The Colour of Tea by Hannah Tunnicliffe Read Free Book Online

through the sheet, before turning over.
    Dearest Mama,
    I’ve been dreaming about French food. Remember the cheeses? The breads? How we imagined opening our own bistro? You and me serving baguettes and soup du jour. A terrace in the sun, white plates and silver cutlery. Dogs drinking out of saucers, high heels tucked under wrought-iron tables. The thoughts seem to scroll along with “Summertime.” Playing in my head, round and round like a licorice-colored record. You know, from Porgy and Bess?
    I’ve been thinking about Paris, Mama.
    I remembered how I knew this song. I mean, the first time I ever heard it. When I woke up in the hotel and you weren’t there. The night was black and cold. I was just tall enough to reach the light switch, although I had to jump to flick it on. I thought you might be in the corner or behind the wardrobe, playing a trick on me. I checked under the bed, but there was only a sticky throat lozenge covered in lint. I sat down on the bed for a while, pulling up a piece of the quilt, sticking it in my mouth and chewing. Then I put on my boots all by myself and my winter coat over the top of my nightgown, and crept out of the room and down the stairs. The porter was snoring in his chair.Outside the night air was icy, and the tops of my legs got covered in goose pimples.
    “Mama, Mama, Mama, where are you, Mama?” beating a little chant in my head. Right or left? The wind bit at my ears and blew around my thighs. My heart was racing in my chest. I turned left. No one was on the street; it was as quiet as a church and slick with the rain that had fallen that afternoon.
    Not too far away, I could hear loud music coming out of a dark café. A trumpet! Bah bah baaaaaaahhhhh, it sang. It was warm near the doors, and there were a few people standing outside laughing. I moved closer, rubbing my hands together. They were smoking long, thin cigarettes and talking above my head. I stood near the glass of the windows and listened to the crooning of my favorite instrument. I loved that it sounded so pretty and so strong at the same time. I had tried playing it once in music class. It didn’t sound like this—proud, pure notes streaming out from the golden tubes. All my sounds had been like farts—loud, rude, and brief. Listening to that trumpet, I suddenly felt too cold. I pressed myself against the window, fighting lonely tears. If I’d known a prayer, I would have said one. Instead there were just two words on my lips. Please, Mama.
    As if by the magic of wishing it to be so, I saw you then, through the warped glass, dancing by the stage in your silky peach dress. Your cheeks were red, your skin shining. “Mama, Mama, Mama! It’s Gracie!” I called to you, sure that you would see me.
    People were looking at me now, through the fug of their smoke. A woman bent toward me. She wore a red jacket and tall black shoes. She was speaking, but I didn’t understand her French. I felt like I was stuck at the bottom of a well. She tried to pull my arm away from the window, turn me to her, but I shook loose. As soon as she let go, I started running. Back to the hotel, hot blood and fear pumping through me. I was crying when I flew past the dusty lobby, my bootsheavy on the stairs. I slammed the door behind me and locked it from the inside. I leaned back against it for a time, dazed, my chest heaving. Then I climbed into bed with my boots and coat still on and pulled the quilt over my head. Sticking my cold hands down between my knees to make them warm, I fell asleep.
    I don’t know when you came home. Late in the morning when I woke up, my coat was on the floor, folded on top of my boots, and you were at the window, tapping your fingers against the sill. The makeup was washed off your face, save a few clumps of mascara under your right eye. You were wearing a robe, wet hair twisted in a towel, red-painted toenails peeking out from the bottom. You had a little white patisserie box tied with a ribbon on your lap,