the waves on the other
side of the coffin. Then she takes another brush and starts to paint her first dolphin, leaping out of the waves.
My nana can transform a hardboard coffin with her imagination. She can make it dance . . . diddli di diddli di diddli di di di, di di di. Another brush dipped in white paint, this time
Titanium White, makes a dove rise out of the spray. Nana doesn’t stop for a second. She’s in the waves, leaping with the dolphins, flying with the doves. Last of all she paints the
little dog with his leg cocked over the coffin corner. It’s a Piper dog with a wiry brown coat.
‘Here, Mira, dip your brush in the Yellow Ochre -Piper needs a pee!’ she orders, handing me the pot.
I take hold of the thickest brush and get ready to splatter the pee across the sea. The yellow spray hits the coffin sides, splatting back into Nana’s face.
‘You’ve peed in my face,’ she laughs.
Then she dips her brush into the blue paint and, with her thumb, flicks the end of the brush at me! This time the spray covers my face.
‘You look like Shiva,’ she says admiringly.
When we get our breath back from giggling, Nana dips her hand into the blue paint and presses her palm against mine, like a high five. She holds my wrist and presses my right hand, hard and flat
against the side of the coffin. Then she places her left hand next to mine to make her own handprint, as if we were one person with a left and right hand of the same size. Two bright blue
handprints, one left, one right, one mine, one Nana’s. Only when you look at the lines on the palms of our hands, can you tell they belong to different people.
The doorbell rings. I hear Krish’s voice before I open the gate. He pushes past me, practically knocking me over as Mum parks Laila under the porch in her pram.
‘Guess where I came?’ Krish shouts.
‘Shhhh,’ hushes Mum, pointing to sleeping Laila.
‘Nana, Nana, guess where I came?’
‘Now what was it? The under-tens?’
‘Yep!’
‘How far was it?’
‘Five K, and the start was up Parli Hill. That was a killer!’
‘How many runners?’
‘About a hundred.’
‘Considering everything . . . I would say you came . . . in the first twenty.’
Nana plays with Krish, like a cat with a mouse.
‘Nope.’
‘I don’t know, Krish . . . tenth?’
‘Try again.’
‘Fifth? Fourth? Third? Second?’
Nana knows he’s come first, because Krish wouldn’t be making a fuss if he came second or third or anything, in fact, except first.
‘Nope!’
‘First place!’ yells Nana, clapping her hands in excitement and reaching out to give Krish a hug. ‘It takes such stamina to do what you do. I used to try and race when I was
your age, but I just couldn’t keep going.’
Nor me, I think.
We first found out that Krish could run when he was six. We were staying with Nana Kath and Grandad Bimal in the Lake District, and we went to this country fair, where they had
all sorts of sports including fell running, which basically means you have to run up a mountain and down again. Why would anyone want to do that? Mum said the people entering the race would have
trained a lot so it might not be a very good idea, but Krish just walked straight up to the starting tent and signed himself in. Then the man stuck his official race number on his T-shirt. Number
fifty-two. We watched him running up that fell, above Lake Grasmere, scrambling up and up for miles in the pouring rain and finally disappearing into the cloud. I didn’t like that feeling of
not being able to see him; neither did Mum. She paced up and down biting her lip, her eyes scanning backwards and forwards across the fell for a glimpse of Krish’s bright blue shirt. Then I
saw him, my brother, skidding and sliding down towards the bottom of that mountain, smeared in mud from head to foot, so you could just make out his eyes peering through the dirt as if he’d
fallen into a bog. When Krish appeared through the rain-mist, Nana
side of the coffin. Then she takes another brush and starts to paint her first dolphin, leaping out of the waves.
My nana can transform a hardboard coffin with her imagination. She can make it dance . . . diddli di diddli di diddli di di di, di di di. Another brush dipped in white paint, this time
Titanium White, makes a dove rise out of the spray. Nana doesn’t stop for a second. She’s in the waves, leaping with the dolphins, flying with the doves. Last of all she paints the
little dog with his leg cocked over the coffin corner. It’s a Piper dog with a wiry brown coat.
‘Here, Mira, dip your brush in the Yellow Ochre -Piper needs a pee!’ she orders, handing me the pot.
I take hold of the thickest brush and get ready to splatter the pee across the sea. The yellow spray hits the coffin sides, splatting back into Nana’s face.
‘You’ve peed in my face,’ she laughs.
Then she dips her brush into the blue paint and, with her thumb, flicks the end of the brush at me! This time the spray covers my face.
‘You look like Shiva,’ she says admiringly.
When we get our breath back from giggling, Nana dips her hand into the blue paint and presses her palm against mine, like a high five. She holds my wrist and presses my right hand, hard and flat
against the side of the coffin. Then she places her left hand next to mine to make her own handprint, as if we were one person with a left and right hand of the same size. Two bright blue
handprints, one left, one right, one mine, one Nana’s. Only when you look at the lines on the palms of our hands, can you tell they belong to different people.
The doorbell rings. I hear Krish’s voice before I open the gate. He pushes past me, practically knocking me over as Mum parks Laila under the porch in her pram.
‘Guess where I came?’ Krish shouts.
‘Shhhh,’ hushes Mum, pointing to sleeping Laila.
‘Nana, Nana, guess where I came?’
‘Now what was it? The under-tens?’
‘Yep!’
‘How far was it?’
‘Five K, and the start was up Parli Hill. That was a killer!’
‘How many runners?’
‘About a hundred.’
‘Considering everything . . . I would say you came . . . in the first twenty.’
Nana plays with Krish, like a cat with a mouse.
‘Nope.’
‘I don’t know, Krish . . . tenth?’
‘Try again.’
‘Fifth? Fourth? Third? Second?’
Nana knows he’s come first, because Krish wouldn’t be making a fuss if he came second or third or anything, in fact, except first.
‘Nope!’
‘First place!’ yells Nana, clapping her hands in excitement and reaching out to give Krish a hug. ‘It takes such stamina to do what you do. I used to try and race when I was
your age, but I just couldn’t keep going.’
Nor me, I think.
We first found out that Krish could run when he was six. We were staying with Nana Kath and Grandad Bimal in the Lake District, and we went to this country fair, where they had
all sorts of sports including fell running, which basically means you have to run up a mountain and down again. Why would anyone want to do that? Mum said the people entering the race would have
trained a lot so it might not be a very good idea, but Krish just walked straight up to the starting tent and signed himself in. Then the man stuck his official race number on his T-shirt. Number
fifty-two. We watched him running up that fell, above Lake Grasmere, scrambling up and up for miles in the pouring rain and finally disappearing into the cloud. I didn’t like that feeling of
not being able to see him; neither did Mum. She paced up and down biting her lip, her eyes scanning backwards and forwards across the fell for a glimpse of Krish’s bright blue shirt. Then I
saw him, my brother, skidding and sliding down towards the bottom of that mountain, smeared in mud from head to foot, so you could just make out his eyes peering through the dirt as if he’d
fallen into a bog. When Krish appeared through the rain-mist, Nana
Similar Books
