open.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
Kelly started again.
Marina watched from the doorway, puffing on three more cigarettes in quick succession and occasionally shouting encouragement.
“I’ll be glad to get rid of you, I will. I’ll rent your room out and spend all the money on fags!” she roared.
“You do that.” Kelly set her jaw and carried on packing.
“You can’t take that,” said Marina, when Kelly tried to pack a ratty old towel. “That’s linen, that is. It belongs to the house. That stays here.” She snatched it from Kelly’s hand.
“Fine,” said Kelly. “I’ll dry myself on this.”
She brandished a tea towel in her mother’s face.
“Take it,” said Marina, failing to register that the tea towel her daughter stuffed into her bag was the one Kellyhad brought home from primary school, aged six. One of the teachers tried to raise funds for new books by printing up tea towels with the children’s drawings and selling them to proud mums and dads. Kelly had drawn a picture of her mother. A pretty good one. Written beneath it, in her childish handwriting, were the words “My butifull mummy.”
Marina didn’t look too beautiful now. Her face was twisted with anger as she followed her daughter downstairs to the front door, spewing out expletives all the way.
“So you’re really going, then? Good. I’ll call you a fucking taxi.”
“I can’t wait that long,” said Kelly. She stepped out into the night and started off down the path, dragging her luggage behind her.
“Wait!” Marina came after her.
Kelly paused. Was her mother about to attempt reconciliation?
“I want your bloody keys!” screamed Marina. “I’m not having you coming back here and stealing all my stuff while I’m out, you little slut.”
Kelly pulled her keys out of her pocket and dropped them into her mother’s open palm.
“You’re welcome to them. I don’t want anything more from you. I don’t even want to know if you’re alive or dead. Forget you ever had a daughter,” she added dramatically.
“And you can forget you ever had a mother and all!”
Marina slammed the door hard behind her.
And so Kelly found herself standing in the street with a wheelie case, a dangerously flimsy trash bag and nowhere to go. She tried calling Gina Busiri—her best friend and fellow chambermaid at the hotel—but Gina didn’t answer.
At ten to midnight, Guy Harcourt was woken by the insistent ringing of the telephone. The ancient answering machine was on the fritz so the phone simply rang and rang until it was answered or the caller gave up. This caller wasn’t giving up. Guy hauled himself out of bed and followed the sound of the ringing downstairs.
“I’m at the station,” said a girl’s voice.
“Who is this?” Guy asked. “You must have the wrong number.”
“It’s Kelly Elson,” said the caller. “I’ve decided I want to come to Froggy Bottom after all.”
Perhaps it was because he was too tired to argue. Perhaps he thought he was dreaming. In any case, Guy didn’t protest. He merely told Kelly to wait in front of the station until he could get to her.
“Don’t get into anyone else’s car,” he warned her.
“I won’t,” said Kelly. “I’m not twelve years old, you know.”
She may not have been twelve years old but she didn’t look much older when Guy found her. She was smaller than he remembered. Possibly because her thin brittle hair was flattened against her head. The orange glow from the single street lamp also stripped away the years. And the hardness.
In the brief moment before Kelly spotted the car, Guy watched her standing under the street amp with the reverence of a museum visitor admiring a Renaissance Madonna. Her face was so open and innocent. Her eyes were far away. You could have projected a thousand different thoughts onto a face like that.
Kelly’s gaze turned toward the car.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hi,” she said. “Thanks for picking me up.”
“No problem
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
Kelly started again.
Marina watched from the doorway, puffing on three more cigarettes in quick succession and occasionally shouting encouragement.
“I’ll be glad to get rid of you, I will. I’ll rent your room out and spend all the money on fags!” she roared.
“You do that.” Kelly set her jaw and carried on packing.
“You can’t take that,” said Marina, when Kelly tried to pack a ratty old towel. “That’s linen, that is. It belongs to the house. That stays here.” She snatched it from Kelly’s hand.
“Fine,” said Kelly. “I’ll dry myself on this.”
She brandished a tea towel in her mother’s face.
“Take it,” said Marina, failing to register that the tea towel her daughter stuffed into her bag was the one Kellyhad brought home from primary school, aged six. One of the teachers tried to raise funds for new books by printing up tea towels with the children’s drawings and selling them to proud mums and dads. Kelly had drawn a picture of her mother. A pretty good one. Written beneath it, in her childish handwriting, were the words “My butifull mummy.”
Marina didn’t look too beautiful now. Her face was twisted with anger as she followed her daughter downstairs to the front door, spewing out expletives all the way.
“So you’re really going, then? Good. I’ll call you a fucking taxi.”
“I can’t wait that long,” said Kelly. She stepped out into the night and started off down the path, dragging her luggage behind her.
“Wait!” Marina came after her.
Kelly paused. Was her mother about to attempt reconciliation?
“I want your bloody keys!” screamed Marina. “I’m not having you coming back here and stealing all my stuff while I’m out, you little slut.”
Kelly pulled her keys out of her pocket and dropped them into her mother’s open palm.
“You’re welcome to them. I don’t want anything more from you. I don’t even want to know if you’re alive or dead. Forget you ever had a daughter,” she added dramatically.
“And you can forget you ever had a mother and all!”
Marina slammed the door hard behind her.
And so Kelly found herself standing in the street with a wheelie case, a dangerously flimsy trash bag and nowhere to go. She tried calling Gina Busiri—her best friend and fellow chambermaid at the hotel—but Gina didn’t answer.
At ten to midnight, Guy Harcourt was woken by the insistent ringing of the telephone. The ancient answering machine was on the fritz so the phone simply rang and rang until it was answered or the caller gave up. This caller wasn’t giving up. Guy hauled himself out of bed and followed the sound of the ringing downstairs.
“I’m at the station,” said a girl’s voice.
“Who is this?” Guy asked. “You must have the wrong number.”
“It’s Kelly Elson,” said the caller. “I’ve decided I want to come to Froggy Bottom after all.”
Perhaps it was because he was too tired to argue. Perhaps he thought he was dreaming. In any case, Guy didn’t protest. He merely told Kelly to wait in front of the station until he could get to her.
“Don’t get into anyone else’s car,” he warned her.
“I won’t,” said Kelly. “I’m not twelve years old, you know.”
She may not have been twelve years old but she didn’t look much older when Guy found her. She was smaller than he remembered. Possibly because her thin brittle hair was flattened against her head. The orange glow from the single street lamp also stripped away the years. And the hardness.
In the brief moment before Kelly spotted the car, Guy watched her standing under the street amp with the reverence of a museum visitor admiring a Renaissance Madonna. Her face was so open and innocent. Her eyes were far away. You could have projected a thousand different thoughts onto a face like that.
Kelly’s gaze turned toward the car.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hi,” she said. “Thanks for picking me up.”
“No problem
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