leant too far. Tumbled from the tree. “Oh!”

The girl looked down at his surprise with an unblinking, wide-eyed stare.

“Don’t bite it. Please! You’ll eat its story!” The boy jumped to his feet. Rubbed his grazed knee.

The girl continued to stare. “What’s your name?”

He approached her. Close now. His black fingers exploring her own, white, knee. “Field,” he announced.

“Funny name!”

“It’s short for Fielding. Warrington Fielding. They don’t like white folk here.”

“Well, I can’t account for bad manners!” She held out her hand. He took it and she pulled him onto the wall.

“Do you like apples?” She offered him the one in her hand.

“I like reading them. I’m sad after, when they’ve been read. Their shine gone. Nothing more in them.”

“But you can read an apple many times. And it’s new every time.” The girl tugged one of the drab, marked apples from the tree. She rubbed it on her black dress, polished it until it shone.

“Read is not a colour. It’s a word. You can erase words. They’re temporary. Like this storm.” She grinned. “Black and white. They’re the only colours. And they last forever.”

Field clutched the precious apple tight. His eyes gleamed as though he’d been given the key to the universe. He leant his shadow to one side, and read the reflected story of the dancing kite, bright white upon the fruit’s black shine.

When the apple dulled, and ‘r…e…a…d’ cut hard into its flesh, he polished it until it shone again.

“Read is not a colour!” He beamed.

The girl nodded. Kissed his cheek. Jumped down and ran off. “Bye, Field!”

He jumped down on the other side. “Bye… Ummm…”. Oh, he hadn’t got her name. Ah well.

The boy ran toward home, calling “Mother! Mother!” Holding the shiny black apple high.