Ceila

Even though she’d been told countless number of time not to Celia sat fidgeting on her bed and picking at the brown mole on her thin arms until it began to bleed. The damp-choking smell of soot, pushed by the wind, moved up and down the flue like a thermometer, a ghost like presence banging and whipping, trying to whistle up trouble. Celia tried not to look into the dark, but when she did, when she looked really hard the shadowless cold handle of the rusting poker jutted out, mocking her, just a hand’s breadth out of reach, and the stone-black hearth stood sentinel ready to take shape as a tombstone entrance. She felt as rooted to her bed as the spider on the faraway wall in its fly-spotted skein. And she was safe as long as she held the thought of Jesus up in front of her with the blankets wrapped firmly up and around her red ears so that Dracula couldn’t get in. She’d a Swan Vestas match planked away for emergencies under a picture of Betty Boo, so that when the wires were clipped by unseen spirits and the light didn’t flick on she could set fire to the grate and light the odd bits of wallpaper, purple and yellow crayons, the stub of a pencil and a headless plastic Indian his bow pointed to heaven that she’d stashed there for that purpose.

‘Cilly are you up yet?’

Auntie Margaret’s voice sounded like butter in her ears. She squirmed under the blankets to make it go away.

‘Are you up?’

The wind shook the window frame. Auntie Margaret’s outside doormat, a stopgap, rammed up against her bedroom door to keep in the heat simply rattled the door like an old man’s prized tooth in shrunken gums. Celia’s bedroom, plonked onto the back of the row of houses, a stubby forefinger perched over the brow of Moutblow Hill and the old cemetery below Kitley Church, to give an extra room to each Council householder, held winter in its grasp better than any other season. ‘Any self-respecting bird was still lying in its nest having a long lie,’ thought Celia.

‘Cilly.’

She jumped up and made a dive for the light switch. Boris Karloff leered at her from the wall. Christopher Lee red in tooth looked on as she checked that she was still visible in the far away angle of her room’s mirror.

‘Cilly!’

She couldn’t be too careful. Maybe Aunt Margaret was one of them, calling her into the cold hall and living room, not for toast and tea…

‘Cilly are you up?’

She heard Auntie Margaret stomping up the hall.

‘Yes Auntie,’ Celia piped.

Her aunt’s footsteps stopped, undecided, then turned and faded going the other way. She used the mahogany wings of the mottled cabinet mirror to check the back of her neck for bite marks. The gold filigree of the chain was worn; she lifted it gently from the table and kissed the cross before fastening it around her neck. She could no longer wear it to bed because it made her itch, or maybe it was because she was developing breasts. Maybe it was related. She’d long yellow-blond hair, that she sometimes tied in a bun, but as soon as she had breast there would be sure to be stacks of vampires queuing up to get at her. She checked the mirror. Her eyes looked pink.

Celia rushed up the hall to check in the mirror in the bathroom. It had its own little push cord light, which sometimes worked. But she was too late granddad was in peeing and then she remembered that she needed to pee as well and she needed to pee immediately. Grandad seemed to pee and pee and pee, as if he was filling up a lifeboat. She was glad when he stopped, but then he started again, little squirts, as if he’d missed somebody out. Celia’s feet were tapping on the cold linoleum and she knew, just knew, that she was going to disgrace herself.

Auntie Margaret flung open the living room door. Celia could see from her face that she was ready to make war on lazy-bones that were still in their bed, but when she saw her standing chittering and holding her stomach her face unfroze and went all pink and soft, then hardened again like chewing gum.

Auntie Margaret breenched past Celia and banged on wooden frame of the toilet door: ‘George, George, the wee lassie wants in.’

‘Alright, alright, no need to take the door off it’s hinges. I’m just coming.’

They heard the taps running and ever so slowly the toilet door squeaked open as if Uncle George was expecting some neighbours to be standing there. He looked down his nose at them. His stomach pushed out of his pyjamas and past them and at a stately pace proceeded up the hallway before turning sharp left into the port of Uncle George’s bedroom. He didn’t like to venture out much because of the cold and his rheumatics and the heat.

‘Hurry up lass, or you’ll be late.’ Auntie Margaret had her old purse out, with its zippers and pockets and hidden compartments were strange costumed beings lurked in black and white photos, ready to peer out with her, at the change in her hand and make sure that 12p hadn’t somehow metamorphosised into a 50p piece.

After flushing the toilet and washing her hands Celia steeled herself to look in the mirror. The light on it flickered on and off and off then finally off as if making its mind up, but daylight filtered in from the toilet window behind, filling in the gaps, showing that there were no bite marks, just an aggravated red spot and the whites of her eyes were are clear as duck eggs, not jaundiced and Dracula ridden as she expected. She fingered the cross thanking Jesus for saving her, but wasn’t sure if she was happy or disappointed, but she just knew, knew that it wouldn’t be long. Her teeth looked bigger in her mouth, as if she was growing fangs, not big ones, just baby little ones. It was difficult to say.

Her best friend Jo thought she was daft in the head. She didn’t say that, of course, just changed the subject and talked about boys. Well, not boys. Kevin Nicol. But Kevin Nicol was too old to be fancying Jo. He was three years older than them and in fourth year. They might as well have been dead for all the notice that he took of them. He didn’t fancy Jo and he didn’t fancy Celia, but out of the two of them he fancied Celia more. She just knew this, the way that she knew everything. It was a witch thing.

‘I’d snog the face off him,’ said Jo.

Kevin Nicol was with his daft pals huddled like a pack of hyenas in the doorway to the PE block, were they always hung out, kicking the carcass of a ball around. Celia and Jo didn’t have to come into the school that way, but Jo insisted.

‘He’s looking at us.’ Jo grabbed at Celia, her dark head ducking behind the curtain of her friend’s blond, blocking out her laughing face. Celia shouldered her satchel and eyed them coldly. But when Kevin smiled at her she almost smiled back.

‘I think he fancies you.’ Jo pulled her arm away.

Celia whispered ‘Doesn’t.’

Jo pulling her brown duffle-coat hood up as if it were a disguise looked over her friend’s shoulder and reported back ‘He’s still looking.’

‘So.’

Celia was in a husky-voiced fuzz, as if in that instance, she’d lost the ability to articulate high notes and the sensual aroma of summer had anointed her and she couldn’t help smiling and smiling as if the winter weight had been lifted from her lips and she wouldn’t be able to stop.

The bell was going to go in ten minutes and if they hurried there would still be a space and they could get their coats off and warm their hands beside the radiator at the far end of the school and swap sandwiches.

Jo pulled at the hood of Celia’s anorak, pulling her backwards. She stumbled and almost fell. Other pupils slowed down and stopped as the two girls stood red-faced facing each other. Kevin Nicol and his pals sauntered with their hands in their pockets up the hill and onto the gravel pitch towards them. Jo lowed like a cow and her hands came up grabbing for Celia’s hair.

‘I love him.’ Jo shouted crying with frustration and anger and trying to pull Celia’s head down to kick her in the face in the way that the boys did. ‘I love him. Don’t you understand I love him?’

‘Fight. Fight. Fight.’ Rang in their ears.

Celia felt her hair come lose and saw handfuls of it in Jo’s hands and she felt the blows of her clog like shoes whack against her shins, but some instinct made her longer arms windmill out and that was enough to kill the fight in Jo’s eyes.

The crowd broke apart leaving them adrift as Mr Grimley hotfooted it down from the Techie block.

'Fuckin’ Gypo-slag,’ spat out Jo, making a final attempt to scratch her face.

Celia did not look back, had already turned, this way and that, wrong footing Jo and leaving Mr Grimley’s broad strong hands holding firmly onto her and looking about him for the other party.

Other pupils surrounded Ceila, but she was alone in the crowd, that was what she knew best and she fingered the gold cross around her neck, which protected her.