Free Glimmer and other Stories by Nicola McDonagh Page B

the moon’s soft light changed its appearance.  
    At how the blues turned green and seemed to pour down the pane like tears.
    ‘He called it “The Eyes of Wisdom.”’    
    ‘It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.’
    Raphael Looked into her eyes.
    Lola loosened her grip and let the window fall.
    It smashed onto the concrete pavement.  

    The End

Rousseau’s Suburban Jungle

    Esther saw it in the window, trapped inside a green plastic frame.   She pressed her nose against the pane and said, ‘I’ll save you.’
    A bell jingled as Esther opened the door of the charity shop.
    A waft of warm, stale air filled her mouth and tickled her throat as though she had swallowed a moth. She coughed.
    ‘Morning.’
    She did not respond to the plump, grey-haired female that stood behind the counter. The shop assistant smiled and fumbled through a mess of tangled pearl necklaces. She tilted her head to one side as Esther slowly walked towards her. ‘Do you need a hand, dear?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Right you are then. Just let me know if you do.
    Esther breathed heavily and came to a halt when she reached the glass-topped counter. ‘How much do you want for it?’
    The lady looked to where Esther pointed, raised her glasses in front of her eyes and said, ‘I don’t know, it’s a kiddies picture isn’t it?’    
    ‘No, not really. How much?’    
    The woman licked her front teeth and shrugged. ‘Four pounds should be about right.’    
    ‘I don’t want the frame.’    
    ‘Oh, but…’    
    ‘I’ll still pay the four pounds. Could you just take it out of that, that thing?’
    ‘I suppose so.’
    The assistant mumbled her way to the window display and dragged the picture towards her. She picked it up as though it weighed more than she did, and carried it, huffing and puffing to the counter. Esther leant heavily against her walking stick as the woman spoke, ‘It’s a funny old picture. Is it from some children’s television programme?’
    ‘No, it’s a painting by Henri Rousseau.’
    The elderly lady chuckled and began to unclip the metal clasps that held the cardboard back onto the frame. ‘Sorry dear, but I think this is just a print. Not a painting.’    
    Closing her eyes tightly, she flared her nostrils and took a deep breath. ‘I know, but the print is from a painting by Henri Rousseau.’    
    ‘Never heard of him,’ the woman said and stared at the picture before her. She squinted and held it up, turning it left and right as though she could not make out what it was.
    ‘The colours are very garish. Not really my thing. Too cartooney for my taste. What kind of animal is it anyway? A giant kitten? Funny colour hair it’s got. Not sure about the teeth. Is it supposed to be some kind of circus act? Are they midgets riding it? All looks out of proportion.’
    Esther stared into the woman’s watery eyes. ‘The lion’s mane is the colour of ripened wheat and it is smiling. Two children sit upon the animals back as it walks amongst long yellow grass. There is a moon and dove above their heads, and the sky is darkening. The girl’s untamed tresses fly out behind her in an imitation of the big cat’s shaggy hair. It is titled, ‘The Infants and The Lion’. It was my favourite painting as a child.’
    ‘Oh, well, I can see how a child would take to it. An adult, though? Well, each to his, or her own. Sentimental value and all that,’ the assistant said and carefully unpeeled the image from the dusty glass front. ‘Do you want a bag for it?’    
    ‘No, just roll it up.’     
    ‘Right you are then.’
    The woman pushed the picture forwards on the glass top until it resembled a long tube and handed it to Esther. She took it and put it under her left armpit whilst she rummaged in her baggy trouser pocket for some change. ‘Ta, me dear,’ the shop assistant said and before she could put the money in the till, Esther had limped out of the building.
    Esther laid her