Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Clare Morrall's first novel, Astonishing Splashes of Colour, was a finalist for the Man Booker Prize. She is a music teacher with two grown children. She lives in Birmingham, England.

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Astonishing Splashes of Colour

HarperCollins Publishers

Chapter One

The Flash of My Skirt

At 3:15 every weekday afternoon, I become anonymous ina crowd of parents and child-minders congregating outsidethe school gates. To me, waiting for children to come out ofschool is a quintessential act of motherhood. I see the mums -- and the occasional dads -- as yellow people. Yellow as the sun, adaffodil, the submarine. But why do we teach children to paintthe sun yellow? It's a deception. The sun is white-hot, brilliant,impossible to see with the naked eye, so why do we confusebrightness with yellow?

The people outside the school gates are yellow because oftheir optimism. There's a picture in my mind of morning in akitchen, the sun shining past yellow gingham curtains on to awooden table, where the children sit and eat breakfast. Theirarms are firm and round, their hair still tangled from sleep. Theyeat Coco Pops, drink milk and ask for chocolate biscuits in theirlunchboxes. It's the morning of their lives, and their mums arereliving that morning with them.

After six weeks of waiting, I'm beginning to recognize individuals,to separate them from the all-embracing yellow mass.They smile with recognition when I arrive now and nearly include me in their conversations. I don't say anything, but I liketo listen.

A few days ago, I was later than usual and only managed toreach the school gates as the children were already coming out. Idashed in, nearly fell over someone's pushchair, and collidedwith another girl. I've seen her before: an au pair, who picks up aboy and a girl.

"Sorry," I said, several times, to everyone.

The girl straightened up and smiled. "Is all right," she said.

I smiled back.

"I am Hélène," she said awkwardly. "What is your name?"

"Kitty," I said eventually, because I couldn't think of a suitablealternative.

Now when we meet, we speak to each other.

" 'ello, Kitty," she says.

"Hello, Hélène," I say.

"Is a lovely day."

"Yes, it's very warm."

"I forgot to put washing out."

"Oh dear."

Our conversations are distinctly limited -- short sentenceswith one subject, one verb. Nothing sensational, nothing important.I like the pointlessness of it all. The feeling that you areskimming the surface only, whizzing along on water skis, notthinking about what might happen if you take a wrong turningaway from the boat. I like this simple belief, the sense of goingon indefinitely, without ever falling off.

"Where do you come from?" I ask Hélène one day. I'm nogood with accents.

"France."

"Oh," I say, "France." I have only been to France once, whenI was sixteen, on a school trip. I was sick both ways on the ferry, once on some steps, so everybody who came down afterwardsslipped on it. I felt responsible, but there was nothing I could doto stop people using the stairs.

Another mother is standing close to us with a toddler in apushchair. The boy is wearing a yellow and black striped hatwith a pompom on it, and his little fat cheeks are a brilliant red.He is holding a packet of Wotsits and trying to cram them intohis mouth as quickly as possible. His head bobs up and down, sothat he looks like a bumble bee about to take off.

"Jeremy, darling," says his mother, "finish eating one beforestarting on the next." He contemplates her instructions for fiveseconds and then continues to stuff them in at the same rate asbefore.

She turns to Hélène. "What part of France?"

Hélène looks pleased to be asked. "Brittany."

James would know it. He used to go to France every summer.Holidays with his parents.

One of Hélène's children comes out of school, wearing an unzippedred anorak and a rucksack on his back in the shape of avery green alligator. The alligator's scaly feet reach round himfrom the back and its grinning row of teeth open and shut frombehind as he walks.

" 'ello, Toby," says Hélène.

"Have we got Smarties today?" he demands in a clear, firmtone. He talks to Hélène with a slight arrogance.

Hélène produces a packet of chocolate buttons.

"But I don't like them. I only like Smarties."

"Good," she says and puts the buttons back in her bag.

He hesitates. "OK then," he says with a sigh, wandering off tochat to his friends with the buttons in his pocket. His straightblond hair flops over his eyes. If he were mine, I'd have takenhim to a barber ages ago.

Hélène turns to me. "We walk home together? You know myway?"

"No. I live in the opposite direction to you."

"Then you come with me to park for a little while? Childrenplay on swings?"

She is obviously lonely. It must be so hard to come to Birminghamfrom the French countryside. How does she understandthe accent, or find out the bus fares and have the right changeready?

"I have to get back," I say. "My husband will be expecting me."

She smiles and pretends not to mind. I watch her walk miserablyaway with her two children and wish I could help her, althoughI know I can't. She chose the wrong person. The yellowis changing. I can feel it becoming overripe -- the sharp smell ofdying daffodils, the sting and taste of vomit.

When I walk home, I remember being met from school by mybrothers, twenty-five years ago. It was never my father -- toobusy, too many socks to wash, too many shirts to iron. I neverknew which brother it would be. Adrian, Jake and Martin, thetwins, or Paul. I was always so pleased to see them. Paul, theyoungest, was ten years older than me, and it made me feel specialto be met by a teenage brother, a nearly-man. None of themlooked alike, but my memory produces a composite brother ...

Excerpted from Astonishing Splashes of Colourby Morrall, Clare Excerpted by permission.
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