Contro La Mafia by Nando Dalla Chiesa

By Nando Dalla Chiesa

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Poor old Dorothy was still there, tucked up in an urn on the dining-room mantelpiece. I felt bad leaving her there, espe-daily as she'd left half the house to me, but she was waiting to be scattered off a particular cliff in Dorset. Only Dad knew where it was and he was in Turkey, according to the latest phone call. Sally came back, with Tom on her hip. He was pale, poor little sausage, but he gave us a dribbly grin. "Hi, stinker," I said. " Jacko said, "Start the way you mean to go on, mate. Treat 'em mean.

With Jacko it was impossible to feel uncomfortable; even in his worst excesses there'd always been a certain disarming innocence about him. Tom soon drifted off, and Sally crept away to put him down. "It's enough to make you wish you were six months old again," Jacko sighed, after the door had shut behind her. "Trouble is, at that age you don't appreciate what you're getting. " As this was normal rambling, rather than new and original thought, I made no comment. He then picked up Nina's card again.

Still too weak and wobbly to manage alone, Jacko had nevertheless amazed me by putting his foot down. He told her he wanted to stay if I'd have him, and would go for his follow-up to the hospital that had sorted him out. Sorry, Mum, but her fussing would do his head in. While I made him a cup of tea, Jacko was inspecting my mail. " "An old friend she can't stand," Sally said. " He put on his hurt-puppy look. " "I was looking like nothing on earth! " I explained briefly, playing it right down. " "She was a little cow," Sally said.

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