365 Ways With Words

What on Earth's That? Oh, it's Nudle s Mákem..

It's lunchtime. The children are patiently waiting for their food, although that does not preclude them getting up, fidgeting, walking about, going to the toilet and generally chattering away as the food arrives. The lovely lady who serves the children arrives carrying cutlery and drinking glasses which a designated helper of the day hands out.

There is always soup. And the children are deft soup-eaters with little or no spillages. It must be genetic – Czechs love soup. So, the soup gets consumed, often with relish. There are no fussy eaters, thank God, like there might be in other classes in other countries. What is served is eaten. In delightful Oliver Twist moments, they regularly ask for more. Then bowls and spoons are stacked, a useful skill for 5-year olds.

And then the main meal arrives. Every day the plates are loaded with one local dish or another; meats and sauces and lots of mashed potato. The quality is generally good. At least, it's certainly better than I remember from my primary school days where each child prayed for chips, hideous mountains of lamb liver remained uneaten, boiled cabbage didn't leave the plate, and if there was no sloppy jelly and ice cream then the pink from the pink buns would be nibbled off.

But then the other day something unexpected turned up: pasta covered in something that looked like grey gravel. Some of the children eagerly anticipated this delicacy, whereas others turned disapproving eyes at the strange fayre – strange to me, that is. Some of them piped up that it was  nudle s mákem. None the wiser, I tasted this terrible-looking food. My face must have disclosed my feelings; they kindly explained that it is made from poppy seeds and sugar. Oooooh!!!...

So, now I am wiser to another aspect of Czech cuisine, albeit a slightly dubious one. Along with nudle s mákem (noodle), which was awful, there is also šulánky s mákem (potato gnocchi or dumplings). And then it gets into weird perverted territory using chocolate and all sorts. I suppose this dish will come around again, and it certainly provokes some interesting responses from Czechs who either love or hate it. School dinners round here are never dull.

Ah Jin

The telephone rang twice and she hit the receive button. At once the vision of her father sprang to life on the miniscreen.

“Hello Ah Jin, how lovely to see you…” the mid-west tone of the unsmiling familiar face spoke brightly on seeing her face before him.

“Daddy!” she cried excitedly back “Wh…”

“Don’t interrupt me, Ah Jin.” He paused looking decidedly irritated, then resumed his smile. “I was about to say, ‘How lovely to see you today. How is your mother?’”

“Sorry, Daddy,” came her slightly crestfallen apology. “It’s good to… I mean, Mummy is doing well. She is out shopping for dinner.”

“Oh dear, that’s a pity. I would very much have liked to talk with her right now. I have something important to discuss with both of you. When she gets back you must tell her to call me.”

“I will do that, Daddy” she continued in her most serious obedient tone. Then she immediately changed back into the excited eight-year old she was, “When will you be coming home? Are you on your way?”

“That’s what I want to talk with you about. Well, I’ll wait for your mother to call me. However,” he continued checking his Rolex, “I have a conference call at 6 your time… so make sure she phones before then.”

He paused again, which he considered as an appropriate prompt for her to finish their brief communication. Sensing this she continued, firing off her words as a panicked Gatling gun.

“Daddy I have worked so hard at school. I have done all my homework in all my subjects and for test preparation and my scores are the best in the class, in school. My poem, you know the one you really liked, is being printed in the school magazine. And my Wing Chun teacher has moved me up because I have learnt so much. I did really well in the piano exam too and the erhu teacher…

“Thank you, Ah Jin, that is enough for now. I will speak to you both later.”

At that the screen went dark. She stood staring at it, her mouth still open from the last unfinished sentence. Then she told herself that she had at least told him what she needed to tell him and he would remember it and congratulate her later when her mother phoned. The fact that neither occurred that night was a wound to her, another wound upon the wounds as far back as she could remember. Her mother arrived back just after 6 and tried to call every 15 minutes, but he did not respond until nearly midnight. Through the walls her mother could be heard talking softly and privately and even eavesdropping through the door Ah Jin heard no mention made of her. There were lots of pauses. Then the conversation stopped abruptly and she detected a strange muffled noise like laughter. She wanted to go in and see what had been so funny, but on touching the door handle realised it was not laughter but crying she had heard. Fearful of seeing her mother in a distressed state she returned to her room and tried to sleep. The noise of her mother’s broken sobs repeated in her mind and continued well into the night: would she be able to ask what had happened in the morning?

She was spared that agony, for her mother left the apartment long before Ah Jin’s 5:30 alarm had sounded.

Once Upon A Time

Once upon a time there lived a princess who lived in a tall, white tower which overlooked a rich and pleasant palace. Indeed, so pleasant was the palace that many came from miles around to stare at the magnificent walls and gateways or to walk, at allotted times, through the fine ornate gardens. On occasion, the people would glimpse their overlords in all their finery and see the most excellent way in which they went about their regal business. And each said satisfactory to the other how proud they were to have a royal family that justified the term.

The rest of the royal family lived in the sprawling west wing of the palace (a very recent addition to the complex, much sturdier and containing all the conveniences of up-to-date living). Despite being a little cramped and out of the way, the princess had not only chosen to live in the tower chiefly because of the fine views, but also because of a romantic sense of tradition. For two hundred years, princes and princesses much like her had occupied one of the four white stone towers, ritually climbing their spiral stairs to the antiquated yet cosy bed chambers. For some each stop constituted a toilsome needless exercise, for others, like the princess, a chance for separation and distance from the more bothersome nature of their duties.

The little princess took it upon herself to be interested in the many people that visited her palace. Always minded by her retainers, she would shake hands with some, enjoying the smiles and kind words. So pleased would they be at meeting one of her kind that they would often present little gifts, simple like flowers or at other times things more personal or precious. On each occasion she would be gracious and express delight in the charming generosity of ordinary folk.

On one such time a short little man she at first took for a dwarf gave to her the cutest of puppies whose eyes had only recently opened, was asleep—the very picture of innocence, vulnerability and cutesiness. She took the animal in her hands, profusely thanking the giver who stood back and bowed in satisfaction. Kissing the little black nose of the doggy she made sure her lady retainer took note of the name of the kind giver.

Returning back to her rooms in the palace, she began to care for her new canine charge, ensuring it ate only the puppy food recommended by the palace vet. She would sleep with it in her bed and be often awoken by any nocturnal mictural needs of a young dog. On each occasion she took graciously to her duty as a queen benevolently acquiescing to a plaintive subject, and allowed the puppy to soil on the paper that nearly covered the entire floor. She would clean up and dispose of it herself and never once asked for help or complained. For her, the whole experience, from morning to night, was one of joy.

She at first gave thought to name it after her chief retainer: Joorealla, a name she had always admired. On further thought this seemed a little long-winded and, on seeing her name associated in such a way not a little disrespectful. On further enquiry she gave it the name of its giver, Mr Tammany.

Her public duties often required her to leave the puppy at home. This she did, her thoughts all the time on her little furry doggy pacing in her quarters, miserably scratching at the ancient heavy door for her return. Once free of duties or school she would race back up the stairs and lovingly embrace her companion, cheerfully chatting doggerel as she checked for any naughty puppy poos or chewed furniture damage. Their relationship clearly blossomed and she took him out into the gardens for exercise and fun. He would run and find things to paw and bite, she would run after him laughing and playing.

One night she and the hound had been given by a kind smiling man the unusual gift of a cake. Upon examination it transpired to be filled with nuts, something she could not abide. The puppy had pestered her, so she fed nearly all of it to the dog. That night the bloated puppy had restless dreams. She was awoken more than once to hear the desperate pawing at the door at which she quickly took him out, but each time he had not managed to get to the bottom of the stairs before emptying its loose bowels.

In the early morning, during a spot of rain, the two of them went out early for a short walk, the dog weeing on the dewy grass. Her attendance was later required at an important royal meeting with religious leaders. Upon her return upstairs her waiting retainers appropriately dressed her with all the Imperial finery befitting the occasion: her hair put up in the court style—which always took such a long time, and a long and flowing white dress and white gloves (because of the presence of the religious people). She looked much older than her eight years suggested. Aware of the urgency of time, her attendants hurried her out of the big door when her puppy hurriedly ran towards her, intent on accompanying her for what seemed another exciting chance to play. Both she and the retainers stopped him, hurriedly pushing him back inside. She put her arms round his tummy and picked him up cuddling and squeezing him. “Dear Mr Tammany. You will have to stay here until I come back.” At that she kissed him and, as he struggled to be free, he squirmed ungainly until she let him down.

The family stood in line ready to enter the Great Throne Chamber. All waited patiently for the allotted time when the specially invited guests had arrived and been appropriately seated. Her father, the Emperor, took one quick glance at each of his children. The three princes stood firm, chins waving in the air. Her two older sisters tried hard not to look bored. He came to her, at the end of the line—the youngest of the six. His eye was drawn to her sleeve.

“What’s that?” he enquired, pointing with his gloved finger to a large brown smudge on her silken arm.

She looked down to see a smear left by Mr Tammany not five minutes before. Deeply embarrassed, and not a little fearful, she confessed it was a stain left by her new dog. Barely concealing his anger, he castigating her loudly for her choice of occasion to get covered in dog shit, and sent her immediately  back to her rooms to change. Her cool sisters glowered, and stared over their shoulders as they began to walk through the big gilt doors into a fanfare of another tedious stately exercise: more than one of them quietly thought their sibling’s exercise in poor puppy control an excellent ruse to opt out of the pomp and tedium.

The doors closed and left her alone in the antechamber. She turned and walked slowly back up the stairs. Although she was no fan of ceremony, she nevertheless missed the family occasion and the feeling of majesty their family enjoyed.

It was only when she had removed the dress and flumped in her underwear on the bed holding a licking Mr Tammany that the distant sound of gunfire erupted from the Great Throne Chamber as the assassination of the family took place. Unfamiliar with the sound, and confusing it with fireworks, she rushed to the window. From the bed Mr Tammany lazily looked up at his young mistress, unaware that by his fateful smudge he had not only saved her life, but the lineage of the entire dynasty.

Dreams and Misdemeanours

At first it was exciting; immensely enjoyable, forbidden, alluring. The dream recurred only occasionally and always left him pondering ‘why?’ At first he thought it wrong that he should dream of people in a sexual way; at that age sex is something oddly mysterious whilst being strangely funny and frighteningly repulsive at the same time, an activity that only older sexy people do. On Sunday morning, when just awake, he would lie still feeling a bit naughty and relishing all the juicy details of the dream state intimacy that he could remember, each moment a departure from familiar motherly closeness. He’d then push down his pyjama bottoms and drowsily quasi-masturbate. In church that morning he would spend anxious moments examining his guilt about these wanton liberal thoughts.

The childish dreams did not evolved until at about 15 or 16, an incandescent adolescent period, he climaxed in vivid, long-memorable dreams about sex with significant characters in his life—powerful women like the teachers at school, some of the more animated girls he went to school with and beautiful sparkly female presenters he relished on T.V. The intensity of these somnambulant visions began to expand to include anyone and almost anything. All sorts of women appeared; sometimes nice well-behaved ones like his pretty Sunday school teacher, as well as the hideously ugly or fascinatingly overweight ones like the really big check-out lady, sometimes disturbingly incestuous sex-crazed aunts and, which severely startled him, even his mother and grandmother, and the girls in the neighbourhood (including the two little children who lived across the street and would sometimes came to play in their garden—which, of course, made him suspect he was going to be a paedophile). Sometimes men appeared which, of course, caused him even greater distress because it meant that he was undoubtedly going to be homosexual! And then he would dream of sex with animals like the cat next door or people’s dogs he’d seen on a walk, something he had not the slightest intention of pursuing in waking life, but which brought him closest to what would have been an eternally-embarrassing parental confession because he knew it really would prove he was perverted. And just sometimes there would be a strange whirl of all of the above; an orgy of sexual abandonment happening all around him, sometimes with him at the centre and sometimes with him merely watching, a salivating bystander in a cavalcade of internal debauchery.

In his early adolescence most dreams were short-lived on account of his simultaneous spontaneous ejaculation and the horrible awakening to a sweaty gooey mess in his pyjama bottoms. At first, at about the age of 10 or 11, this occurred at even the first hint of sex—a dreamy smile or friendly caress. This caused him untold worries, because he knew that if next time he saw the people in his dream, like Mrs Geller the newly married Sunday school teacher, and they smiled softly or lightly hugged him, then he would just uncontrollably ejaculate right there and then.

But as he passed through puberty his dreams became a little more controlled—the characters became more complex, the sexual scenarios more involved, even lurid. If it had been particularly nice, he would organise his waking thoughts so that he could remember all the intimate focuses, as if it had been real sex. Then next time he saw the same girl or woman he would try to recall all those erotic details and half-hope that his instant hard-on would get noticed. After all, he reasoned, hadn’t they popped into my dream because they wanted to be there?

He only once told someone about his sexy dreams. Roberta was a wonderfully attractive girl in the same year at school. Sunny and well liked, she had returned his coy glances, so he considered it not inconceivable that once they got talking she might actually enjoy hearing him tell of his nightly preocupations. Besides, he was dying to find out her response. And at first, she did indeed listen attentively to his tale of undressing and going to bed with her, of feeling her hardened nipples brushing up and down his chest and then of him pushing her onto her back, popping on top of her accepting bodily embrace and… After a while he quite forgot himself, being concerned with the proper revelation of the special details. She listened with a transfixed expression on her face—no one had ever spoken to her like that before. And while her suspicions were aroused, she also pondered for a second or two about whether he was exotically interesting or just a mad pervert. Her eyelids fluttered uncontrollably, her visage changed from quizzical smile to dark frown. Then she decided, and with a sneer spat that he was disgustingly depraved, swept her hair back and stormed off back into school to instantly tell all her friends. They, of course, giggled and laughed every time he entered class, but were themselves in two minds—was he truly a sad deviant or some dark misunderstood figure full of forbidden sexual knowledge? He caught their sideways peeks, and they also became fuel for the fire of his further dreams, where severa or all of them either excitedly sneered or merely talked in excited tones about his bold revelations.

Then, as graduation approached his hormones began to relax a little. He ran through a succession of real girlfriends and experiences, some of which made all his fantasies reality: at 17 on holiday in Mexico at the end of school he found himself in bed with three girls—admittedly one had already passed out and was later sick all over his pillow. Later in life he would try to recall this experience, but it would forever remain strangely elusive: he and three girls, this time all of them tall blonde Australian stewardesses, who swept into his large Melbourne hotel suite. He tried to recreate the fabulous energy and enthusiasm had accompanied this fondly remembered experience, but something didn’t quite work out. They had words and one of the girls instantly left. He ended up moodily sleeping on the couch and left before breakfast: it remained a memory-bound legend.

During his late teen period most dreams were directed to be about people he knew. But later other characters began to appear—people unlike anyone he knew; neither did they remind him of anyone in particular. He was in his mid-twenties, a junior flight lieutenant in the Navy. His mind was now clear and firmly set on a career in the skies and perhaps beyond. But at night in his bunk his mind became more and more distracted by the secret nocturnal somnambulant visitations from strangers, all very keen to have sex with him. And they cropped up during quieter daytime moments, the unreal almost-hallucinatory occurrences transpiring in any arena and whilst doing anything; drinking by the pool on shore, systems checking in the cockpit, reading in the mess hall, in chapel, driving, or in an aisle of the ship’s stores. A little taken aback by the lack of control these situations presented, he tried to make these occurrences a little more personal, and actually chatted back to these visitations with what he thought was wit, charm and interest. The characters of his encounters, however, seemed completely disinterested in talk; some of them didn’t even seem to understand English. All they wanted was his sex, and they wanted it immediately! Sometimes, they would appear to secretly discuss him in hushed almost unheard tones, their sideway-knowing glances just like the girls in class, only this time they were kindly, and also strongly suggestive. Ans just as he felt obliged to accept their advances—all of them—some of the experiences began to feel decidedly impersonal, even abusive. Perhaps strangest and most worrying of all, he became aware that he was not alone; that others were also watching.

Caught!

“In place of green, try the blue. Shadow is not merely a toning down, it often completely changes the colour – the perception, even.”

He stared with disbelief as Mr Carter used his brush to add a blue dappling under the trees. But once he’d finished he was amazed at the effect. It was his first impressionistic experience.

“That’s amazing!” He was very pleased. His work now looked somehow more… mature.

The Art Room was nothing more than the top floor of Oakhurst, the beautiful old Lutyens house that had been converted into the school some years before. It had that familiar school art room smell—all acrylics and poster paints, slightly septic drains and cleaning fluids. Always a place of calm and reflection, the classroom became more than another teaching venue, it was the location of a growing dedication to inner discovery.

“5 minutes, ladies and gents. Can you clear up now, please?”

These were words of almost universal disappointment, even for an anticipated break time or end of school day. Art was fab. Available at any time, someone was always working away at something interesting after lessons or during frees. Portraiture was difficult, so most opted for still life—sheep skulls and fruit, chequered tablecloths and coffee pots. Each week newly acquired skills would add accomplishment to the merely observational, style to the perfunctory tasks of the curriculum, and permit a certain amount of freedom of expression. Some enjoyed taking this route further, others diverted into the realms of expression free from direct form and true abstraction, overcoming the inevitable embarrassment that first accompanies exposure of the soul until there developed a certain clarity, and something called ‘voice’ or ‘presence’ could be detected in the finished pieces. These were exciting times for the unveiling of the machinations of soul and mind. Lines and circles, angles and shapes became reflectors, colours became moods, the canvas itself a portal to the inner experiences of the artist.

“Have you thought about the field trip?”

He heard the question from the good teacher, but could not resist a glance over to the object of his squishy affections, on the opposite side of the room. A pair of female eyes returned the warmth: quite what would occur on that trip would only become apparent once the bus was parked and the beds were assigned. The mind filled with thoughts of dorm rooms and showers and group sex and the very extremes of adolescent sexual fantasy.

“Yes, my mum says I can go if I get improved grades in all subjects.”

Because it was always so busy, the art room never became the venue for the typical teenage shenanigans. That was something best left to walks back to the station, late afternoon rendezvous under the trees, or even a weekend date. Not having much money, mutual affections had to be enjoyed at a bargain basement rate of little or no cash. If you couldn’t do it at school itself, or on a park bench, or in an empty carriage of the non-stop Metropolitan Line, then it wasn’t going to happen.

“Can you return the form with a cheque then?”

Of course, there was a certain amount of imagination involved in finding niches for cross-pupil naughtiness. There were quiet places around the grounds away from watchful eyes where the usual five-minute grope could be extended to fifteen minutes passionate wet kissing. Behind the gym became a regular, although inclement weather made it ultimately unsatisfactory. There were fox tracks in the cherry and birch woodland the far side of the football pitch led to a small clearing, but it was obvious to all that a couple entering the woods were not going there to pick flowers or go bird watching. That left venues within the school buildings themselves; empty classrooms, music practice rooms and, at the right time, the cellar/common room under the main school itself.

“That’s the bell, boys and girls. Off you go.”

Mr Carter was himself already on the way to the staffroom for a break coffee. He was not on duty today, but even so he would sometimes take his outside and either sit alone or with one of the teachers or whichever student would appear and talk cordially about one thing or another. His father ran an ironmongers, supported an impressive ginger toupee, and grew vegetables on an allotment. On the wall of his kitchen hung a framed poem that had been fried, a quirk of previous artistic direction.

“Can I stay? I’d like to finish this.”

The answer was almost inevitably positive. Showing an interest was always to be rewarded with time, only the interest was not merely arty.

“Yes, but you must both clear up before the end of break.”

His voice led away down the creaky maze-like corridor system, past the swing doors that flapped under the little stairway up to the caretaker’s flat. Mr & Mrs Clooney were an oddjobman and dinner lady/clearner partnership who enjoyed living in a relatively small flat under the eaves that must once have functioned as staff quarters when the house had been privately owned. Mr Clooney was a dour, unhappy Scot, prone to months-long bouts of frowns and a stiff gait that no doubt described the presence of rheumatism. He it was that had a certain responsibility for arranging the drivers of the minibuses, the cleaning of classrooms and the constant work of maintaining the lawns and gardens. It is he, therefore, who would have arranged for Ted to conduct the cleaning of the cellar rooms one particular evening.

“Hi!” he peeked over at her concentrating face, gleefully aware of their time alone at last. She was happy to return his gooning glance for a second, but returned her eyes to the work on the easel before her. What did that mean? Was she really working? Perhaps she didn’t value their time together with as much excitement as he did. They continued for a few more minutes, blissfully alone, he all the time wondering what more to say, and she probably quite content with things as they were.

“How about I meet you tonight, after school?”

The door burst open as an early squidling rushed in to bag the best chair. She nodded, turned red and returned to paint.

It was normal for pupils to be hanging around school long after lessons had finished: some practicing music, some sat in discussion, some working, some reading and some just delaying their journey home. Some, however, saw this time as an opportunity to connect with their favourite person’s mouth, to swap sweet words and saliva and have arms dangle nonchalantly over shoulders precariously near to breasts. In general, however, nothing went much further; apart from the issues of privacy, there just wasn’t the opportunity—unless one was created.

“Come on. No-one’s down here.”

They slipped into the common room, now weirdly devoid of life. Usually the location of spontaneous juvenile guffawing before school, at breaks and lunches and even after 3.20pm, the animation that accompanied 20+ musician children resonated long after their departures. Leaving the lights off and using only the natural ambient orange glow of the city beyond, he led her by the hand to the second little room, which was little more of a locker room that housed benches and pegs for coats and bags. There they pitched their intimacy, on a slatted bench, all fingers and sighs as together they overcame her natural modesty, and took things decidedly unsteady for the better part of an hour. And then Ted the cleaner walked in on the two scared rabbits.

“What were you doing?”

The headmaster’s words were cautious, but firm. It could be that there was a perfectly reasonable justification, one beyond the expected fumbling and kissing. But how exactly was he to give explanation for himself? It had been nearly seven o’clock and the rest of the school was locked up for the night.

“We were talking. Just talking.”

He eyed the squirming spotty teenager with a pause. Could he really punish this?

“You are expected to go home straight after school.”

He’d got away with it, but now the word was out. They’d been caught; the architecture of their love-zone was common knowledge, no matter how he bluffed and joked. He didn’t need to hear the whispered conversations to know the object of their tattle-tattle—through bravado the newly acquired reputation did not thoroughly unnerve, but he felt it was, perhaps, unfairly won. At least there was always Art. And there was always the field trip.

Laughter – Part 6

By the time he had gone downstairs the breakfast area had begun to empty of the eager skiers, each anticipating their turns high up on the mountains. The cable car’s sporadic journeys up through the heavy snow into the clouds and back down again gave them all the hope of a jilted lover for whom things are not quite done, dead and buried, or over. One or two of them had already gathered their skis and were hanging around the lobby.

It was not fiercely cold outside, for there was no wind down in the deep valley, but everyone knew that higher up the conditions could be anything – wild blizzard, broken skies with occasional blue, or miserable dank fog. Until they went up, they couldn’t be certain. Given the opportunity, all of them would be willing to chance it, rather than be stuck down on the ground with little or nothing to do. With such minds accidents and misadventure are sure to follow.

The intercom broke into chimes to announce a name needed at reception: indeed, the whole hostel had the feeling of a miniature airport concourse. The double doors constantly swung as puff-jacketed guests came and went, others –passports in hand and with trolleyed cases inconsiderately huddled mid-lobby– formed a queue in an attempt to check out, others still sat in the uncomfortable chairs beside the big window and radiators, reading, waiting and talking.

He momentarily stared at the place where he had last seen his sister and Mr Collins. They were gone. He scanned the room, then the lobby, then outside, and came back to reception. He ran back upstairs, to check the room. It was empty, but beside the bed was the suitcase. It stood upright, ivory white as a tombstone, resting on four matt black wheels. He went over to it, at first unwilling to touch it, then sought the zip lock. The whole thing was firmly secured with a six-combination padlock. There was no way he would be able to get in without busting the whole piece open. But what was of more importance to him was the location of his sister. He had to find her.

–

The town of Valladolid has many historic sites, all built of the magnificent white stonework that almost painfully reflects the summer sunshine. One of the most impressive of these buildings is the old Cathedral of Our Lady of the Holy Assumption, an unfinished baroque masterpiece. As such, it gives an incomplete air to the locale, as if the intention hundreds of years ago was to add a tension into the tiny pedestrian streets and make the pretty houses that surround it on all sides seem that much more complete and perfect. It is ever-present, so that those taking their morning’s chocolate y churros in the shade of the Berlin bar behind the massive white sarcophagus do not notice it before them, even though it absorbs most of the precious sky above their heads.

The apartment on Calle Arribas was always a noisy place, especially at night, and spectacularly so on feast days or festivals when bells would ring and shouts and applause would go up. Although this sometimes felt like an obvious drawback, the one big attraction of city centre living was exactly that – other balconies of the surrounding apartments would also be full of families, ready to watch things from a distance, the spectators comfortable in their homes and yet away from the heat of the excited crush and beyond the incessant click and whirr of tourist cameras. They were somewhat aloof, yet still part of the occasion.

As a young boy Miguel would be overly excited, staring through the balcony bars down at the street processions. His younger sister would hold his hands as the hooded members of the brotherhoods passed slowly beneath, their long pointed hats in red, blue and black indicative of humility, service and anonymity. To their young hearts these strange men were terrifying, and they would grip each other’s hands like their lives depended upon it.

And then one Good Friday Miguel became a big boy. Without word, he joined his friends down on the street, leaving Floria without support for the entire time. When he returned, triumphant at having scadded between the processions like a naughty boy, he found Floria at her wits end. Although mama and papa were happy to give consent, having given responsibility for him to their neighbour’s older boy and, as in previous years, had assumed their lofty balcony position throughout, Floria had been worried sick about him. She rushed to him and held him, not letting him go until bedtime, and then only so that they could occupy separate beds.

He lay awake, the streetlights and sounds flooding in onto the ceiling above, unable to sleep for the fresh feelings of adventure, but giving occasional glances to his sister in her bed opposite, for whom the night alone would dry her tears. And he wondered, right there, whether it had all been worth it. And he decided, right there, that it was not – not even for one tear.

 –

The walk back down to the Irish Moss took less time than she had remembered. Even in the morning’s whiteout she could make out the neon signs for Guinness and Jamesons. They were not the first there, as the Germans from the hostel had already put in an appearance and sat beneath the large TV watching Bundesliga football. The fire was already lit and a ready supply of coffee was making its way to their table.

They took the only available window space, a louvered effort behind which was another neon sign for Estrella. At least they could keep an eye on the weather, or so Floria thought.

“I’m interested in what you said just now, about there being few jobs for young people in Spain. As you might imagine, I’ve done a bit of travel, and I know a thing or two. I know people who have jobs – openings for young people just like you.”

He winked at her, something she took as beguiling, like a kindly uncle.

“You do?”

“Of course! And the beauty of it is that you don’t need a degree to take advantage. All you need is determination and the ability to work hard. If you know of someone in particular…”

“Actually, I was thinking of…” At that moment the barman came over to take their order.

“Coffees, and maybe something to eat?” He looked at Floria, his hand raised as a conductor in mid-baton weave.

She shook her head, but her mouth remained open, ready to continue with her sentence. This was exciting – a job offer!

“So, what sort of work is it?”

His mouth curled under into a crescent moon. “Ooh, a little bit of pizzazz, a little bit of show. Do you ever watch the Grand Prix?”

She shook her head again, her long black hair weaving a snaky trail down one side of her body.

“If you watch the winners come into the paddock, they are always met by a line of beautiful women, all applauding and leading the way towards the rostrum where they act as hostesses to the champions. Those women are there for a reason – the glamour, the excitement, the beauty. But those women are no different to you, Floria. They are just as beautiful.”

She blushed. No one, other than papa, had called her beautiful, even indirectly. But she recovered quickly.

“You mean, a job with the Grand Prix?”

“It could be.” He sat satisfied with his pitch. “You can never tell. The important thing is that you must be willing to travel, to work hard and to be beautiful. Do you think you could do all of those things?”

A little frown crossed her forehead. “It’s really that simple?”

“Yes!” He shrugged his shoulders. “Yes, it is! I mean, you’d have to go through an interview process, agency fees, some photographs and a modelling session, but… yes!”

“And you do this for a living?”

“Oh, no, it’s not my forte, but I have a very good friend who I help out from time to time. And if I meet a beautiful girl, such as you, I ask her for him and he, er, pays me back – in his own way.”

The barman brought over the espressos with water and she sat and thought on it. So, her childish imaginations could become reality? A model?

“You said earlier about your wife being in Madrid. Why doesn’t she come with you? On your trips?”

His mood turned, but he momentarily recovered. “Ah, that– ”

But his attention was arrested. For out of the louver he saw a figure in a red puffer approach the bar. It sported a striped beany and shuffled determinedly through the snow towards the steps of the bar. He knew it was Miguel.

Laughter – Part 5

It was the usual shenanigans in the back of the car: feet on the forward seats, heads tilted back, they stared at the streetlights as they passed overhead, counting. “18, 19, 20, 21… bridge!” Whoever could anticipate the bridge accurately became king or queen and could call the shots. As reigning monarch the laws usually consisted of menial things for the following 24-hour period, “Sing me a song! Brush my hair! Run around the garden until you are out of breath! Make me a sandwich!” The fun was in the compliance, and in the creative imaginings of the king or queen.

This night was different. He had won, barely, but because of tiredness or irritability had chosen to be a little more direct with his laws. In his room there were no songs or dances, but she had to brush her teeth standing on her head. That was funny. She had to fetch him a glass of milk and give it to him. That was also funny, particularly when some spilt from around his mouth onto his pyjamas.

And then he asked her to stand still like a statue on the wobbly table in the centre of his room. She did, but had to keep her legs apart because of the precarious nature of the imbalance. What he hadn’t anticipated was that the overhead light behind her cascaded through her nightdress and silhouetted her prepubescent form, particularly her fatty legs. For some reason, he had never seen this aspect of her before – his funny sister. She had suddenly and unexpectedly taken on a whole new nature as she stood there as still as the situation required. It was something he had not anticipated or been aware of and struck a strange chord within his mind. For one day, he slowly reasoned, she would be not merely a grown-up, but a woman with all the alien womanly things that he understood women to have. She would be a physical creature with her separate desires, excitements, and choices. He was jealous.

He went up to the table and cruelly nudged it. The wobble made her readjust her position, but she stayed put, as commanded by her king. But her king was no longer laughing. He was not having fun.

“You can get down now.” His voice was dark, full of a resignation. “I don’t want to play any more.”

That was something usually said by the subject, not the master – and only after a particularly long or difficult ordeal. She was a little taken aback, but shrugged it off as another example of her older brother’s thoughts racing off on a fancy somewhere and that she’d probably have to follow in due course, which of course she didn’t mind at all, for she loved him unreservedly, unquestionably and unfalteringly.

–

Mr Collins was still sitting beside the window, waiting for her to come out of the toilet. He even offered a little wave, as if she might have forgotten exactly who he was, never mind where he'd sat.

“There you are!” he said, as if she was some surprise guest at a party.

She gave a courteous smile and sat next to him, but crossed her legs and kept her elbows firmly connected to her ribcage.

“So, your brother is busy?”

“Oh, he’s got some… things to do.” Actually, she had no idea quite what he would be doing while she was down here with Mr Collins. In fact, she imagined him to be quite unable to do anything without first considering the two of them doing something together. That was, after all, the whole point of them coming away skiing together; it was their holiday time side by side. Now they were separated by nothing more than a tiff, but more than that – she could not go back upstairs after what he had just said to her. And why had he said those things?

“Oh dear. Have you had some words?”

“It’s nothing.” Her reply was pinched.

“I hope it has nothing to do with me.”

She thought for a second, about her brother’s words again and, unable to fathom them, unable to make anything at all of them, had to momentarily shelve them and return to the nice Mr Collins and his suitcase problem. Besides, what else were they going to do for a few hours before the first cable car took them up?

“No, Mr Collins. Miguel is… tired. I apologise if he caused you any offence.” She smiled, her broadest smile. It was beautiful.

Michael Collins reciprocated with a genuine smile of his own. He was actually enjoying talking with this pretty and polite girl, something he didn’t even consider last night.

“So, Mr Collins, have you and your wife lived in Spain for long?”

–

Miguel looked out onto the snowy balcony. On the long dark brown wooden balustrade lay nearly ten centimetres of soft powdered wedding cake icing. A little of it lay in a strip on the concrete balcony floor, and in a big arc on one side of a balcony chair. He opened the sliding door, allowing the frozen air to stiffly enter the room. Ignoring the free chair by the window, he tilted the snowy one away from him, allowing the majority of the snow to cascade onto the balcony floor. He sat upon it, the sub-zero surface at once penetrating the cotton of his jeans.

He did not like this: alone, the balcony appeared at once a very large and very adult place to be, for apré-ski cocktails and intelligent conversation. In his head the second verse of poetry he had studied at school unwillingly formed:

Verde que te quiero verde.    

Grandes estrellas de escarcha

vienen con el pez de sombra

que abre el camino del alba.[1]

It irritated him. He had a yearning to smoke, even though he hadn’t done so since his first year in Bachillerato. Other words popped up:

¡Compadre! ¿Dónde está, dime?    

¿Dónde está tu niña amarga?

¡Cuántas veces te esperó!

¡Cuantas veces te esperara

cara fresca, negro pelo,

en esta verde baranda![2]

He’d struggled with Lorca and had barely passed Spanish Literature, but for some reason his mind could embed lyrics from a first hearing of a song. He had only barely realised that the same could be said for poems, things he thought he'd hated, despite their obvious similarities.

Wearing only his polo neck sweater, he began to shiver. But what could he do? What should he do? He was the older brother, true, but their tender relationship had never been based on power. And yet, if he did nothing, he felt they could be heading for something quite significantly terrible. Why was Mr Collins trying so hard to get them to take the suitcase? Why was she going to allow him to do it?

Through his chattering teeth he said, “Mr Collins, Mr Collins, Mr Collins…”

And then it hit him – like a lightening bolt! And he knew that no matter what had happened between them, he had to do something.

---

[1] Green, as I love you, greenly. Great stars of white hoarfrost come with the fish of shadow opening the road of morning. Romance Sonámbulo – Lorca

[2] ‘Brother, friend! Where is she, tell me, where is she, your bitter beauty? How often, she waited for you! How often, she would have waited, cool the face, and dark the tresses, on this green veranda!’ Romance Sonámbulo – Lorca

Laughter – Part 1

It wasn’t that they couldn’t be serious, it’s just that as soon as there was silence there appeared an accompanying condition – of laughter. This was not a hearty laugh that would naturally derive from a good joke or a bit of jab and tickle. That had its place, of course, No, this was the upwelling of a childish giggle, that uncontrollable eruption of liveliness from deep, deep inside.

It was also their private connection, of a kind that indicated something hidden beneath their hearts. They were to content that this deep-rooted and unspoken attachment stayed put, that it remained a continuous comfort for them, as a potted plant on the windowsill at flower; pretty when enjoyed, but always precarious when left by a window. For if one is careless, then a potted plant, no matter how beautiful or precious, can fall – a tragedy for the beholder, but a dangerous thing for those below.

Their giggling accompanied them everywhere, even at home. It particular, it accompanied their grandfather’s serious speech before lunch at Christmastime, the one that reminded them all of the baby Jesus and the meaning behind their wholesome Catholic festivities, itself his grandfather’s tradition that he’d sentimentally adopted upon the arrival of his own offspring as a defining measurement of good Christian fatherhood.

Their suppressed laughter was also infectious. If one of them felt it arrive, the other was sure to follow – even if they were out of sight of each other. He knew at that moment that she was laughing, or was about to laugh, and she knew his shoulders would begin to move in that telltale rapid rhythmic motion that signified complete breakdown of polite sensibility. This had been the case in sombre school assemblies where, despite sitting in different locations in the sports hall, they could still sense the other was desperately suppressing a massive snigger, or at worst a snort. And that made it all the worse, particularly if one of them accidentally let one out. Other children would emulate, and the occasion, any occasion, would descend into farcical waves of tittering, snorting and fits of the funnies.

As children themselves, they had seen their lightness of approach towards anything serious as just fine and dandy. Indeed, despite it being annoying for eloquent teachers, pompous priests, angry parents, classical musicians at concert and speech-giving visiting dignitaries, it was still the sort of behaviour that could be expected in the young for whom the heavy impact of life has yet to leave an imprint. Their carefree happiness and their brevity of concentration as well as of thought, was well known by family, friends and neighbours. It was a reputation they accepted with a shrug, for they cared less for any other that could be acquired.

Their relationship had been characterised by remarkable intimacy. From the first few months they had shared a room and, despite having separate rooms in their teenage years would often stay together overnight, talking, laughing, even just reading out loud together. They composed funny little poems, acted out the best scenes from their favourite TV shows, and drew each other – handing over their efforts for the other to modify to the point of absurdity with antlers, googly eyes, captions and any number of humorous devices. Their parents generally accepted their sibling closeness as an indicator of a benign soft-heartedness, if not genuine love for each other. Their father gave an accepting smile, choosing to recognise their late-night troubadouring to each other as a quaint indicator of their inseparable kindred spirits – he had, after all, brought them up the same. But their mother was not a little worried, seeing that very same inseparableness in their private letters to each other as a marker of a much deeper relationship than even she and her husband enjoyed.

The eldest by 14 months, Miguel had left school first. His entry to college was conditional on his obtaining sufficient scores on his last examinations, which he had barely done. But he was 18 now and more than ready to leave home and find new friends, flex his wings and enjoy new sensations away from sleepy Valladolid. He’d thrown himself into the party thing and had been out and about in Santiago de Compostela with the best of them and had flirted outrageously with any of the girls within his orbit. But that was as far as it went.

In truth, though, he missed home, especially his sister, Floria. He phoned home each weekend, and sometimes during the week, and would speak longest with her. At that point, she would melt, go soft and quiet, then pick up and say something funny back at him. Perhaps half of their conversation would be filled with laughter. He came back for Christmas, an occasion of great excitement in the house, and they sat together to listen with the same lip-bitten control to Grandpa as he described the perfect little fingers and toes of the holy pink infant. As usual, the old man ignored it, choosing to look at his serious faced son and his godly wife, a good cook and stable housemate. When he did finally cast his eyes on ‘the children’, as he still called them, the predictable occurred – they burst into howls of belly-filled convulsions and had to be excused. Grandpa was not amused, again, and sat a little undone by their irreverence towards the gracious gospel story as much as for his status as family patriarch. His dear wife, now thirty years dead, would certainly not have stood for it.

Between Christmas and New Year, and with the monetary blessing of parents, ‘the children’ went skiing. The Picos de Europa had been blessed with early snows and, although there was no guarantee that the roads north of León were passable, they got the bus and hoped for the best. They had been told en route that there was no more accommodation at the hostel at Fuente Dé, at the foot of the massive cable car, but decided to try their luck. Their luck held at 10:30 pm, because of a last-minute cancellation rung through as they sat in the lobby deciding what to do next. He smiled at her; she smiled at him. It was a double room in the chalet, with views, which they could have for half-price of €250 for the two nights. He again looked at her, but without the smile. That, and the ski passes, would take up most of their money, with little left for food and, more importantly, drinks.

The night was cold, even for the mountains. Tired from the journey, they quickly drifted into the satisfying slumber of the weary.

Breakfast being included, they scoffed as much as they could, mindful of the mighty nip in their purse strings of these two days and nights. For the morning they enjoyed unfathomable blue skies and white-tipped views to the other side of the world. The snow was good, if a little hard and icy in places. By early afternoon a bad weather warning had been posted and the clouds were building. They chose to descend at the last possible moment and each shook off the white crust of the impact of a hundred million snowflakes they had skied through on their way down to the top station.

With heavy clouds fully shedding their contents in impenetrable cascades, the village at the bottom was now enveloped in winter’s darkness and each lamppost became the centrepiece in a descending orange-white show. The ever-present savour of wood smoke filled their nostrils, promising heat and comfort, and they eagerly anticipated the cheap sausages and chips for €3.50 from the mobile they had glanced before ascending. There was still a queue, but the price had risen to €5.50. They bought one, and shared, which brought a modicum of satisfaction, but there’s had been a long and vigorous day.

With skies aloft, they crunched back up to their chalet and collapsed onto the bed. They slept for an hour or so, until their rosy cheeks and sweated foreheads testified to the overloading on body heat, carb intake and good central heating.

They each took a shower and prepared as best they could for a jaunt into town. The heavy snow had continued to fall, exaggerating the car rooftops and silently filling the gaps left by the snowploughs. As they carefully walked through the frozen air, heavyweight snow occasionally sloughed from overly laden branches to cascade leaden plops beneath. The oppressive snowfall continued, and would continue to do so all night and into the next day.

The Irish Moss had only opened last year, but the expat who ran the place had found a ready supply of thirsty summer and winter visitors. As well as the usual Estrella and the local Asturias ciders, he had found a common thirst for Kilkenny and Guinness. In keeping with the Irish themed tat that littered the walls, and to the accompaniment of diddly-diddly music playing non-stop until the last punter left, he had made money hand-over-fist from the moment the doors had opened on the first day, and had done so every day. He had installed TVs in the corners, for football and Grang Prix, a kitchen at the back for pizzas and quick meals, and a mixture of bare flooring, high tables and stools and a nest of battered sofas that surrounded the stove fire – the focus of the room.

The two walked in to the steamy atmosphere. Just as they entered, the two sofas nearest the fire were vacated, and they jumped on the one to the left, he leaving his padded jacket to indicate occupancy next to her as she warmed her ungloved fingertips.

“Two beers, please. Heavy night out there.” His youthful conviviality matched the striped beany still covering his dark eyebrows.

“You’re right there! Still, you’re in the best place to see it out.” The landlord grinned and handed over two bottles of Estrella for €2.50 each. Barely audible on the speakers could be heard Seven Drunken Nights.

He gulped. At this rate, they would have little or nothing left for tomorrow evening, let alone the rest of the night. He turned and stopped; his coat had been moved to one side, and a man was sat in his place engaged in conversation with his sister. She was already laughing.

The Bitter Taste of Lemons

The worst was the eldest – the boys’ sister. Her serious matter-of-factness manifested itself into a determined streak. Whither she went, they would all follow. If she wanted a drink, they each took a glass. If she threw rocks at passing cars, they all got into trouble. If she watched Doctor Who, they would all sit trembling. If cushions were piled for somersaults and dangerous long jumps, so they all become willing and daring acrobats. It was not leadership. It was not coercion. It was sibling affection; warm and fresh and free every time.

Under the humming fluorescent striplight, the children assembled in the kitchen around the big square table with the blue and white check Formica top and splayed spindly legs. Mum was out.

What had began as a party game had developed an unnerving edge, an incautious and uncontrolled voyage into experimentation with the sense of taste. Each of them felt less and less sure of the direction this might take. But rules were rules. And with no adult present, not only would there be the opportunity for unbridled fun, but there would also be the opportunity for cruelty. They were two sides of the same free-spinning coin.

It was only days before that their cherished new puppy, a black poodle-cross, had been gleefully tormented. A naturally pleasant beast, it had responded obediently to chocolate rewarded calls to ‘stay’, ‘roll over’, ‘sit’ and ‘come here’, only that the last command was astonishingly rewarded by their sister with a pin between the fingertips, so that as the pup’s muzzle approached, it winced and yelped – at first to hers, and then all their delight. Over the years the poor dog often became similarly baited, but kept its tail wagging temper whenever the children appeared.

They cycled through the park – the four of them, but she always led. Their second-hand Christmas bikes made a metallic chattering snake that would wound around the trees, slide up and down the tricky mud embankments, cross the wide open bumpy football field and then made the twilight journey back home across dangerous roads at red lights. They had friends that they would all meet together, their gang, but in their pursuit of further pleasures the three of them would conspire to leave the youngest behind, his needy and tender extra-youthfulness being tiresome baggage.

The big long slide in the park proved the temporary parting of their ways. A matter of four years meant all the difference between ascending the long steps to the cage at the top, from which the entire world could be seen, and allowing the little be-shorted legs the confirmed security of the steady ground. For three of them, this ascent also carried the joy of separation and lengthy stops to talk maintained the power affirmed by distance. There was also the view. From its lofty heights the busy dual carriageway road could be observed over the park’s yellow London brick wall. Beyond still were houses and gardens, washing lines, trees and rooftops – other people’s fascinating lives.

At the bottom the little one would wait, supporting his bike because he hadn’t learned to stand it up properly. He was patient, up to a point, calling up to them to come down so that they could play together properly: they could swing, they could go round on the witches hat (as long as it wasn’t too high or too fast), spin the roundabout, rock the long horse, or merely see-saw. Or, best of all, they could go exploring – that nebulous searching activity where ‘things’, such as treasure, mystery objects and even money, might be found. But they liked the cage and the detaching power it gave them. As they sat and talked in whispers, so he stood and watched: smiling, hopeful, and as enthusiastic as the new puppy.

But all such lofty pleasure must come to an end, and so the three would descend the long, dangerous chromed slide. Sometimes they would come down singly, the girl’s short skirt sometimes blowing up with the descent, a show she curiously enjoyed. Sometimes with their legs linked around each other’s waists, and sometimes, if feeling particularly daring, they would go headfirst. The scariest was to go down headfirst on their backs: only true and fearless masters of the slide could contemplate such valorous deeds. As raindrops would squeal their descent into a thigh-burn, so sand from the baby’s sandpit would add speed. Their mettle up, the brothers would raise their feet into the air so that the shiny seats of their shorts would give the run an expert buffering. Then all the local kids would queue up to skid off the end, some bumping painfully onto the rears, thereby providing a full afternoon of unbroken hilarity.

The game itself was simple. A scarf was tied around the head so that vision was completely obscured. Then the victim would be permitted to taste whatever he or she was fed. This party game was supposed to be fun – a way for children to take note of their senses, and to engender trust. Unsupervised, it ran into the rocks of power, or, more properly, those that wielded it.

First up were the boys. They set about finding simple things: a corn flake, a drop of ketchup, a celery leaf. Then, swapping the scarf, they tried cake, a slice of onion, and mustard. All of it had to be eaten. Those were the rules. With each focused mouthful, carefully fed on a spoon, there would be squeals of disgust or delight. The little one saw all this with eve-widening eyes, for he knew he would be next – onion, mustard? They were horrific assaults on the senses!

The scarf was too tight. He couldn’t see. The loss of eyesight was at once alarming and physically restricting. He tried to see down his nose, but they knew what he was up to. No cheating! It was tied even tighter. Now he was scared and really didn’t like this game.

First up was Marmite. Well, that wasn’t so bad. He liked it on his toast. Next was a wedge of lemon. He’d never touched, let alone tasted, a lemon – not even of the candied variety. He’d seen them all squirt lemon juice from the plastic lemon over their pancakes on Shrove Tuesday when mum had made thin, sugary pancakes, but he’d never dared touch the stuff. Lemons were unbelievably scary things, full of face-turning acids and tongue-curling sharpness – things to be avoided at all costs. After all, pancakes were better with jam, or more sugar when no one was looking.

The thin garnish sized wedge was spat out as he pulled down his scarf to howls of derision. You’re supposed to eat it, they teased, knowing he would never ever do such a thing. Tears began to well. They were poisoning him. He burned – revenge, somehow, had to be exacted. She would pay.

He still had one more turn, but by this point, the two older boys were bored and irritated and so wandered off to turn on the TV in the lounge. The scarf was duly tied tight again and the last endurance of tasting commenced. It was different: a creamy texture, and salty, but was also sour like vinegar. Still tasting it on his tongue, he pulled down his scarf again, his tolerance over. His sister happily showed him the jar of sandwich spread. It might as well have been fresh dung. Rushing over to the sink, he horrifically spat the remnant out and rinsed the bitter flavour from his abused mouth. Sandwich spread – what manner of evil is this?

After much coaxing, she had to be unwillingly dragged back from the lounge. Her interest, like her smile, having waned she knew if she got it over and done quickly enough then he might shut up and leave them in peace. He tied the scarf, as tight as he could, not knowing how, and then set about his villainy with glee. She would suffer for the taste of lemon and the sandwich spread. From the fridge he fetched his sample and placed the spoon upon her lips. He could tell she was frowning, even beneath the scarf. What was it? She tasted, she thought, but it didn’t taste of anything she had known.

The back gate heralded the approach of mum. As the door opened, she stood still, seeing the foody mess on the kitchen table. They’d been up to something. She was just in time to see her little boy feeding his blindfolded sister with one hand, and holding a tin of cheap co-op dog food, their puppy’s only sustenance, in the other.

NO! she cried, immediately freezing his actions, startling his sister to flee retching into the toilet and rapidly drawing the two brothers from their TV slouch. His revenge may have been served, but now he’d have to pay. He wanted to explain to a sympathetic ear about the poison, but apparently it was he who had done wrong. He wanted to insist his actions were justified, but despite his howling protestations of lemon and sandwich spread, she firmly took their side: Dog food is not for humans. You must not treat your sister this way. Look at this mess. I’ve only been gone five minutes…

The bitter taste of lemons held fast all that day. He would glower when he thought of it, even when she wasn’t around. It held in his mouth for the remaining year. It never departed.

The Spot

The spot was at first way too small to be noticed. It crept into the sun’s light, beneath a tuft of the hair, on a Tuesday morning on the journey to school. So small it way, that if any had seen it, particularly her school friends, there would not have been a popular squeal of revulsion, a chorus of condemnatory praise for worthier, more legendary zits – “and then it popped all over the mirror, and her clothes, and everywhere.”

Time was on the spot’s side. It waited in the growing, a biding of unremarkable intensity, towards a fulfilment of which even it had no consciousness. By that evening it was first noticed. A little scratch of the head found the bumpiness beneath indolent fingertips. Best left alone was her mother’s motto, applied to all imperfections of the skin. She did as recommended and, apart from washing, combing and mirror-checking as normal, thought no more of it.

One week and a half in, and the spot, enjoying a healthy sebum-filled dermis and rich blood supply, became a massive zit. One of the biggest seen, if eyes were to feast through a parting of her straggly brown hair. Still she did little but prod: a gentle squeeze grew quickly painful and the idea was instantly abandoned. Another mothering inspection, reminiscent of the lice combings of yore, resulted in an unhappy grimace and a question of doctoring arose.

The Saturday surgery was filled to capacity, it being raining and cold. By midday, an hour and a half wait’s later, the nodding doctor agreed to its spectacular nature. Lancing would be an option, best done at A&E. Mother and daughter didn’t like the sound of that.

Sunday being a day of rest spent at pub restaurant with grandma and aunty, followed by homework, little was made, until the urgency of the matter became obvious. Sitting on the floor, back resting on the sofa before the TV, the head was obviously now misshapen. Monday, for sure, it would be seen to.

Monday turned into a sick day. Bed was impossible to leave. Nausea erupted into the senses. It couldn’t be connected to the spot, could it?

That night the spot finally manifested itself. Yellow puss under the skin wrapped the poor victim from back to front, down the throat and into the thorax, gaining the speed of a spreading fungus. By morning’s light, the girl was a yellow mess. She was one big spot – from head to toe. Unconscious still, from dewy sleep and fearful in dreams, she knew nothing of her transfiguration until her awful mother popped open the door for the usual seven o’clock. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. Before her eyes, the girl, still visibly human in shape, was a heaving bag of custard, gurgling and boiling beneath the thin skin. Creeping over, her hand over her mouth, she viewed with horror each of her daughter’s eyes transformed into big white heads, her mouth a daisy ring of zits, her reddish nose the near-erupted peak of an oversized snowy volcano.

As she drew in her shocked breath, the girl awoke. The opening movement of her eyes was sufficient pressure to result in bursts, her mouthings became a string of mini-eruptions, and from her fingertips, now visible, flowed streaming little rivers of white puss. Fleeing the scene, her mother locked the door behind her. What monster had her daughter become? She could hear disquieting moans as, with each movement every quarter of skin poured out the vile contents, sopping the duvet, slurping onto the carpet, loosening the bounds of permitted credibility for human nature.

Thinking again, regretting her panic, she turned back the key and inched open the bedroom door. It pushed, slightly, against the goo that covered the floor. Her daughter was gone. Where she had slept was a pool of greasiness, a quivering mess of a teen that had lost all form: the victorious spot.