Vanilla

Ever Dundas

She smelled of vanilla. Sickly sweet, followed by the stale scent of cigarette smoke. She greeted me in the middle of the Grassmarket Jazz and Blues Mardi Gras, grinning that inimitable grin, breaking into an excited dance. I thought she might break apart; this scarecrow so clumsily put together, assembled out of sticks and faded sackcloth. Her head seemed obscenely large, precariously placed atop of the sticks assembled to form a neck. Her thin cavernous face was framed by a halo of wild dry hair that shook as she danced. She would turn, stamping her feet, her arms rising and falling in tune with this rhythm. When she had her back to me, she would stop still with two emphatic stomps before wiggling her scrawny behind and beginning again. 'What do you think, eh?' she asked, straining to look over her shoulder at me as she wiggled. 'Not bad, eh?' She faced me, ending the dance and yanking at the sleeve of her denim jacket, showing me the tag. 'Got it for £2.50 in the charity shop. £2.50. Fits me perfect. Not bad, eh?' While I nodded in approval, spewing forth praise, she did her dance once more before lunging toward me with a cackle of glee. Her grin looked demented due to the black holes of missing teeth and the yellow-brown decay of the ones that remained. I met her lunge with open arms and hugged her in return. All I could feel beneath the jacket was protruding bone. She pulled away and stared up at me with those dark brown deep-set eyes. Moments like these unnerved me, because her grin, her exuberance, never reached her eyes. I looked away, down at the jacket, fingering the sleeve in appreciation. 'It's wonderful,' I said. 'A bargain.' She peered at me, her face inching closer. I could see all the deep lines in her dark leathery skin. 'You've dyed your hair again,' she said. 'I used to look like you when I was young. I dyed my hair red. Look, its chestnut now. Dark chestnut it said on the box.' Her long grey roots morphed into vibrant colour. It was jarring, the colour too rich, too deep, exacerbating her ragdoll appearance. Yet I loved it. Somehow, it made the sadness in her eyes more bearable. Somehow, it made me feel that she would live forever. 'I love it,' I said. 'It suits you perfectly.' She was pleased with this, and grinned, starting another dance, this time to the rhythm of the Mardi Gras music. She grabbed my hand, encouraging me to dance with her, shaking my arm up and down. I danced a little, embarrassed as people pushed passed us. 'Summertime!' she sang. 'I love the summer, eh? Get out in the sun while you can.' I laughed and danced more daringly, forgetting my embarrassment, getting caught up in her exuberance. She repeated her strange stomping and I copied her, turning round and wiggling my bum. She guffawed at this, clapping her hands and stomping harder. The music almost matched our strange dancing, as strains of sultry blues from the stages further down began to mix with the cacophonous jazz. We grinned and stomped and whirled, but soon wilted in the heat. I could hear her breathing becoming laboured as she sucked at the air, and she grasped at my hand. 'Come on,' she said, 'I need a fag.' She led me to a table outside Made In Italy and sat, lighting up as she struggled to breathe. 'I need to go,' I said. She nodded, not looking at me. 'Could do witha cuppa tea,' she said. 'I need to go,' I said. 'Alright, but come round. Come round and I'll show you my pictures when I was young. I had red hair, just like you.' I nodded. She looked tired and shrunken. She sucked on the cigarette, wheezing in between each draw. 'I'd love to,' I said. 'I'd love to come round. I'll make you a cake, and I'll come round.' She nodded. 'I'll show you all my pictures. I dyed my hair red.' I leaned down and hugged her awkwardly, squeezing her shoulders and feeling her straw hair against my cheek. The smell of vanilla and cigarette smoke swirled around me!

'I'll come up,' I said. 'I promise.'