Free In the Kitchen by Monica Ali

the likes of Astley Street. Number 22 belonged to a newly built row of houses, with aluminium-framed windows, paved drives and carports. There was a garden at the back instead of a yard, and beyond the garden was farmland, great big runny-eyed Friesians staring into the wind. From the dining-room window, at the front of the house, Gabriel liked to watch the dark grey-greens of Rivington Moor, shifting shades beneath the hurrying clouds. Looking down into the basin between, he was gravely impressed by the sight of the mills, Rileys and Cardwells, Laycocks, Boorlands and the rest, the narrow streets flocking to them, the houses huddled in orderly queues. That he was surrounded by countryside surprised him. He had known, he supposed, that it was there.
    Sometimes Dad took them for walks on the moor. But when they were living in Astley Street, the world was made of red brick, yellow flagstone, grey cobble, and the coloured glass marbles that he liked to roll along the cracks.
    The Howarths moved into number 17. 'You can breathe a bit up here,' said Mr Howarth. 'I've got nowt against 'em but who wants to smell curry, seven o'clock in the morning to eleven o'clock at night?'
    Dad opened two tins of Watneys. 'Right you are, Tom.' He shook his head. 'Got nowt against no one, have we, but what I want to know is, have they thought it through? They bring 'em in now, all right, there's work to be done. But what happens, thirty, forty year from now, when it's them what's taken over the town?'
    'Who?' said Jenny, looking up from dressing her doll.
    'Breed like rabbits 'n' all,' said Mr Howarth, wiping ale from his chin.
    'I want a rabbit,' said Jenny. 'Dad, can I have a rabbit? I won't let it poo in the house.'
    She wasn't allowed a rabbit. Mum said she could but Dad said no, of course.
    Mum said let's be rabbits, then, if we can't get a real one. They spent an afternoon hopping round the house, rubbing noses and nibbling carrots, until Jen sat on Mum's feet and refused to let her hop any more.
    Mum loved the new house, particularly the sliding doors from the sun lounge to the garden. She'd stand one foot in, one foot out, and say, 'This is the way to live.'
    For a while there were no arguments about tea. Mum would wait by the front door for Dad, lead him into the kitchen and sit him down with a peck on the cheek. She bought some lacy white aprons and walked around in them, talking about baking chocolate cakes and waving a wooden spoon. Gabriel thought she looked beautiful, even more than when she wore the thing with metal hoops. She went to Lorenzo's and had a pixie cut, right over her ears, a wispy fringe that got in her big brown eyes. She wore the new style of trouser suits and shirts with collars that kept extending. She said her breasts were too small and she didn't like her nose but Gabriel thought everything was just right.
    'I'm sorry, Jen,' she would say, 'you've got my nose. Just hope you get a bit more up top.'
    After school they would rush in, hoping to find her in the mood for a game.
    They played knights and dragons and turned the whole house upside down. They sat at the kitchen table, 'reading' tea leaves and saying who or what they wanted to be when they were 'born again'. 'I'm coming back as an Arab stallion,' said Mum. 'Or maybe an astronaut, I fancy going into space.' Jenny wanted to know if you really could come back and have another life. 'Hindus think so,' said Mum. 'Is Mr Akbar a Hindu?' said Jenny, meaning the man who bought their old house. 'I expect so, love,' said Mum.
    One afternoon, they got home and she'd turned the whole sitting room into a Bedouin tent, flowered sheets draping the walls, Mum sitting cross-legged smoking a hubble-bubble pipe. Another time she was stretched out on a plank between two ladders, painting the ceiling with clouds and butterflies, which Dad painted over, of course. The next week she had written a play, on the back of last year's calendar, a scene for every page or month, and wanted