Cloud (or) 7th Day

Cloud ' by Rob Anthony Plews

It was on the seventh day when people began talking about it, and the news reporters were inventing and interviewing cloud 'experts', namely a local lighthouse keeper, fishermen, and Mrs Eldridge - who ran the 'Sea What I Mean?' café.

It seemed that the chance of witnessing an out of the ordinary phenomenon was causing coastal roads to jam with eager visitors to the seaside. The last time such a jam happened was when Dionne Warwick was rumoured to be putting on a performance at the White Rock Theatre. The standstill of a couple of hours, followed by a slow crawl to the entrance had dampened the evening. Then when the audience realised that it wasn't in fact Dionne, but a Dionne Warwick impersonator impostor, they got mad, and the fake singer was forced to hide in the cleaner's cupboard ' as this was the only room without windows - while people hurled stones, bricks, shoes.

So now, once bitten, these people queuing in cars again were meeting this new so-called phenomenon with great scepticism.

On the beach, journalists roamed around wearing makeshift necklaces with laminated press passes flapping on loops, dangling some kind of priority authority, with a row of scattered police officers behind them, glad for the opportunity to demonstrate their power in front of an audience. They were saying calmly and firmly to the onlookers, 'Stay back there boy! Whoa! Move along, mam!' and 'do not stare at the sun for prolonged periods of time, people!' Parents pushed their puzzled kids in front and told them to stand next to the officers to have their photo taken.

Click.

'That damn cloud just doesn't move,' remarked Mrs. Eldridge with an air of arrogance behind the bar of her seaside café looking out to the horizon. What she hadn't realised was that this non-moving cloud was making her record profits, superseding 1973's beach jamboree. She still has the signed photo of the compare, Lex Weasley on the wall. Posing in the frame, Lex is looking out, perhaps through the window towards that strange non-moving cloud with his eyes transfixed. Both cloud and Lex Weasley seem to have stopped in time. Mrs Eldridge pours the tea and steam evaporates ' but that cloud doesn't move.

On the cliff-top a boy and his father are flying a kite. It tails off into the sky, green and yellow, and when it peaks most elaborately to the son's amazement, it fixes itself onto the blue backdrop atmosphere, and becomes motionless, simply stuck. The father, in total shock, takes a step back in disbelief at the frozen kite in the sky, and losing his balance he falls to the ground. The son is asking questions ' why has the kite stopped moving in the sky? The father, with all the wisdom to his son's innocence can only simply say 'I don't know. I don't know why the kite has stopped moving in the sky!' Then the boy starts to get scared.
'Daddy, I can't let go of the kite. My hands won't move!' The boy turns to his father looking worried. He tries to pull his small hands free from the cord he is holding, but slowly his hands stop moving, as if they were being frozen, but without the painful chilling feeling. Then his arms become stuck. The father tries to get up from the ground, but his feet feel like they are glued to the earth. He tries with all his strength to free his feet, but they only seem to smudge themselves into the dust.

'It's as if part of the town has stopped moving,' says the Mayor in disbelief to the reporter next to a rolling camera. 'There are people trapped in the Sea What I Mean Café. The people can't get out the door.' The cameraman pans to the reporter, who has a hand pressed to his ear mic.
'And now we go live to the scene, well, as far as our cameras are able to go.' He looks smart/casual in his green v-neck. 'We get to a point where we stop seeing ourselves, like we become invisible. We've been trying to call Mrs. Eldridge, but her phone has always been engaged, but I am being told now that we have her on the line. Hello? Mrs. Eldridge are you there?' He looks towards the sky as he speaks.
'Yes, dear. I am here,' comes a telephone voice. The reporter has a serious look on his face, a look learnt from watching other reporters command TV audiences. 'Tell us the feeling in the café.' He keeps the serious expression ' it is the look of hard facts and impartiality.
'Oh, the feeling is marvellous, dear, thank you.' Then she mutters to herself ' 'what a strange question.'
'But aren't you all trapped in the café?'
'Excuse me,' she says with a tone of annoyance. 'Who is this speaking? I keep getting these strange calls from the likes of people like you.'
'I am Martin Humes from News Network. Now, please tell the viewers about how you got to be trapped in the café.'
'Trapped? That's a funny suggestion.'
The interview is not going how Martin would like. He loses a little of his sternness to try and coax her round.
'But you can't open the door, Mrs. Eldridge, isn't that right?'
'Door? What is this 'door' you and other callers keep talking about?'
'Perhaps you are not feeling alright?'
Silence.
'Mrs. Eldridge?'
'I'm feeling perfectly fine, thank you. Can you wait just a minute, I have to serve some tea and wipe down table number seven.'

'Ok, I'm back. So where were we, dear?'
'We were talking about the door. The exit'
'I'm sorry, I don't really understand what you mean. Exit?'
'I mean the way out of the café.'
'Way out? As far as I'm concerned there is no way out.'
'I'm confused'
'You're confused! What about me? You were the one who phoned up and started talking gibberish.'
'Aren't the firemen coming to help you out the door?'
'Fireman? Door? I don't know. The only thing I know is to make tea and a good cake. People love my fatless sponges.'
'But I'm telling you Mrs. Eldridge, there is a way out! Can't you see a door?'
'Um, what does it look like?'
'It's a panel which opens and closes.'
'Gosh, this is all a bit too much for me. Over my head.' She laughs.
'What can you see around you, Mrs. Eldridge?'
'My life.'
'And no door?'
'No door.'
'Erm, thank you Mrs. Eldridge.'
'Thank you,' she replies politely.
'I hope you find your door.'
'I hope you do too, dear.'

I am now at the exhibition for my opening night, and the critics are summing me up. They are handed red wine so slightly chilled, and like vultures around a desert morsel, they are watching every move I make. We look up at the painting and I give them the low-down.
'I began by painting a cloud,' I say. It seems most of them agree that the cloud was well painted, as they peer in closer, talking about texture and making humming sounds.
'And then after I had painted the cloud, I wanted to paint people in the picture who could offer it appreciation, so I invented a cliff-top and I painted a boy and his father with a kite. With the kite you can see movement. You get the feel of a windy day.' I step back from the painting and let them absorb it. On the left-side of the painting, is the café. Through the back window of the small café, you can just make out Mrs. Eldridge smiling.
'Your painting is simply beautiful,' says one of the critics after studying the painting for some time.
'Thank you.' I reply in gratitude.
'Yes, in fact, it seems to have a life of its own.'