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| TANIA CASSELLE contributed to the fiction anthologies Harlot Red (Serpent's Tail, 2002) and The Sensitively Thin Bill of the Shag (Biscuit Publishing, 2003). She was a prize winner in the Asham Awards, an Honorable Mention in the Santa Fe Writers Project Literary Awards, and a finalist in the Raymond Carver Short Story Awards and the American Literary Review Fiction Contest. |
| "gravy" Most days I walk the streets of London looking for my shoes. I don't like people seeing me barefoot. I don't want anyone pointing at my feet sticking to the black road, or the hairs on my ankles standing upright in the cold. I hold my breath so they don't notice it white in the air, otherwise they would know I'm alive, and that would be dangerous. The underground station signs flash up my name, and everyone at the supermarket watches while I wait in line with my loaf of bread. I only mutter because they're looking at me. I like the park best. Yesterday I was kneeling by the pond where the fat goldfish swim, their fins transparent like angel wings, glittering in the dirty water. Then I heard a shout. I jumped up, ready to run, but it was an old lady calling after a small piece of paper that was being carried away by the wind. "Stop!" cried the lady, reaching out her hand. But of course the paper didn't stop. It tumbled along until it whipped into the pond and floated towards the middle. I stepped into the pond. It came up to my knees but I was careful to avoid the goldfish. I peeled the paper from the water. It was a twenty pound note, Queen Elizabeth's head dripping between my fingers. The lady stood at the edge, quiet now. I waded back and handed her the note. "It got a bit wet," I said. "Sorry." "Get out, son," she said. "You'll catch your death in there." She pressed the note against her woolly brown coat. "I'll hang it over the stove." She smiled, wispy grey hair blowing into her eyes. "Thanks for your trouble." I nodded and dried my feet on a clump of grass. "You come here much?" she asked. "Most days," I said without thinking, and then got worried. "I might see you later then." All afternoon I watched the clouds. They change very quickly, from Mickey Mouse to Hitler, from dragons to trains. They tell good stories. Then that voice, making me jump again. "Fancy some beef and kidney pie, son?" She held a white plastic box and a metal fork. The pie was warm and the smell reminded me of someone. The kidney was chewy like rubber and there were onions too. The lady watched while I ate, then put the empty box back in her bag. "See you tomorrow," she said. "I do stew and dumplings on a Thursday. My old man used to like it and it's hard to break a habit." I couldn't think of any habits except smoking and that's bad for you. She heaved herself up. "Oh, the knees." After she'd gone I realized she'd forgotten the fork. I licked it clean and stuck it up my sleeve to keep it safe. When I went to sleep last night I could still feel it, blunt metal prongs digging against the inside of my elbow. ### |
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