The Considine Curse by Gareth P. Jones Read Free Book Online Page A

seemed to get on well enough with everyone else.’
    ‘There are things you don’t understand,’ replies Mum quietly. ‘We’ve had a nice morning. Don’t let’s spoil it with an argument. Look, there’s Father Gowlett.’
    The wild-haired vicar is coming out of a shop. She waves and gets his attention and he comes over to join us. He has a long cardboard box tucked under his arm.
    ‘How are you coping, Lynda?’ he asks. ‘The death of a parent is always hard, no matter how well you got on in life . . . and Flora’s death was such a terrible shock to us all. It took me back to . . . well . . .’
    He drifts off and Mum says, ‘We all have to go one way or another,’ which I think sounds a bit heartless.
    ‘You should come to my service on Sunday. I’ll be saying a prayer for Flora again.’
    ‘Maybe we will,’ says Mum, although I can tell by the way she says it she has no intention of going. She has never been interested in religion.
    Father Gowlett turns to me. ‘And Mariel, how are you getting on with your cousins?’
    ‘OK,’ I say.
    I am intrigued by what he has tucked under his arm. ‘What is that?’ I ask.
    Father Gowlett smiles and says, ‘This? It’s my rifle. One of my little vices, I’m afraid.’
    ‘You shoot animals?’ I ask.
    ‘Oh no, I can’t shoot any of God’s creations. The pigeons in my sights are all very much of the clay variety. And there’s something about looking up to the heavens and really concentrating that almost feels like praying sometimes. It’s most relaxing.’
    He and Mum talk about Grandma leaving the house to the grandchildren, to which he replies, ‘She did love those children.’
     
    The cafe is called Le Parisien . It has a mural of Paris on the walls and French music playing. Mum and I arrive first and a hassled waitress with a ribbon in her hair shows us to a table and takes our order.
    At the table next to us a sweet old couple sit drinking tea. It makes me think of my grandparents. I had no choice about meeting Grandad but I could have known my grandmother if Mum hadn’t decided to keep us apart. I wonder once again how she could have kept everything secret from me.
    Amelia and Aunt Celeste arrive. Mum waves at them and they join us at the table. As they approach I notice Amelia looks upset and her make-up is smudged around the eyes where she has been crying.
    Mum obviously hasn’t noticed these details because she cheerfully asks, ‘So, how did it go?’
    ‘They said I stank,’ Amelia replies miserably.
    ‘They did not say that,’ says Aunt Celeste.
    ‘That’s what they meant.’
    ‘It wasn’t about you. It’s your condition.’ Aunt Celeste strokes her hair. ‘And they can’t make a decision based on that. It’s discrimination.’
    ‘What condition?’ I ask.
    ‘It’s a genetic fault that affects her liver enzyme,’ says Aunt Celeste.
    Mum asks, ‘What does that mean?’
    ‘It means I smell.’ Amelia bursts into tears.
    I realise that a stench that appeared when they entered isn’t coming from outside. It is coming from her. The smell of perfume that normally surrounds her has gone. In its place is something terrible. I’m not the only one to notice it either. People on other tables are turning up their noses in disgust and whispering about us.
    ‘My poor girl,’ says Aunt Celeste, putting a comforting arm around her shoulder.
    ‘It’s not fair,’ sobs Amelia. ‘How could they even consider me for an advert for fabric conditioner when I smell like something that lives in a sewer.’
    ‘You do not. Now, why don’t you go and use the bathroom to freshen up?’ whispers Aunt Celeste in her ear. She pulls out a bottle of perfume from her handbag and hands it to Amelia. Amelia takes it and crosses the cafe to the toilet as quickly as she can manage.
    ‘It’s a genetic condition,’ says Aunt Celeste quietly.
    ‘So it’s hereditary?’ says Mum.
    ‘Apparently so,’ says Aunt Celeste. ‘The specialist called it a