The Stove Norman winters so similar to Scottish ones, shivering wet. Number 18 rue de la Libération never felt cold, as long as my Papi kept an eye on the stove. The dining room was our whole world. That gigantic wooden table in its centre, rectangular, protected with brown squared-patterned white bubblegum. Mamie would spend each day dressing it up like a proud bride. Each mealtime felt so sacrosanct. My grand father always returned from the garden before midday, in time for lunch; mid-afternoon, for the goûter. Papi always took off his cap before breaking silence or bread. He would place it by his right hand. That’s when I knew he was ready. He always sat before the stove at table end. In-between meals, Mamie devised a thousand games to keep my little mind alert. I’d build castles out of multicoloured Lego or kneel proudly on parquet floor to watch her feet activating that peddle from her ancient sewing machine… I’d spend hours sat at her side. My grand mother was a seamstress before she met her lifelong love. Her dummy slept in the attic. Papi would sit by the window, watching our street like a vigil, as evening dressed market town sky. Rolled tobacco in maize paper smelled exotic. He’d always peep through the smoke-stained old net curtains. Windows would shake under the weight of each mechanical stampede, like buffalos through the Great Plains. My grand parents so determined for fingertips to avoid hurt… Their heads turning like weather vanes. “Keep off it, child!” Inside the stove coal was glowing. Flames flickering as some timid ballerinas… Its glass porthole seemed innocent. Curiosity overrode fears – heat to my eyes, invisible. That single touch. It felt like hordes of honeybees defending so proudly their nest. Salt filled my eyes. The cuckoo clock rang dinner time. I kept away from that porthole. My fingertips learnt their lesson.
© Nat Hall, 30 March 2008