The Truth About Celia Frost

by Paula Rawsthorne

  Frankie glanced up from his coffee as the teenagers passed. He was curious to see this pair, kidding themselves that they could be just friends. He felt like putting them straight – with all those raging hormones, it was bound to end in tears.

  He’d expected the boy to look older, but his bright eyes seemed more like those of an excitable kid than a cynical adolescent, and apart from his voice having broken, his skinny frame and baby-smooth face showed no signs of being in the usual teenage turmoil. And the girl... Frankie’s mind raced as his eyes registered her appearance.

  Short, thick, orange plaits stuck out from under her black baseball cap. He noted her almond slice of a face, swamped by saucer eyes, broad nose and wide mouth; her long, skinny legs and telescopic arms gave her the air of a baby giraffe.

  Striking, that’s how the old woman in Wales had described her. Tall with orange hair and very striking, he mused.

  Celia opened the diner door. “I’ll only swim out of my depth if you give me the extra marshmallows and admit that my music is loads better than yours.”

  “No way, Celia Frost! I don’t want to see you drown that much,” he replied, following her out.

  The mug of coffee fell from Frankie’s hand as he shot up from his seat, the contents of his stomach audibly sloshing around with the sudden movement. “The boy just called her Celia Frost, didn’t he?” he said out loud to the bemused customers. “I heard him say Celia Frost!”

  In his haste to extract himself from the table, he upset everything on it, causing more of a stir amongst the customers. As he reached the door, he found himself facing a barrage of middle-aged women laden down with bags and in need of a sit down. They marched into the diner in an unbroken line, like a Roman legion.

  “Is there a bloody coach party of you?” snarled Frankie.

  “Manners don’t cost anything,” snapped back a woman, deliberately stopping in the doorway to block him.

  “You’re going to cost me my job if you don’t get out of my way.” He pushed her out of the doorway, ignoring the tirade of protests as he waded through the women and into the steaming pedestrianized street. He stood on his tiptoes, looking left and then right over the sea of shoppers’ heads. He spotted them. Celia’s black cap and orange plaits were unmistakable, bobbing up and down through the crowd. He locked his sights on his target and began his pursuit. When he was a comfortable distance behind them he slowed his step and discreetly kept pace with them. He could see them chatting and laughing as they strolled along, oblivious to his presence. They took a sharp turn down a narrow cobbled lane lined with shops. The crowds were less dense here and Frankie had a clear view of them. However, halfway down the lane, Celia suddenly turned around and began to walk back towards him.

  How did she know? He hurriedly went through his repertoire of responses for when he was challenged. Celia was now only two metres away from him but she didn’t say anything – she didn’t even look at him. With relief, he realized that she’d turned around to look in one of the shops.

  “I really need a costume,” she called to Sol. “I can’t keep swimming in my shorts and T-shirt.”

  They both headed into the shop as Frankie put his head down and crossed to the other side of the lane. He turned his back to them and stared in the shop window opposite. In it he could see the reflection of the sports shop and observe everyone coming in and out. Then Frankie noticed that the window he had to pretend to be so fascinated by was a women’s lingerie boutique. As the minutes ticked slowly by he could see the lingerie assistants glowering at him from behind the window display of knickers and bras.

  At long last he saw Celia and Sol’s reflection leaving the sports shop and continuing up the lane. At the end of the lane was one of the city’s busiest junctions. Celia and Sol darted across it, dodging the lanes of fume-belching traffic as if they were invincible. This left Frankie still on the other side of the road and rapidly losing sight of them. Every time he went to put his foot off the pavement another car roared by and he had to retreat. A pedestrian crossing lay a hundred metres or so ahead, but by the time he’d used that they’d be gone. In desperation he launched himself onto the road, both hands held out towards the oncoming traffic, causing cars to screech to a halt. Furious drivers pounded their horns and hurled abuse at him.

  Once on the other side, he ran in the direction that they’d taken, but he had no idea whether or not they’d turned down one of the many side streets he was passing. Now, even on tiptoe, it was impossible to see over the burgeoning crowds. He needed to be higher, he needed something to stand on. That’s when he spied the council workers fixing a street lamp further along the pavement; their yellow elevator ladder was just perfect. He ran up to them and flashed an ID card.

  “Listen, I’m in pursuit of a suspect; mugged an old lady. I’ve lost sight of him. I really need to use your ladder,” Frankie said, with such urgency and authority that the workers immediately responded by putting him in the caged platform and raising it as high as it could go. From six metres up, Frankie had a bird’s-eye view and spotted Celia and Sol just about to turn towards the main city square.

  “Okay, I’ve seen him. Get this thing down now,” he barked at the workers. He climbed out of the cage and sprinted through the crowd, pushing out of the way anyone who slowed him down. His shirt was clinging to his sweating body as he panted his way to the city square, just in time to see them disappear into a mass of people. He pursued them, barging through the crowd, but came to an abrupt standstill when he found himself in the middle of a huge circle of spectators.

  “G’day to you, mate,” said a bronzed young Australian man, slapping Frankie on the back. “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, please give this brave man a big clap for volunteering.”

  The encircling crowd clapped encouragingly. Frankie looked around, bemused. There were four young men in the circle with him, but he was the only one not wearing a shiny skintight jumpsuit.

  “What’s your name, mate?” said the Aussie loudly.

  “Sorry, I’ve got to go,” said Frankie, trying to move, but the young man held his arm.

  “Come on. Don’t be shy. Tell us your name,” he insisted.

  Frankie looked around the audience and spotted Celia and Sol looking back at him. A couple of metres from them stood a police officer, giving Frankie an encouraging smile.

  Maybe I should play along, he thought. At least I can keep an eye on the girl from here.

  “Paul,” Frankie mumbled.

  “Well, Paul, put your stuff down. We just need you to stand in the centre here, legs together, arms by your side, but stay very, very still,” said the Aussie cheerfully.

  Frankie reluctantly complied.

  “I think that we should hot things up a bit. Would you like that?” the Aussie shouted to the audience.

  “Yes!” they all chorused back.

  “Okay, then,” he said and the four performers pulled out two batons each from a bucket full of liquid and proceeded to set light to them. Frankie couldn’t believe his eyes.

  “No way are you going to use them near me,” he said tensely.

  “There’s nothing to it, mate. We’ve done it a hundred times and only ninety volunteers ended up in hospital.”

  The audience were laughing but Frankie wasn’t.

  “Come on. A big strong bloke like you can’t wimp out. You’ll be fine just as long as you don’t move a muscle; we wouldn’t want to toast you,” the Aussie guy said.

  The ever-growing audience was getting excited and shouted at Frankie, “Come on. You can do it.”

  Frankie’s macho pride was at stake, so he remained in position as the four performers formed a crossroads around him and started the crowd clapping to their beat before counting, “One, two, three...” On the next beat, four flaming batons came hurtling through the air towards him. Two whizzed past either side of his face, flames licking at his ears, while from the other directions, one skimmed past his belly, and another seared the seat of his trouser
s. The audience gasped and Frankie held his breath and stomach in as a barrage of flying fire kept rocketing past him in time to the claps of the crowd. He got a whiff of singed hair as one baton veered far too close to his head. He refused to close his eyes but instead fixed his stare ahead, where Celia and Sol stood in the crowd, clapping in awe as the jugglers skilfully caught the handle of each burning baton while simultaneously tossing the next one a whisker past Frankie’s statue-like body to their partner. But Frankie was horrified to see Sol tap his watch and gesture to Celia to go.

  “If we don’t go now we’ll miss our bus,” Sol said.

  Frankie was stuck, unable to move a muscle unless he wanted to be barbecued. He could only watch helplessly as they made their way out of the crowd and out of sight. Meanwhile, the audience were oohing and aahing as the flames continued to pass dangerously close to Frankie, who looked like he might spontaneously combust with fury.

  At last the batons stopped whizzing past and the performers ran and put their arms around their volunteer, whose bulky body quivered with a mixture of anger and the effort of staying so still.

  “Let’s hear it for Paul. What a good sport!” There was a roar of appreciation from the crowd, which conveniently covered Frankie’s words as he hissed to the jubilant jugglers, “If I ever see any of you again, I’ll put those flaming batons of yours where the sun don’t shine, do you understand?”

  The jugglers quickly pulled out of the group hug, looking less cheerful. Frankie pushed his way through the back-slapping crowd and out into the middle of the city square, where he stood, futilely scouring the area, as hundreds of sunburned shoppers swarmed past him like an army of red ants.

  It was sunset when Sol suggested that they ought to be getting home. Celia was reluctant to leave. She was happy just lying on the sun-warmed slabs. This was her favourite time of the day to be at the quarry; it was at its most magical as the sun turned orange and the scent of the forest reeled from the day’s heat, sending the birds into a frenzy of song.

  “We’ve still got some marshmallows to toast,” she said, poking the fire.

  “Well, you shouldn’t have them. You didn’t even swim out of your depth.”

  “I tried my best,” she protested. “I did it for a second.”

  “Yeah, a nanosecond.”

  “It’s not my fault. It’s just that as soon as I can’t feel the bottom I start to sink,” she said, pouring water on the fire.

  “It’s just about confidence, Celia. No one does a better doggy-paddle than you,” he laughed.

  “You may be better than me at swimming, but who’s the best at climbing trees?” she retorted, crossing her arms.

  “I admit, you are pretty good, but that’s only because you learned from the master,” he said, with a martial arts-style bow.

  Celia rolled her eyes, giving him a shove. “Come on, Jackie Chan. Let’s get going.”

  They made their way through the trees to where Sol kept his bike. Minutes later, they were tearing down the road at breakneck speed, Celia clinging onto the bike seat. Suddenly Sol swerved to avoid a pothole. Celia grabbed for his waist as she felt the bike leaning, dangerously off-centre. He managed to right the bike without stopping.

  “Sorry about that,” he shouted back to her. She let go of him and put her hands back on the seat.

  Sol looked over his shoulder, smiling. “You can keep holding on to me if you like.”

  She returned her hands to his waist, her face plastered with a wind-set smile.

  As he pedalled along the main road into the estate, Sol spotted a group of hooded lads in the distance. They were all leaning against a wall, swigging from lager cans, glazed-eyed with boredom. Sprawled at their feet lay a Rottweiler, panting with thirst, its dry, pink tongue lolling out of its cavernous mouth. The gang were too far away for Sol to identify them, but he’d lived on the Bluebell Estate long enough to know that it wasn’t worth taking any risks. Like a Venus flytrap, it might only take an unwitting victim to cross their path to spark them into action. Sol took a sharp turn through the nearest passageway.

  When they were around the corner from Sol’s house they dismounted and were about to part company when Sol suddenly became flustered.

  “Get down!” he said.

  “Why?” asked Celia.

  “I’ve just seen my brothers. I don’t think they saw us.”

  “Hey, Sol,” a deep voice boomed from behind. “Sol, wait up!”

  Seconds later, hands squeezed his shoulders and two mountainous young men bounded in front of them.

  “Hey, little brother, aren’t you going to introduce us?” One of them grinned, holding his hand out to Celia.

  “Celia, this is Abs and that one’s Yacob,” Sol mumbled, pointing at them dismissively.

  “Sol never told us he had a girlfriend,” Yacob said with a schoolboy smirk.

  “We’re just friends!” Sol and Celia protested in unison.

  “Oh, yeah! Sure!” Abs said teasingly. “Well, what have you two ‘friends’ been up to?”

  “Just hanging around.” Sol shrugged.

  “Where are you going now?”

  “What is this – an interrogation?” Sol glared at them.

  “I’m on my way home,” Celia answered, amused by the childish pair despite her embarrassment.

  “Well we can’t have that,” Yacob said. “Why don’t you come to ours? Mum would love to meet you. Wouldn’t she, Abs?”

  “Oh yeah,” Abs enthused. “It’d make her day.”

  “Get lost,” Sol grunted. “She has to get home. Don’t you, Celia?”

  “Well...I suppose I could come round for a bit,” Celia replied, curious to meet Sol’s family.

  “Brilliant! Let us escort you, mademoiselle,” Abs said with a flourish, as he and Yacob linked arms with her and Sol groaned with embarrassment.

  From the exterior, the Girans’ house looked like any other on the soulless estate, but once across the threshold, the bleakness of the outside immediately melted away. Celia’s eyes were soothed by the rich hues of the terracotta walls. Thick woven rugs felt luxurious underfoot and tapestries adorned the walls, depicting scenes from a faraway land. Colourful baskets nestled around the large television and the windowsill was adorned with a cross of green, yellow and red. On a shelf, in pride of place, incense candles flanked a framed photo of a slight, youthful-looking man, sporting a moustache. He had the same bright eyes as Sol. She inhaled the candles’ heady cocktail of cloves and cinnamon, but as Sol’s brothers opened the kitchen door, more mouth-watering aromas wafted teasingly into the room. Abs and Yacob sauntered into the kitchen and stuck their fingers into a pan of spicy stew, bubbling on the stove.

  “Hey! Get your dirty fingers out of my cooking.” A tall, broad woman appeared, clothed in a long, heavy white dress bordered with bright stitching and ornate crosses. Her hair was swathed in a high white headscarf, which added to her stature, and Celia immediately got the impression that this woman was more than a match for her overgrown sons.

  She puffed out her already round cheeks. “I hope you two have been good today,” she said to the huge men as if they were little boys. “Every day I pray that my boys are keeping out of trouble.”

  “How could you doubt us, Emama? You know what angels we are.” Abs and Yacob planted kisses on her cheeks.

  “Emama, we’ve brought someone to meet you,” Yacob said, beckoning Celia out of the doorway, where she’d been shielded from the mother’s view.

  “Hello,” Celia said shyly.

  “Hello, darling. I’m Mrs. Giran.” The woman’s whole face smiled. “How do you know these terrible boys?”

  “Oh no, Emama. This is Celia, Sol’s girlfriend,” said Abs mischievously.

  Sol ran to defend himself. “They’re kidding, Mum. We’re just friends. Aren’t we, Celia?”

  “Yeah, of course. We just hang out together,” she said, not knowing where to look.

  Mrs. Giran rolled her exasperated eyes at her big sons a
nd addressed Celia.

  “Please ignore my silly boys. I’m still waiting for them to grow up,” she said. “It’s so lovely to meet one of Sol’s friends at last. He’s never brought any of them home. I was beginning to think he was ashamed of his old Emama.”

  “I love your house, Mrs. Giran,” Celia said quickly, to cover Sol’s embarrassment.

  “Thank you, Celia. I’ve tried my best with it. It’s good that the boys are surrounded by memories of our homeland. As the years slip by, I worry that they will forget.”

  “No chance of that. Not with you going on about it all the time,” Yacob sighed.

  “How can I not, with your father still there?” she replied, hurt by the remark.

  “Sol told me about his dad. I’m really sorry,” Celia said.

  “Don’t be, Celia. I’m going to find him one day and we’ll all be together again,” she said, brightening again. “What about your family?”

  “Not much to say really,” Celia censored herself. “It’s just me and my mum. We live in Tower Two. We haven’t been there long.”

  “And you and Sol – how did you meet? Are you in the same class at school?”

  “Same year,” Celia said, trying to avoid lying.

  “And how’s he getting on at school? He never tells me anything,” Mrs. Giran asked.

  Sol shot a look of panic at Celia. “Mum,” he jumped in, “Celia has to get home now. She’s starving.”

  “Why didn’t you say?” his mother exclaimed. “Celia, you must stay for dinner. It’s all ready and I’d love to chat. Why don’t you phone your mother and check if it’s okay?”

  Celia ignored Sol’s face, which was imploring her to go. She didn’t have to be asked twice. “Thanks. I’d love to,” she answered. “But I really don’t need to phone my mum. She won’t mind.”

  Frankie began to wonder how he was going to get back to his hotel. He was having trouble even remembering the name of it. He contemplated ordering another whiskey but saw the barman eyeing him up with a look that said, Don’t even think about it.