Bottle by Georgia Hilton

Shortlisted for the second Lunate 500 competition

‘As in her poetry, Georgia demonstrates absolute mastery of language in Bottle. The greater achievement, however, is the insertion into this expertly crafted flash of its underlying story: so subtly hinted at. This beguiling piece is underscored by an implacable tension, and we find ourselves so immediately immersed in these characters’ lives, we want to know more—we desperately want to see what happens next.’

Lunate editors

….

The yellow cream sits thick on the top of the milk. The two children sit watching the bottle closely, waiting for their mother to depress the red foil top and dispense its contents. They used to both clamour for it but have since learned that the child sitting most patiently is usually rewarded. Nevertheless, like cats watching a goldfish bowl, neither of them can take their eyes from the bottle.

The kettle steams and hisses, the dog whines at the back door. A wreath of cigarette smoke curls its way around their mother’s towelled head. She has a faraway look this morning, her eyes wandering to the net curtains behind which a bluebottle is angrily buzzing. One day she will sweep its desiccated body from the window sill, but for now its agitation is like a thought that she can’t quite hold onto.

The boy leans forward in his seat. Unable to wait any longer he reaches a hand towards the milk bottle, and his sister immediately cries — ‘don’t!’

Their mother snaps to in irritation, swatting his hand away. They’re like flies, these two, circling around meat. She wouldn’t be surprised if they were the ones making the buzzing noise. This is why she can never concentrate! The intensity of the children’s demands is intolerable, even when they are silent.

For a moment she considers dashing the bottle against the wall. Instead, she takes another draw on her cigarette, stretches and stands up. Hearing the chair scrape on the tiles, the dog whines again. Its snout is working noisily along the bottom of the door now, trying to inhale news of the kitchen.

‘Shut up,’ she says, under her breath.

The children are tense, straining at heel in their spaniel eagerness. I suppose I’ll get no peace until I give them the milk, she thinks. Sighing she takes two glasses and places them on the table. She conducts a mental tally. Who got the cream yesterday? Who deserves it today?

The little girl can’t bear it any longer.

‘Give Des the cream,’ she says.

Des looks astonished at his sister.

‘You can have it tomorrow so,’ he says, smiling.

Their mother pours the milk, first into Des’s glass, where the thick yellow cream falls in an oily blob, and then the thinner white milk into Kate’s glass. The children hold hands as they drink, glugging with their faces upturned as if they were still babies suckling from a bottle.

Odd things they are. She ladles out the porridge and the rest of the milk is mixed into it. Relaxed now they eat slowly, gazing at the patterned tablecloth. Their mother thinks she might go back to bed, if only the dog would stop its whining. Even the buzzing of the bluebottle has lost its intensity now — its efforts are only sporadic, punctuated by silence.