Free Letters From My Sister by Alice Peterson

was unbelievably attractive, the sort of man who could get away with anything. I remember thinking what a big nose he had. I mean, you can hardly miss it, can you, girls? But it didn’t matter, it went with his long thin face. And his eyes were so flirtatious …’ She was getting carried away now. ‘He only had to smile and his eyes were chatting you up. You’ll know what I mean when you’re older. I remember him giving me his business card. Christopher Fletcher. Marianne Fletcher, I said to myself.’
    ‘Mum, that’s sad,’ I sigh heavily. I can’t imagine wanting to marry any of the boys in my school.
    ‘You’ll be doing the same one day. You don’t want to marry anyone with a surname like Pratt, or Burk, or Fogsbottom.’
    She’s right. There
is
a girl at school whose surname is Smellie and she dreads the school register each morning. Bells is laughing, and this conversation is annoying me now. I turn to look out of the window.
    The auction room is dark, with lots of people coming in and out. The carpet is red. I’m sitting next to a man with such a large moustache he looks like a walrus. Mum was too mean to buy us a catalogue each, so I try to lean over and look at Walrus’s. I can see lots of stars scribbled on each page next to the prices.
    Over breakfast Dad explained how an auction worked. ‘There’s an estimate for each painting and then a reserve price, which means I can’t sell below that figure. I’m proud my girls are going to be watching me today,’ he added as he ate his last mouthful of toast.
    The Walrus peers over at me and I sit straight in my chair. He twirls a pen in his fingers and eyes me curiously. ‘You want to have a look?’ he says in a heavy accent. He is a French walrus.
    This feels exciting. Like when you go to the cinema and everyone is waiting for the main film to start. Everyone is waiting for my dad.
    Finally he enters the auction room in his polished shoes, smart suit and tie. I chose his tie this morning. He lets me do that sometimes. He’s wearing the black-rimmed glasses that make him look clever. ‘That’s my dad,’ I whisper loudly to my French neighbour. I do think my dad is good-looking.
    ‘Good afternoon, we have a feast of paintings here today so let’s get started.’ He coughs to clear his throat and I watch him intently. ‘Lot number one. Sketch by Matisse of a lady’s face. Who’s going to start the bidding at twenty-five thousand pounds …?’
    The Walrus holds up what looks like a ping-pong bat.
    Suddenly the bidding is fast and furious. I turn to the Walrus in amazement as he continues to put up his ping-pong bat. As the auction heats up, Mum is growing redder in the face from trying to stop Bells putting up her hand to confuse the bidding. ‘Hello, Dad!’ she calls out. I can hear people tut-tutting behind us and whispering, ‘Why bring a child to a place like this? It’s quite ridiculous.’ I turn around and give the two old ladies one of my dirtiest looks.
    ‘That’s my dad!’ Bells shouts now, waving at him.
    I feel Mum’s hand tug at mine. ‘We’re going,’ she mutters. ‘Excuse me,’ she asks the person next to her. Chairs are shifted, legs are tucked in to allow us to pass. I don’t want to go. I can feel everyone’s eyes on us and the two old ladies nudge each other triumphantly. ‘Whatever happened to being seen but not heard?’ I turn around and stick two fingers up at them. The two ladies gasp and my father looks at me, disappointment in his eyes. ‘’Bye, Dad,’ Bells is now calling out, people still staring.
    In the car on the way home I scream, ‘Why can’t you be normal? We can’t go anywhere with you!’
    Mum brakes suddenly and swerves into the side of the road.
    ‘Danger, danger,’ Bells says in the back seat, laughing.
    ‘Shut up, Bells!’ I screech at her.
    Mum swerves again to avoid a cyclist and goes into the pavement instead, the tyres burning against the kerb in protest. The driver behind us