Green

The woman over the road was painting her front door green. It was nearly two-thirds covered, and the previous coat of red could still be seen sitting below, yet to be completely painted over. Janice Shearborne peered closer through her curtains; the red reminding her of those buses in London she had seen on the television. She could see that it still showed through the green that the woman was applying with short dainty strokes of her brush; her hands protected by bright pink rubber gloves and her thin grey hair pulled up in a bun. Once this coat was done it would probably take at least another two lots of green before the red stopped showing through. That was how many coats it had taken Mrs Shearborne to paint her door.

The brush dipped in again, rising from the paint pot to the door in a purposeful motion. The paint was thin, but the woman applied it liberally, causing it to dribble down the door, over the simple wood carving shapes, streaking through the red. The other way round, thought Mrs Shearborne, and the red would look like blood dripping awfully down, like a doorstep murder scene. She felt her own blood boiling through her thickening arteries, and tried to calm herself.

There was a knock at the door, and Mrs Shearborne flicked back the curtain to hide herself, cursing for she knew that she would have been seen staring out of the window. She ducked back behind the windowsill, hoping whoever it was would just leave. The knock came again.
“Mrs Shearborne, it’s me… your sister writes again!”
The postman.
Straightening her dress and taking three deep, relaxing breaths, Mrs Shearborne shuffled her way from the window, taking her time and not calling out because she knew that Mr Sutcliffe, the postman, would wait for her. He would wait until she answered; he never posted the letters through the door anymore. There was no need: Mrs Shearborne was always in, and he knew that she always liked to chat.

She opened the door. Mr Sutcliffe beamed at her through broken teeth and white tufts of beard.
“Liking the new colour, Janice…”, his greeting came, as he held out a white envelope with her sister’s scroll dancing across the front. Mrs Shearborne took the letter, and managed a cursory “Hello Mr Sutcliffe”, but her eyes did not meet his. He smiled broadly again, and continued his jovial greeting.
“But of course, being a postman, I’m quite partial to post-box red…”
Mrs Shearborne ignored him still, and the quiet of the street became an awkward silence. He turned sharply to follow her curious gaze, to see that the woman over the road was painting her front door green. Now that he looked away from her, he felt Mrs Shearborne’s words stab at him from behind.
“I do wish you wouldn’t always talk in jokes, Mr Sutcliffe,” she scolded him, “It is exceedingly annoying. And, on the subject of my door, it is a hideous colour.” He turned back to her glare; one that only women over a certain age are somehow able to muster. At a raise of one of his bushy white eyebrows, she continued.
“I had thought it rather regal when I painted it, but I have come to find it quite ghastly. I’m thinking of changing it immediately.”
“Well… that’s up to you.” He looked around, feeling like he should make amends to their conversation before he went on his way. “Please don’t change your dress, though,” he nodded towards her ample frame, covered in a bright floral pattern, “It’s very lovely.”
Finally Mrs Shearborne smiled. “Why thank you!” She enjoyed the new way the conversation was going. “I got it last week; very expensive it was too.”
Mr Sutcliffe mirrored Mrs Shearborne’s new happy face with one of his own. “Well, I must say, it really suits you. You look lovely in it… although,” he continued, “I’m sure I’ve seen that dress before.” He paused. “Doesn’t she have one?”, and he emphasised the she with a flick of his head towards the woman over the road. Mrs Shearborne’s face instantly became more wrinkled, darker, and a lot less friendly, and the postman knew that he should have continued his rounds when he had the chance.
“Perhaps...” came her curt response. “I wouldn’t know.”
Mr Sutcliffe looked back at the woman, who had finished the current coat of paint now, and he watched her for longer than he really wanted to, avoiding Mrs Shearborne’s return to her usual icy self.
“Good…” he began, but the door was closed.

Janice Shearborne pottered back through her hallway, and stood in the middle of her living room. It was plain; pleasantly decorated and colourful, but plain. On the mantelpiece, next to the old face that stared back from the mirror, the flowers that she had bought herself at the market last week were browned and drooping. The sideboard was bare, save a small collection of spirit bottles, and one and half bottles of tonic, for ‘decoration’, and the letter in her hand was the only clue to a family that Mrs Shearborne could call her own. When she was sure that Mr Sutcliffe had progressed far enough down the street, she toddled back to the window.

Pulling back the curtain once again, holding the window frame through the material to steady herself, Mrs Shearborne watched as the woman opened her door to go inside. She was about to disappear when a shining black shape slid up the narrow road, parking perfectly into a space right outside the woman’s house. The car’s horn peeped once; a friendly, cheeky sound, and the woman turned, and smiled, and waved vigorously as two small boys seemed to fall out of the car. Through the window Mrs Shearborne heard them shout “Grandma!” in high-pitched unison, and they zoomed over to the woman who nearly dropped paint everywhere as she hugged them. The boys’ parents followed slowly: him suited from work but tie off and collar undone, her in a white dress and high heels, smiling softly at her husband as Grandma swept the boys inside and waited on the doorstep to kiss her daughter lightly on the cheek. Mrs Shearborne watched as the three of them conversed; the daughter and son-in-law nodding and pointing towards the door that sat open. Before long they disappeared inside and closed it behind them, leaving the green to dry, and to sneer back at Mrs Shearborne, rooting her to the spot.

As she watched the sun wink off the small glass arch at the top of the door, the boys appeared in the front window. They looked to be about to plonk their hands, dirty no doubt, against the glass, but their mother was too quick for them and saved Grandma’s window. Mrs Shearborne looked harder through two panes of glass into the front room, watching as the woman appeared carrying a tray crammed with cups, glasses, biscuits and cakes. She placed it down carefully on the coffee table in the centre of the room, for everyone to share. This scene drew Mrs Shearborne in, but something else caught her eye and she looked at the glass a few inches from her large, pointed nose. There she noticed a greasy spot on her window where the tip of that nose had rubbed as she leant forward, peering at the woman over the road. She made an ‘o’ shape with her painted lips and breathed out, misting the window with her breath. She stood back, about to clean the glass when she saw the greasy spot like an eye, and the misted shape a hideous mouth, lined up on top of the door across the road, appearing as if a grotesque green-eyed monster in her window; a wicked, scornful demon. Quickly she whipped a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped the glass clean. The monster was gone, but the door remained.

Mrs Shearborne looked at the letter still clasped, forgotten, in her hand. The handwriting on the front, so familiar yet not seen for months, made tears appear in her eyes, but she forced them to stop. She stumbled away from the window towards the sideboard, and dropped the letter into the waste-paper basket. Without pause Mrs Shearborne took up a glass from the top and filled it: one part gin, one part tonic. There were lemons in the kitchen, she thought, and ice in the freezer, but she didn’t need either of those. She took a large sip that spilled over into a gulp, and looked back out onto the street.

Outside the window, over the road, and inside the house that stood opposite, five people sat and ate, and drank, and laughed, but all Mrs Shearborne could look at was that newly-painted front door, still mocking her. She took another sip, small and controlled this time, and then Janice Shearborne walked slowly through her house to the garage, to find a tin of bright green paint.

Emerging from the Mist to rant...

So... I'm not even going to mention here how long it's been since I last blogged. I know... I'm an awful blogger.

But I'm back. And here's why.

Something happened on Wednesday night that made me so angry I had to blog. And rant. So here it is.

Me and Abbi went to see The Mist at the Gate. First thing's first: it's an awesome film. I recommend it to everyone. It was brilliantly made, original, and the ending is amazing.

But here's the thing. We didn't enjoy it.

Because the majority of people in the cinema LAUGHED their way through the film. But it wasn't funny! It wasn't even meant to be funny (apart from a couple of genuinely funny moments) - it is a serious horror film. It wasn't just once or twice that this happened, from a couple of morons that you sometimes get at the cinema. It was MOST of the people in the cinema, ALL the way through. Even at the end, when the protagonist is (understandably) distraught (I won't spoil why) and bawling in despair, people were laughing. Which completely ruined it; what should have been heart-renching just... wasn't. The totally immature people who somehow saw this film as a comedy destroyed the atmosphere for me, Abbi and anyone else in the cinema who was genuinely into the film.

It was such a shame, especially we'd been discussing, before the film began, how going to the cinema and experiencing a film there is so much better than watching it at home. But NOT when other people spoil it. And unfortunately, this may all have happened because the film is a 15.

Anywho, it completely fucked what should have been an awesome night at the cinema.

*breathes*

Sorry about that... rant over. Blogging resumed.