Like Bees to Honey. Caroline Smailes

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ

      My mother says.

      

      Tilly stops spinning, flipping on the spot, instead.

      

      ‘You’re a lucky cow.’

      

      She says to me; then she drifts, floats, spins out the kitchen, out through me.

      

      ‘Mama?’ My voice is high pitched.

      

      ‘It is just Tilly. You will get used to her, qalbi.’

      

      ~my heart.

      I return to my mother’s parlour, buttoning my dress with trembling fingers.

      

      Today I wear layers, a white cotton dress, a shawl, a cardigan, to unpeel. I am an onion. I discard my knee-length boots. I find flip-flops next to my mother’s chair, perhaps they once belonged to one of my sisters. My mother has told me that it is hot outside, unexpectedly for February; my mother tells me that my Lord is happy.

      

      I frown.

      

      ‘Will you move your suitcase to your bedroom, qalbi?’

      

      ~my heart.

      

      My mother asks.

      

      ‘Maybe later,’ I say, I lie.

      

      Christopher walks in from the kitchen.

      

      ‘Will you come with me today?’ I ask my son.

      

      ‘No, I can’t. Go find yourself, Mama.’

      

      He tells me.

      

      I know that he has been talking to my mother.

      

      ‘But what will you do?’ I ask.

      

      ‘I’m meeting Geordie.’

      

      He tells me.

      

      ‘Why is he in Malta?’ I ask.

      

      ‘He’s waiting, like me.’

      

      He tells me.

      

      ‘What will you do today?’ I ask.

      

      ‘We will share beer with Jesus, of course.’

      

      Christopher says and then laughs, ha ha ha.

      

      I think, you are too young to be drinking beer. I think, Jesus should know better.

      

      Christopher runs out through the door, laughing and shouting over his shoulder.

      

      ‘Mama you worry too much. Age does not matter in my world.’

      

      I smile.

      I am leaving my mother’s house.

      

      I open the green front door and stand on the step.

      

      The door closes behind me, I hear a key turning.

      

      and a.

      

       ~cl – unk.

      as the barrel revolves.

      

      I am forced out onto the cobbles.

      

      I look, the chain and padlock are connected, have reappeared.

      I flip, I flop up the slope.

      

       ~fl – ip.

       ~fl – op.

       ~fl – ip.

       ~fl – op.

      hurrying to catch a yellow Maltese bus.

      

      The sun beats down. I walk in shadows, in shade. I look to the floor and I concentrate on the sounds that flip and flop behind me. My feet offer rhythm. I smile. I focus on my musical feet and alter my flip-flopping to create patterns that are flowing, melodic, light. I offer small leaps; I twirl as I flip, as I flop.

      

      I must look ridiculous, but in this moment I do not care. I feel different, already, today. I do not know if this is good or if this is bad.

      

      I feel lighter. I feel that I could float, or fly, or hover.

      I want to fly.

      I leave the protection of the city walls and the buildings that lean inwards, that shelter. I walk out through the City Gate. The sun beats down, bubbling my blood. I sweat.

      

      I am at the bus terminal. The pavement is curved with kiosks in varied sizes, in different colours, each selling drinks, snacks, newspapers, cigarettes, magazines, souvenirs. The kiosks mark a line, a curved line, for where the buses will stop, where people must wait, must buy.

      

      I pick up a bottle of water from the smallest blue kiosk. A little girl stands on an overturned plastic crate, behind the counter. The kiosk smells of stale alcohol, the girl is alone. She looks to be the same СКАЧАТЬ