CELERY’S GIANT

CHAPTER I

My best friend is called Marie MacAskill and she’s a giant. She’s 12 years old, just over a year older than me, and she’s 8 foot 6 inches tall. Her long, fine hair is the colour of ripe apricots whereas mine is the colour of mice, and on a windy day it whips up into the air like flames. She’s the strongest person I’ve ever met – I’ve even seen her lift a piano – and she’s excellent at standing on her head.

I first met Marie last summer on the tiny Scottish island where my grandma lives, and where I spend every summer. The Hebridean sun was warm and soft that day, and I was lying on my back in the grass with my arms and legs stuck out sideways like a starfish. I was busy staring at an angel-shaped cloud up above, when I heard someone speak.

‘Lying in the sun won’t make you grow any faster. Though I suppose there’s no harm in trying.’

The voice was strange; girlish yet low, as if a storm was bubbling beneath it. I sat up quickly. I wasn’t used to seeing people out there on the machair; it was usually just me and the gulls and the rabbits, as well as the lapwings, their plucky cries of peewit, peewit, peewit piercing the salty air. Lapwings, yes, but people, no.

The voice came again. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Celeste,’ I said almost immediately. I looked around to see who I was talking to but couldn’t see a soul. ‘But my friends call me Celery.’

There was a snort then, and the sun dimmed, or a mist cleared, or something changed because suddenly I could see her. Marie MacAskill. A giant. She was standing on her head right in front of me, her hair splayed out on the grass like rays of sunshine. And even though she was the wrong way up I could tell she was the tallest person ever. I rubbed my eyes to check they were still working, and then I gawped, my mouth open wide like a salmon hooked.

‘Didn’t your mother tell you it’s rude to stare.’ Her face was red, perhaps because she was cross or perhaps because she was upside down, it was hard to tell. She snorted again. ‘Celery!’

I stood up and put my hands on my hips. ‘Well didn’t your mother tell you it was rude to snort like a cow?’ I could feel my cheeks burning. Mum says there are times I need to think before I speak, and I had a feeling this was one of them.

Marie didn’t say anything. Instead she brought her never ending legs over her head and dropped them on the grass in front of me. I held my breath and looked her up and up and up – and down and down and down. She was wearing a pair of old leather boots, black and loosely laced, with long, green woolly socks wrinkled at her ankles. And as she pulled herself to standing, I think I gawped again. She was enormous. Like a tree.

Marie turned to face me. ‘Bull’s snort.’ She sniffed. ‘And cow’s moo.’

I didn’t argue which was unlike me, probably because seeing a giant for the first time made my brain all soft like pudding.

‘I like your pantaloons,’ I said. And I did like them. They were big and balloon-like and multicoloured. They looked like they’d been sewn by someone who loved her, using a patchwork of magician’s old handkerchiefs.

‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Ma made them.’

I looked down at my old jeans and faded blue t-shirt and for the first time ever I felt embarrassed by my clothes. ‘I like your braces, too.’ I paused. ‘Jazzy.’

Marie wrapped her thumbs around her shiny, yellow braces and pinged them against her chest. ‘My brother gave them to me. He sent them from America.’

‘America?’ I gasped. ‘I’d love to go there.’ My neck was at full stretch as I gazed up at her, and it made my voice sound thin and faint. ‘And what’s your name?’

She let go of her braces and held out an enormous hand. It was about the size of a classroom clock, and I squeezed my lips together to stop my mouth from dropping wide open. I placed my hand in hers and watched it being swallowed up whole. Like Jonah and the Whale.

‘I’m Marie,’ she said, shaking it very gently. ‘Marie MacAskill, and if you haven’t noticed I’m a giant.’ She crouched down. ‘And you’re very small.’

‘Not that small,’ I lied. I was actually very small for my age, so small Mum once took me to the doctor’s to see if anything was wrong, which it wasn’t. I was just small like Marie was just big.

‘Hmmm,’ said Marie. ‘Can you do a headstand?’

‘I think so.’ I bent down and placed my head on the damp, squashy grass. I sneezed once and then I sneezed twice. ‘Though I haven’t done it for a while.’

‘No bother,’ Marie said. ‘Kick up your legs and I’ll help you into position.’

 I did as she said, and as my legs lifted into the air Marie reached out and held my ankles. I steadied. ‘Not bad,’ she said. ‘Now pull your tummy in, point your toes and breathe.’

I breathed in deep, and Marie let go of me. It felt good to be upside down and when she joined me, I smiled. Marie smiled, too, and we talked. I think being upside down made talking easier, perhaps because all our ideas dropped into our heads ready to burst out of our mouths.

‘Where do you live?’ I asked.

‘Not far from here,’ she said, ‘on the southern tip of the island.’

‘I live miles away,’ I said, ‘in London. But I come here every summer with my mum and my brother, Ivor. Though it’s just Ivor this year, because Mum’s so busy.’ I sighed. ‘I have no idea what she’s so busy at, but I think it’s something to do with Dad.’

I giggled then, though I don’t know why. I felt giddy. And silly. As if I wasn’t really there. As if I wasn’t really me.

‘I think that’s enough.’ Marie swung her legs down and they landed with a thump. ‘Time to get up, Celery.’

‘Or get down.’ I giggled again and collapsed into a bundle on the ground. 

Marie giggled with me, and I was pleased to know giants giggle, too. She sat in the grass, arms folded, her legs sticking out in front of her like two long ladders.

‘You need to build up slowly to do long headstands,’ she said, looking quite serious. ‘Or your brain might go squiggly.’

I didn’t want a squiggly brain. ‘Well I’ll be careful then.’

She nodded and I sat up next to her, aware I must have looked like a dot by her side. ‘Do you practise a lot, then?’ I asked. ‘At headstands?’

‘Every day. I want to join the circus like my brother. And being good at headstands will help.’ She scratched her head. ‘I hope.’

‘What does your brother do?’

‘He’s a strongman. The strongest man the world has ever seen. Even stronger than me. And everyone loves him. His name is Angus MacAskill.’

I looked up at Marie’s pale face. ‘Well I think you’re an excellent head-stander. The best I’ve ever seen.’

Marie blushed. ‘Thanks. And you’re funny.’

‘Thanks.’

I picked at the grass between us and struck something round and hard with the tips of my fingers. I held it up to my face.

‘How strange,’ I said. ‘I think I’ve found a glass eye.’

Marie leant over. ‘That belongs to me. It must have fallen out of my pocket.’

I looked at her closely to see if she only had one eye, but she definitely had two.

‘It’s not mine.’ She took the eye and put it in her pantaloon pocket. ‘It’s Ma’s. Though she doesn’t like that one, she says it’s the wrong colour.’

The eye was white with a dark brown iris. ‘What colour does she prefer?’

‘Green.’

‘Nice.’

Marie stood up, her long shadow stretching out for miles behind her, turning a long strip of grass dusty grey, and I realised I didn’t want the day to end.

‘Will you come to tea? At Grandma’s house? She lives in the village.’ I pointed towards home.

Marie shook her head. ‘I’ve got to go home now. Ma will be waiting. But perhaps we could meet up tomorrow?’

‘I’d love that.’ I squinted up at her. ‘I really would.’

I was about to ask where we should meet, when I realised she’d gone. Disappeared. I looked all around, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. I did eventually spot her – she was striding along the beach, her colourful figure bright against the brilliant white sand. And on her way I swear she picked up a boat. Like a proper old rowing boat. Red. Wooden. Heavy.

I pinched myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. To make sure I was there. And real. Wincing in pain as I watched a small red patch appear on my forearm, I knew it was real. I was real. And Marie MacAskill was real, too.