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Authors: Trezza Azzopardi
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looks at her face. She doesn’t look old enough, he thinks; she can’t be much over thirty.
They’re with a neighbour, she starts to say, but then a nurse pulls the curtain back and behind her stands a woman in a raincoat. My mother’s new x-ray vision has warned her of this
apparition. Next to the woman stands Eva, mouthing something unintelligible. One look from my mother, and Eva joggles Luca lightly back down the ward and through the swing doors.
You’ll be the social worker, I expect, my mother says, turning in her chair and smiling acidly. The woman takes a notebook out of her handbag.
~
They’re with a neighbour. Jackson, I think – maybe Johnson. We’ve only been there a month. Haven’t got a clue, love. He’s claiming Assistance at the moment.
Merchant seaman. No, it’s not a Spanish name. Gauci. No, GOWCHEE. I never left her! Go on then, bloody well file it. I’ve told you once – you deaf or what? My kids are perfectly
safe, Thank You Very Much. They’re with a neighbour.
~
They’re not.
Celesta has told Mrs Jackson, in her grown-up voice, that they’re going for tea with their Aunty Carlotta.
Are you sure? says Arthur Jackson, ’Cos we’ve got plenty, haven’t we, love? He turns to his wife, who holds a dirty potato over the sink; she cuts busily, each twist of peel
sending a splash of muddy water into the air.
It’s chips, mind, warns Alice Jackson, and pointing the peeler at Celesta, Do you lot eat chips?
Celesta takes Fran’s hand and moves to the kitchen door.
No, I don’t think we do, Mrs Jackson. But thank you very much for your hospitality. Will you tell my mam we’ll be at Carlotta’s?
Mr Jackson is afraid he’ll forget the name. He takes a folded envelope from his shirt-pocket, pats himself all over in search of a pen.
Just write down the address for us, Sweetheart, he says. Celesta won’t stop moving now, calls out from the step.
Don’t worry, my mam knows where it is.
Mr Jackson stands in the kitchen. He’s finally found his pen, tucked for safety behind his ear. He licks his lips as he bends over the greasy envelope. Carla? Charlotte?
Celina? The names run through his head.
Now. What was the name, Alice?
Celesta, she says firmly.
Oh aye. Celestia.
He writes this down in capitals.
~
We do eat chips, Cel. We do! Marina is persistent.
Shut up, says Celesta under her breath. She grips Fran’s hand tighter.
I want chips too! yells Rose.
You shut up an’ all, Celesta says, feeling their noise scraping away at her thoughts. She tries to remember where Salvatore and Carlotta live. She has to picture it. It’s round the
corner from their church.
She leads her sisters (but not the dog, who skulks behind them until Rose aims a stone at him) through the Jacksons’ yard and into the street. They can’t help crossing the road for a
look at their house. Celesta peers through the letter box, and the living room looks perfectly ordinary. She presses her face against the thin slit, pushing the sprung flap further open with her
thumb, and feels a draught on her eye. Beyond the living room, it’s dark; the door that leads into the kitchen looks as if it’s been painted black. She gets a sudden smell of wet, of
ash: like Bonfire Night.
Round the back, someone has leaned the busted yard door against the frame, where it rocks in the wind. The girls slide around it one by one and stare at the mess.
That’s your fault, says Rose, wiggling her finger at Fran.
Shut up, Celesta moans, so quietly, it makes them mute.
The chairs and table, the rug and the chest have all been abandoned to the rain. A rough board has been nailed up at the kitchen door: the original lies flat on a patch of grass
at the far end of the garden. At the window, the net curtains hang like scorched paper; there’s a long curved crack in the glass. Celesta peers into the outhouse: a stash of crockery is piled
in the doorway and, on the toilet seat, someone – perhaps one of the
They’re with a neighbour, she starts to say, but then a nurse pulls the curtain back and behind her stands a woman in a raincoat. My mother’s new x-ray vision has warned her of this
apparition. Next to the woman stands Eva, mouthing something unintelligible. One look from my mother, and Eva joggles Luca lightly back down the ward and through the swing doors.
You’ll be the social worker, I expect, my mother says, turning in her chair and smiling acidly. The woman takes a notebook out of her handbag.
~
They’re with a neighbour. Jackson, I think – maybe Johnson. We’ve only been there a month. Haven’t got a clue, love. He’s claiming Assistance at the moment.
Merchant seaman. No, it’s not a Spanish name. Gauci. No, GOWCHEE. I never left her! Go on then, bloody well file it. I’ve told you once – you deaf or what? My kids are perfectly
safe, Thank You Very Much. They’re with a neighbour.
~
They’re not.
Celesta has told Mrs Jackson, in her grown-up voice, that they’re going for tea with their Aunty Carlotta.
Are you sure? says Arthur Jackson, ’Cos we’ve got plenty, haven’t we, love? He turns to his wife, who holds a dirty potato over the sink; she cuts busily, each twist of peel
sending a splash of muddy water into the air.
It’s chips, mind, warns Alice Jackson, and pointing the peeler at Celesta, Do you lot eat chips?
Celesta takes Fran’s hand and moves to the kitchen door.
No, I don’t think we do, Mrs Jackson. But thank you very much for your hospitality. Will you tell my mam we’ll be at Carlotta’s?
Mr Jackson is afraid he’ll forget the name. He takes a folded envelope from his shirt-pocket, pats himself all over in search of a pen.
Just write down the address for us, Sweetheart, he says. Celesta won’t stop moving now, calls out from the step.
Don’t worry, my mam knows where it is.
Mr Jackson stands in the kitchen. He’s finally found his pen, tucked for safety behind his ear. He licks his lips as he bends over the greasy envelope. Carla? Charlotte?
Celina? The names run through his head.
Now. What was the name, Alice?
Celesta, she says firmly.
Oh aye. Celestia.
He writes this down in capitals.
~
We do eat chips, Cel. We do! Marina is persistent.
Shut up, says Celesta under her breath. She grips Fran’s hand tighter.
I want chips too! yells Rose.
You shut up an’ all, Celesta says, feeling their noise scraping away at her thoughts. She tries to remember where Salvatore and Carlotta live. She has to picture it. It’s round the
corner from their church.
She leads her sisters (but not the dog, who skulks behind them until Rose aims a stone at him) through the Jacksons’ yard and into the street. They can’t help crossing the road for a
look at their house. Celesta peers through the letter box, and the living room looks perfectly ordinary. She presses her face against the thin slit, pushing the sprung flap further open with her
thumb, and feels a draught on her eye. Beyond the living room, it’s dark; the door that leads into the kitchen looks as if it’s been painted black. She gets a sudden smell of wet, of
ash: like Bonfire Night.
Round the back, someone has leaned the busted yard door against the frame, where it rocks in the wind. The girls slide around it one by one and stare at the mess.
That’s your fault, says Rose, wiggling her finger at Fran.
Shut up, Celesta moans, so quietly, it makes them mute.
The chairs and table, the rug and the chest have all been abandoned to the rain. A rough board has been nailed up at the kitchen door: the original lies flat on a patch of grass
at the far end of the garden. At the window, the net curtains hang like scorched paper; there’s a long curved crack in the glass. Celesta peers into the outhouse: a stash of crockery is piled
in the doorway and, on the toilet seat, someone – perhaps one of the
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