A Splash Of Colour

There’s nothing wrong with standing out in this inspiring short story by Lynda Franklin.

BETTY MALONEY was as mad as a box of frogs. At least that’s what the neighbours in Swallow Close said. Betty lived at number 36, the biggest house tucked away in the corner, with a garden twice the size of anyone else’s.

She floated around in a bright yellow dress, her long hair piled on top of her head in a slightly greying bun, with sandals on her bare feet.

Neighbours would catch sight of her, a golden flash moving between the fence panels, her head bobbing up and down in the sunshine.

Some days Kay would find herself deliberately looking for her, fascinated by the woman everyone regarded as odd.

Part of her envied Betty, for at least everyone knew who she was.

Everyone had an opinion and talked about Betty, even if they didn’t actually speak to her.

No-one knew who Kay was.

Kay had lived at number 23 for years and neighbours would still pass her in the Close and not realise who she was.

Kay had been brought up by parents who considered privacy to be essential and practised the art of keeping to themselves all their lives.

Although her parents had passed away years ago,

Kay continued in the only way she knew, leaving for work at nine a.m. every day, head down, and returning at six p.m.

Sometimes she would see Betty in her front garden, singing like a lark as she trimmed the dead heads off the flowers.

Betty didn’t care that she couldn’t sing, didn’t bother whether anyone was looking at her or not, didn’t mind being stared at for looking different.

Kay both envied her and wondered what had made her this way.

Was it because she was “as mad as a box of frogs”, as people said?

Her house looked reasonably well cared for, and she was always doing something in her garden.

There had to be more to Betty Maloney than anyone really knew.

The next time Kay left her house to do her usual shopping at the usual supermarket a road away, she made up her mind she would smile at Betty Maloney.

It was a dreary day, overcast and grey, and Kay dressed in her brown mac and slipped an umbrella over her arm in case it rained.

The Close was deserted, but as she walked along the uneven pavement she could see Betty buzzing around her front garden.

Automatically she dropped her head, but as she drew nearer she made herself look up.

She was now right by Betty’s front gate and she paused, wanting Betty to see her first.

But Betty had her head down, digging around in a flower-bed and humming a tune Kay didn’t recognise.

“Good morning.” Kay said, so quietly she hardly heard it herself.

Taking a deep breath, she spoke again, a little louder, telling herself if she didn’t hear her this time she would just walk on. “Good morning.”

Betty’s pile of hair looked up.

She smiled a smile that filled her face and, for as long as it took to acknowledge her greeting, stopped humming.

“Morning, Mrs TwentyThree.”

Kay was taken aback by the sing-song words.

“Oh – you know where I live?”

Betty laughed.

“Of course I do. I know everyone in the Close.”

“Well, I’ve lived here quite a long time.”

“Yes you have, longer than Mr Nineteen but not quite as long as Mr and

Mrs Twelve. I reckon you’ve been in the Close coming

Betty Maloney seemed quite unlike anyone else living in Swallow Close . . .

up for ten years or so.”

Kay stared back at her. She had no idea who lived at Number 19 or Number 12.

She had no idea who lived in any of the houses. And yes, she had indeed moved in ten years ago.

“Goodness, you have a good memory. How long have you been here yourself?” Kay said finally, feeling she should make some attempt at conversation now she had actually spoken to Betty.

Betty threw back her head and laughed.

“For ever!” She turned then and resumed her digging in the flower-bed, humming softly, occasionally adding a few words when it suited her.

Kay wasn’t sure what to do. Was this her cue to leave, or should she keep talking now she had finally plucked up the courage to speak to someone?

“Everyone knows you,” she said, half enviously, half for something to say.

She tapped her umbrella on the pavement nervously. She wasn’t used to chatting.

Betty Maloney didn’t say anything, just continued to dig furiously, upending some already planted bulbs and carefully picking her way around others

She started to whistle a little tune, her mouth pursed and her brow furrowed in concentration.

“Did you realise that?” Kay pressed.

Betty looked up.

“Realise what?”

“Everyone in the Close knows who you are. I just wondered if you knew that?”

She smiled and nodded. “Yes, I know.”

“That’s nice, isn’t it?”

That was a stupid thing to say, as if she was speaking to a child.

Betty shrugged.

“Mad Betty at Number Thirty-six.”

Kay was horrified.

“Oh, no, that’s not what they say at all. I just meant –”

“It’s fine, Mrs TwentyThree. I’m not offended.” She gestured at her bright dress and giggled. “When you wear clothes like mine, you get noticed.”

“It’s a very nice dress,” Kay said. “A lovely shade of yellow.”

She was feeling quite worn out by her efforts to be neighbourly.

No wonder her parents had chosen not to speak or invite friends or neighbours into the house.

No wonder she was never allowed to bring her own friends home to play or invite them to tea. It was all such hard work.

There was a time, as a child, when she felt angry at her parents, but in the end living this way had become entirely normal.

Eventually, she started to behave exactly as her parents had done.

Her solitude became a comfort blanket she couldn’t do without.

“One of nine, I was,” Betty was saying. “Well, you have to do something to get noticed in a family that size, I can tell you.

“One of my brothers used to wear his swimming shorts all day – except when he went to school, of course. Drove my poor mother to distraction!

“In the end she went around in her swimming costume, too.” She laughed, seeing Kay’s expression. “I was brought up in Australia – nice and hot there.”

“Oh, I see.” Kay’s head was reeling.

“So tell me, Mrs TwentyThree – do you always wear brown and grey? Don’t you like colours?” “I wasn’t aware I did.” Betty nodded.

“That’s why I noticed you in the first place. It made you look sad.”

“I like the colour brown,” Kay told her defensively. “My mother used to wear brown all the time. It’s a nice colour, if you get the right shade.”

“Maybe.”

“And grey is smart. I like to look smart for work.”

“And how do you like to look for play?”

“Play? I’m a grown woman. I don’t play.”

Betty shrugged carelessly.

“Everyone has to make time to play! What do you enjoy doing when you’re not working?”

Kay hesitated.

What she did in the privacy of her own home was no-one else’s business. That’s what her mother used to say, anyway.

“Well, I like to play the piano.” Immediately she felt her face colour.

What had made her say that? She had never told anyone about her love of music.

“That’s wonderful!” Betty said. “I wish I could play an instrument. What do you play?”

“Oh, this and that,” Kay mumbled, unable to talk about herself any more.

Betty waved her hands around excitedly.

“You definitely can’t wear grey or brown to make music.”

She stared at her for a mere second, but long enough for Kay to feel uncomfortable.

“Red – yes, deep crimson red. I’ve got just what you need, a long red silk dress, very elegant.”

“Oh, I don’t think –”

“You must wear it with a glittering silver choker. Oh, it will look magnificent on you!”

“No – really,” Kay told her.

This was all getting out of hand. She had merely made herself stop and say hello because it had been a particularly lonely day.

She lived the life her parents had instilled in her and, mostly, it was OK.

For some reason it hadn’t felt OK today, and she had spoken to Betty Maloney, but now she was feeling out of control and wanting to run and hide.

“How old are you?” Betty said, seemingly unaware it was a personal question.

Kay gritted her teeth against such intrusion.

“Actually, I was fortythree last birthday.”

“So young!” Betty half sang with a smile. “Too young and pretty for brown. I shall bring my red dress round to your house tomorrow.

“I have to hear you play! I’ll come at – oh, I don’t know, I’m hopeless with time. I’ll come tomorrow and you shall play for me.

“Now, Mrs Twenty-Three, I must get on with my digging.”

Betty bent down to pick up a hoe, brushing flecks of mud from her yellow dress, humming softly in the afternoon breeze.

Kay stood still, unsure whether to pretend she would be out tomorrow, inexplicably scared at the thought of someone

“When you wear clothes like mine, you get noticed”

knocking on her door.

She waited, watching Betty, hoping she would look up at her again, but Betty had moved on.

In the end, Kay turned and walked back towards her house, clutching the umbrella she didn’t need, quite forgetting about going to the supermarket.

She just wanted to get back to the safety of home.

Kay assumed Betty would call in the afternoon. That seemed to be the time most people did their visiting.

She couldn’t remember her parents having visitors, except for one Christmas when her grandmother had come to stay.

It had caused a lot of tension and worry and she remembered her mother had gone to bed early on Christmas night with a migraine.

However, Kay didn’t have time to get tense or worried because Betty knocked on the door at 10 o’clock in the morning.

“Oh – I wasn’t expecting you this early,” Kay said. “Weren’t you?”

Betty Maloney was wearing the same yellow dress, with a touch of mud down the front.

She had a large yellowcoloured hair grip stuck into her bun, and several brown ones around it attempting to stop

the stray hair from escaping. Over one arm she held a red dress.

“Come in,” Kay said, feeling strange as she spoke the words out loud.

Betty stepped into the hall. She didn’t look at the wallpaper or colour of the paint.

She didn’t glance around to see what sort of furniture Kay might have, and whether it was oldfashioned or up to the minute.

Betty didn’t do any of the things her mother used to say people did if you asked them in.

She almost skipped up the hall, crying, in her sing-song voice, “Where is your beautiful piano?”

Kay showed her into the lounge, a large, light room that went across the entire back of the house.

It was a relaxing room in soft muted colours filled with squashy chairs, a velveteen sofa in green, and against one wall, her large black piano.

Betty clapped her hands in delight.

“There it is!” She turned and held out the dress. “Now go and change and then come down like a princess, and play for me.”

“What? No, I’m not changing!”

“You can’t play in those clothes!” Betty said, looking at Kay’s brown skirt and sensible white blouse.

“Of course I can.”

“Not properly. How can you feel the music dressed like that?”

“I can feel it very well, actually,” Kay told her tartly.

Betty shook her head, smiling.

“Put this dress on, Mrs Twenty-Three, and see how differently you play.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! What difference does it make what I wear? My hands do the work, nothing else.

“And please stop calling me Mrs Twenty-Three.

One, I’m not married, and two, my name is Kay.”

“And mine is Bettina.” Kay could feel her irritation rising.

The residents were obviously correct in thinking she was mad.

For all she knew, Betty Maloney might even be dangerous. What on earth was she thinking of, inviting her into her home?

No, she didn’t invite her. Betty Maloney had invited herself!

Betty held out the dress. It was a strong crimson shade, short sleeves, deep-cut neckline and made from the finest silk. It was stunningly elegant.

She stuck her hand in the pocket of her own yellow dress and pulled out a silver choker.

“Please try it on, Kay,” she said. “I know you will look beautiful.”

Kay had never even tried to look beautiful. Clean and tidy was all that was necessary.

She reached out her hand to touch the material. It felt so soft, unlike anything she had ever worn before.

“Very well,” she said in the end. “As you have been kind enough to bring it, I will. As long as it fits, of course.”

“I’m sure it will fit perfectly.”

Kay went upstairs, slipped out of her skirt and blouse and stepped into the red dress.

She glanced in the mirror and made a small sound of surprise.

She had never thought much about her figure before; never realised she had a slim waist and gently rounded hips.

Now she stared at her reflection, startled as another appeared behind her. Betty had followed her up the stairs.

“Don’t forget this,” Betty said, giving her the silver choker. “And brush your hair.”

Kay found herself placing the choker around her neck obediently, then brushing her wavy hair until it shone.

The choker glittered as the morning sun caught it through the window, lighting up her face.

Still she stared at her reflection – was that really her?

“Pretty as a princess,” Betty said, nodding as if she had known all along.

“And now for the concert!”

Kay sat on the piano stool in the red silk dress, silver choker caressing her neck, and lifted her hands in readiness.

Taking a breath, she began to play, her head swaying from side to side in rhythm with her hands.

As always, she was soon lost in a world of music, passing from classic pieces and modern tunes to, eventually, her favourite Strauss waltzes.

Betty, sitting on the sofa, now stood up and began to waltz slowly round the room with an imaginary partner, moving in perfect unison with the piano.

Round and round she danced, her eyes dreamy and a small smile on her face, humming gently to the notes Kay was playing.

Kay’s mind, meanwhile, was filled with the image of ladies spinning and dancing in fine long dresses, whirling and waltzing in a beautiful ornate ballroom.

On and on she played, until suddenly she became aware of herself, and stopped abruptly.

Betty threw herself back down on to the sofa. “Exquisite!” she said.

Kay stood up.

“I’d better get changed.” “And I must go,” Betty declared. “I have potatoes to plant and a cake to bake.”

She walked back down the hall and opened the front door.

“Wait a minute!” Kay walked quickly after her. “Wait until I’ve taken the dress off!”

Betty turned.

“The dress and necklace are for you,” she said.

Betty raised a hand when Kay started to protest.

“Don’t stay a little brown mouse in your little brown house for ever.

“I nearly did, but then someone bought me a yellow dress.” She laughed at Kay’s puzzled expression. “I told you I was one of nine, and I very nearly got lost.”

“Who gave you a yellow dress? It must have been someone quite special.”

Kay wanted to add, because you always wear it and it’s about time you gave it a good wash, but she swallowed the words. Betty nodded.

“Yes. But he went away and there you are. It’s no good thinking about sad or bad things.

“He gave me sunshine and love while he was here. He’s always close when I’m wearing yellow.”

Kay didn’t know what to say; had this special person died or merely left Betty?

Either way, it explained a lot about this lady who spent her life in blissful oblivion about what others thought about her.

The residents of the Close said she was mad. What they meant was Betty wasn’t like them.

Betty had chosen, for whatever reason, to live her life in a different way.

I’m not like them, either, Kay thought. Maybe they think I’m mad, too.

“Wear red, it suits you,” Betty said. “I might even have some red shoes.”

Kay laughed softly.

“No, Betty, that’s a step too far.”

Betty tossed her head carelessly and a couple of grips fell out of her bun.

“Just promise me you won’t let yourself disappear in a big brown sludgy puddle!”

“I’ll try not to.” Kay touched Betty’s arm.

“Thank you, Bettina.”

“You are most welcome, Princess Kay.”

Betty tripped along the path and down the Close towards her own house.

She didn’t look back.

Betty was in a world of her own making – a world where the lady in a yellow dress was noticed and loved.

Kay shut the door behind her, gently fingering the necklace at her throat. She wouldn’t change out of the red dress just yet.

She would sit for a while on her old velveteen sofa and enjoy feeling pretty a little longer.

And then, when she felt ready, she needed to start planning the rest of her life.

The End.