Free To Be Someone by Louise Voss

the evidence. “I’d better sweep this carpet—stay there, I’ll be back in a minute.”
    I was just galloping down the stairs to retrieve the carpet-sweeper when the front door began to open. I could tell immediately, before Mum had even entered the house, how uptight she was—it was a Thinifer period, and I had developed a kind of sixth sense about the state of her moods.
    “Hello, Mummy, come and see—me and Sam have got a dance for you,” I said nervously, helping her out of her swing coat.
    “Sam and I,” Mum corrected automatically. Several beads of sweat had managed to struggle through the thick blanket of face powder covering her forehead, and she stopped in front of the hall mirror to pat them away with a tissue.
    “And we’ve decorated the hat box you gave us. It’s going to be the Hel-Sam Box of Important Stuff. We’re not watching telly, like you said. We’re amusing ourselves.”
    I took my mother’s hand and tried to drag her upstairs, and for the first time she noticed my appearance.
    “Helena—what on earth are you wearing? And what’s that all over the sleeves? Felt pen? And glue? You’re covered with glitter! How could you be so naughty and thoughtless, to do gluing in Daddy’s best shirt!”
    My head drooped. “But I had to wear it; it’s part of your surprise,” I said in a small voice. “Come and see.”
    I was miserably aware that Mum was working herself up into a full Thinifer rage. Her eyes were bugging out, and a drop of the escaping sweat on her forehead was making a bid for freedom down the side of her cheek.
    “For heaven’s sake, Helena!” she snapped. “I told you and Sam to play quietly until I came back. I did not tell you to root through your father’s wardrobe and then get his best shirt all mucky. And if there’s that much glitter on you, what sort of state is your bedroom floor in, might I ask? ”
    “It’s perfectly clean,” I said truthfully, my heart sinking further. Mum bustled past me and up the stairs.
    “Good. I’m sorry, Helena, but I’m too tired to watch you do anything at the moment. I’m going for a lie down in my …  Oh! ”
    I raced up after her, to find Sam standing in the middle of my parents’ bedless room, clad in necklaces and a green towel, hair in a flick that could put your eye out—but thankfully with no incriminating signs of the box, glue, felt-tip pens, or colored paper. Even more fortunately, the sun had gone behind a cloud, making the glitter in the carpet invisible.
    “What have you done with the bed ?” screeched my mother, as if Sam and I had personally carried it, iron bedstead, mattress, and all, down the stairs and into the coal shed.
    “Nothing,” we chorused.
    I didn’t want to let out the secret, but some explanation was obviously required.
    “You’re getting a new bed. It’s a surprise from Daddy,” I admitted reluctantly.
    “It certainly is,” said Mum, tight-lipped. “Now just go away, you two, out from under my feet. Put that towel back in the airing cupboard, and that shirt’ll have to be washed. If the glue doesn’t come off it, you’ll be buying Daddy a new one from your pocket money. And who gave you permission to put on my necklaces and use my curling tongs? Go! ”
    Sam shot out of the room, but I lingered for a moment. “But why can’t we do our dance for you, Mummy?”
    She flopped down on the vanity stool in front of her dressing table and fanned herself with a copy of last week’s Radio Times , which she’d picked out of the wastepaper basket for that purpose.
    “I’m sorry, love,” she said, making an effort. My mother always seemed to be apologizing to me. “Maybe later, eh?”
    I lost my temper. Hot tears of frustration burst out of my eyes, and I stamped my foot on the magic carpet. “You’re always sorry, and you’re always telling me to go away! Well, one of these days I’ll go and I won’t come back! In fact, I’m going to go and live at the Grants’—Mrs. Grant