Nodding With Cherries

Marjorie Wallace, thirty-nine-year-old librarian, enjoyed a certain fillip to her weekly walk to the writers’ circle. She had on her new hat; it was plum coloured with a charming motif of cherries which nodded and bobbed as she made her way down the autumn-strewn thoroughfare. Yes, there was no doubt about it, a new item of clothing did much for one’s expansiveness, thought Marjorie and as she trotted in the late afternoon sun, she caught sight of her own hat shadow, the cherries stretching and pinging in time with her step. The hesitation and slight recalcitrance which had preceded her purchase earlier that week proved unfounded and just a shade too prudent she admonished herself, and she smiled in recollection of a recklessness which had invaded her and overruled her frugal tendencies. The hat was a hit. She could feel it. Her back felt longer, her shoulders squarer and her neck, why her neck was positively regal! Oh it was too perfect. She felt giddy and alive and invincible. The very street seemed to twinkle and sparkle as if reflecting back her own incandescence. This evening she would be gay and witty and just a trifle rakish; she pictured herself sitting on top of one of the old oak tables, her hands clutching its edge, her legs swinging back and forth whilst she declared her opinion.

She arrived at the town hall where the weekly writers’ circle rented a small room for the seven members who met to read and gently critique each other’s work. It really was terribly mild, thought Marjorie, as she pressed open the old green painted door to the vestibule. She carefully hung her hat and cape on a peg and stepped back to admire the hat’s perfection; with one long slender white arm she reached up and straightened it as one does a framed painting which is a smidgeon crooked.

After the meeting Marjorie felt a jolt of excitement at the joy of once again donning her lovely little hat. She trooped out into the chill vestibule and blinked. Where was her hat? She scanned the horizon of pegs holding the scant row of coats, cardigans and scarves and quickly took in the underneath. No hat. Now the other members, chatting and laughing, plucked their items off pegs and left the hall. Marjorie could clearly see that her hat was unquestionably missing. Panic, sickness, a familiar feeling of defeat gathered in her chest. Small incipient tears stung and swelled in her lower eye lids. Her shoulders closed in as if to protect her. Her head sagged and all at once she knew with startling clarity that her hat had been stolen, knew there was but one poor, tiny chance that the hat would make it to the dusty lost property cupboard. No, Marjorie could see clearly, henceforth her cherries would nod to another’s gait.