I’m wearing my blonde wig, red cowboy boots, denim mini and a tight v-neck red top.
I never have much to set up, just an amplifier and the microphone’s already in place, but I do like to have my guitar plugged in and it’s then that I see him: Callum Johnson, sitting at a front table, his blue jean-clad legs stretched out in front of him, while he draws from a long-neck bottle of some standard American beer. Still no microbrew for Cal.
In the only picture we have of her, Great Uncle Bob’s French wife, Camille, leans against a rusted Chevy pick-up, her eyes staring into the distance, her lips pursed, seeming far away and unhappy.
“A traitor,” Aunt Daphne said flicking her finger at the photo. “She consorted with the damn Germans and betrayed her townspeople.”
At seven, the words “consort” and “betray” were as foreign to me as the distaste in her mouth, so I said the only thing I could relate to: “My best friend, Kira, is damn German and she talks funny but her mommy bakes nice cookies.”