Free Game Girls by Judy Waite Page B

haven't got
anything timetabled in at college, so I'm free. I
think you are too, Courtney, but I'm not sure
about Fern. They're supposed to be collecting
Dale's mobile, but I don't really believe it. I
mean – you don't need two guys to carry a
phone.'
    'What are you getting at?' Courtney's face is
a mask of cold stone.
    Alix sweetens a smile at her. Do it. Just do
it. Fern isn't going to understand, and she can
work on her later. 'I wondered if you fancied
being around? We could make them an offer
they couldn't refuse.'
    'Is Aaron coming with them?' Fern has
flushed pink, the words rushing out of her.
Alix can see she's following a different agenda.
Good. 'No. Just Tom and Dale.'
    Fern's face takes on an odd expression, and
Alix can't decide if she's disappointed or
relieved. 'I couldn't have been there anyway –
I've got English Wednesday afternoon. I'm not
allowed to miss it.'
    'Oh. Shame.'
    Courtney is staring at Alix.
    Alix meets the look. 'It could mean
REALLY good money,' she says.
     
    * * *

F ERN works in the old boathouse, rolling
out slabs of clay. Today, in college, they did
figure drawings, and now she wants to make
figures of her own. She's got an idea that won't
go away – strange images in her head. In these
images there are people struggling through
slime. They are not quite human. She sees them
as mud dwellers, lost in a world that lies
trapped beneath the undertow.
    She keeps the door open to give herself the
best light, although it is a grey afternoon.
Misted rain fuzzes up the boats and the river.
The days are shrinking now, so even though it's
still unseasonably warm, it gets dark early. The
electrics don't work – last year's floods ruined
them – and their insurance didn't cover the
outbuildings.
    Dad says – used to say – that he'd get the
wiring sorted and safe again, but it won't
happen now.
    She takes the first slabs, rolling them into legs
and torso. It's going to be a crouching figure,
with clumsy slab hands covering the head.
    Always be aware of danger.
    Beware, beware, the undertow.
    Her hands smooth the clay tenderly, the
way a mother strokes a child. She is working
through touch and instinct now, hardly
needing the feeble light. She loves to work like
this, feeling her way to the heart of what she's
doing. She never uses wheels, or coils, or any
of the normal potter's tools.
    And when she's working properly, when it's
all flowing, everything else just falls away.
Nothing matters – except getting it right.
    Maybe the undertow is a kind of angered
God. Maybe He wants to punish people for
hurting the weather and changing the ways the
currents flow, so he drags poor souls down
through the dark sucking mud. Maybe the
dragged-down souls dream about the world
above the river. The world above the river is
their vision of heaven.
    Outside, a cormorant shrieks across the
darkness.
    The rain grows heavier, tinning down onto
the roof.
    She dips her hands in a bowl of cold water,
sluicing off the excess clay, and then turns back
to the workbench to roll slabs for the head.
    'Fern, sweetheart – how are you doing?'
    Fern almost screams as she jolts round,
startled and disorientated, the way she always
is when people appear suddenly when she's lost
in her work. Mum is by the door, pulling at the
front of a tired grey cardigan, wrapping herself
into it. Her hair is drizzled with rain.
    Fern takes a breath. 'I'm doing OK.'
    Mum comes closer and squints at the
slabbed body parts. 'It's . . . it's very different.
Not like the things you usually do.'
    Fern feels a scraping of irritation. 'I can't get
the face right,' she mutters.
    Mum tilts her head, stepping back to try
and gain a longer view. 'It's so gloomy in here
– it must be hard to work in all these shadows.'
    The irritation scratches through Fern again.
Without answering she twists a handful of
fresh clay from the bag on the bench and
begins to roll it very thin, twizzling and
squeezing it between her fingers.
    'What's that going to