Free Another Night, Another Day by Sarah Rayner Page A

is coming up the path, holding a little boy’s hand. Behind him is a woman with a small baby in
a sling strapped to her chest. ‘We’re the Donaldsons.’
    Oh no, thinks Abby. They’re early.
    There’s a commotion as everyone crosses paths in the porch. Abby says, ‘Ah yes, come on in,’ at the same time as Eva says, ‘Sorry, don’t mind us, we’re on our
way out.’ As Mrs Donaldson makes way for them, the baby’s papoose brushes against Callum’s cheek and he recoils as if burnt, leaping onto the lawn.
    Mrs Donaldson looks bewildered. ‘The baby’s not going to hurt you,’ she says to him.
    Uh-oh, red alert, thinks Abby, as Callum bats his arms and howls in distress. Luckily Eva picks up what’s happening, shoots round the Donaldsons and coaxes, ‘We’re walking to
school, Callum, walking to school.’ She knows better than to offer overt comfort in the form of a hug or kiss; it’s more important to reassure him his routine is not being changed.
    Abby forces a smile and says, ‘Hello and welcome,’ encouraging the visitors into the hall with an expansive gesture. She shuts the door, praying Eva and Callum will be OK.
    ‘This is Finn,’ says the man, placing a paternal hand on top of his son’s head.
    ‘Hello, Finn,’ says Abby, crouching to the child’s level. ‘How old are you?’
    ‘Three.’ Finn’s father answers for him.
    ‘Three and a
half
,’ says Finn.
    Abby laughs, and waits in the hall for a few moments to allow them to take in the space.
    Mr Donaldson nods, ‘Nice,’ and Abby is pleased to see him look up at the cornice, but the woman is still frowning, stroking her baby’s downy hair.
    I bet she’s wondering about Callum, thinks Abby, but she’s keen to avoid getting caught up in an explanation. If the Donaldsons feel guilty or embarrassed, it might affect their view
of her home. The agent has bigged them up: they are cash buyers.
    They both seem taken by the kitchen – thank goodness Abby got rid of that broken TV screen – and when Finn pipes up, ‘It’s
much
nicer than the last house we saw,
Daddy,’ she warms further to the little boy.
    They enthuse over the lounge, but as Abby leads them up to the first floor, the woman says, ‘How odd – your stair carpet’s paler in the middle than the outside; ours is the
other way round from being trampled with dirt,’ and Abby is torn. She could offer an account as to why:
Callum took a packet of flour and emptied it up the stairs. He was fascinated by
the white powder and the trail was rather beautiful . . .
Yet she fears that without also explaining her son’s condition, it will simply sound as if Callum is very badly behaved,
especially compared to their own little boy. She could play it another way, and regale them with stories that are bound to shock them into sympathizing. She could show them the locks on all the
food cupboards and the fridge, and explain that they’re there not merely to stop her son sneaking biscuits – or even flour: he’s just as likely to eat an entire tub of butter,
fill the sink with honey or post dirty dinner plates into the bin. Or she could put a positive spin on her circumstances and enthuse about the joy of watching Callum on the trampoline, jumping
higher and longer than any other seven-year-old, ever, and hearing his vocalizations evolve into chuckles of laughter.
    But she is keen to avoid becoming The Woman With the Autistic Child – a label that irks her as much as the tags on Callum’s clothes irritate him. Once strangers see her that way,
they rarely seem able to see her as much else. Right now it’s important she’s The Woman With the Beautiful House, so she keeps schtum and leads them up to the attic.
    ‘I
love
this,’ says the woman, turning to her husband. ‘Wouldn’t it be perfect for Finn when he’s older?’
    Finn’s eyes open wide with excitement.
    Abby shows them the main bedroom – where they gasp at the view from the bay – then Callum’s room,