Keeping Faith. Roger Averill

from the fence.

      Fingering the laces of the football, running a fingernail along its grooved seams, I listened to Old Mr Capello call to someone in Italian. A girl’s voice answered and the wire door at the back of their house creaked open, slammed shut.

      His granddaughter appeared next to him on the fence. Christina was a couple of years older than me and went to Our Lady’s, the Catholic school for girls. She had long, wavy hair which she usually wore tied back, but that day it was wet and glistened in the sun. Her skin was the colour of a walnut shell, except smooth and pink around the cheeks.

      ‘Hi,’ she said, still adjusting herself on the rail, pressing her body into the palings. ‘He wants me to tell you what he’s saying.’

      The old man started speaking to her in Italian. I kept my eyes on Christina, watching her gently nod her head, biting her lip as she listened. Old Mr Capello went silent and they both looked back at me.

      ‘He wants me to tell you that he bred birds back in Italy. Pigeons, racers.’

      ‘Premio vincitores.’

      ‘Prize winners.’ Christina smiled. ‘They were prize winners.’

      ‘Tell him my birds are canaries.’

      It felt strange giving her orders, but she did as I said and then listened for her grandfather’s response.

      ‘He says he knows; that he’s heard them whistle.’

      He spoke to her again, forcefully, tilting his head in my direction. Christina paused, started to speak, then stopped. She checked a word with the old man, blushing when he nodded.

      ‘What he really wanted to tell you …’ She bit her lip. ‘He says if you want the birds to mate, it’s best to keep the cock birds in separate cages.’

      Old Mr Capello began talking to me directly.

      ‘Separato, separato.’ He used his hands to demonstrate, placing them together, pulling them apart. ‘Cock burds … more … disperato.’

      ‘More desperate,’ explained Christina.