Free Vintage by Maxine Linnell Page B

work it out – with two boys and a man who didn’t know how to boil an egg.”
    â€œHe’s all right. Really.”
    â€œAnyway, if you’re okay to help, maybe you could wipe the dust off this stuff and put it in some carriers. I should have done that in the first place.”
    Marilyn fetched a cloth from the sink, ran it under the tap and squeezed it dry. So the mum had noticed a difference in her. What was Holly like? This mum was so nice and chatty, like a big sister. Wasn’t Holly happy here? Was she as fed up as Marilyn had been in her own time? How could she be?
    She began to go through the tins and packets. It gave her a chance to look at what they were – strange mixtures of things, not flour and sugar and rice like her kitchen at home, but mixtures to stir into water that made soup, or even whole meals.
    She wondered when anyone ate all this stuff. Maybe it was there in case of shortages, like dried milk and some old powdered egg her mother still kept ‘in case’, in the pantry. That seemed to have been turned into a toilet now. Why would anyone need two toilets?
    â€œCould you look at the sell-by dates? I should think half of this is out of date. Chuck it if it’s gone.”
    Marilyn sighed, worked out what she meant, and got on with the job. It was strange seeing 2010, even 2011 on the stuff.
    Eventually Marilyn got towards the back of the pile. On top was a yellowing sheet of paper, folded into four, covered in dust with a string of cobweb across it.
    Not knowing why, she pushed it into her pocket for later and carried on wiping the tins and checking the dates.

Sheila leaves. Her mum wants her back home by three. Can’t believe she does everything her mum wants. Seems happy to. Go downstairs with her to the front door. She seems to expect it. Marilyn’s dad is groaning in the kitchen. Loads of crashing about. I’m not going in there, he scares me. He’s not really there, somehow. And he talks in a clipped-up way. Like some robot.
    I head for the front room. Door’s open. The boy’s in there. Watching football on TV. Only you can hardly tell the ball from the black and white dots on the screen.
    I’m feeling braver after the cry. And after rescuing myself from the mix-up with Sheila.
    â€œHi, bro,” I say, like I might if I had a little brother. I always wanted a little brother. But not like this one.
    â€œShut up, Maz,” he says. Swinging his legs on the sofa. Must be about eight, but he’s got grey shorts on. Even though it’s cold.
    â€œWhat’s on?” I settle myself next to him. He looks at me. Moves away.
    â€œYou wouldn’t be interested. It’s the football.”
    â€œWho’s playing?”
    â€œSince when did you care?”
    I give up trying to be nice to him. “Do you know any science fiction stories? You know, about aliens, and time travel and that?”
    I look at him carefully. Eyes don’t leave the screen.
    â€œCourse. I read comics, stupid.”
    â€œI’ve got something to tell you.” I need to tell someone. Or I’ll explode. But not sure this is a good idea.
    â€œI know, you’re an alien. I knew it. You don’t belong in this family at all.” He still doesn’t sound very interested.
    â€œIt’s not quite like that. I’m not Marilyn.”
    His eyes swivel over to me. Take a look. Then go back to the TV.
    â€œI used to be – I am – called Holly, and I come from the twenty-first century.”
    He folds his arms.
    â€œYou’re always telling fibs. I’ll tell Mum.”
    I give up. Nobody listens. But nobody.

“That’s better. Have you had any lunch?”
    Holly’s mum stood back and looked at the kitchen. It didn’t look much better to Marilyn. It still looked like her own life was exposed behind this life, Holly’s life. She wanted to cover everything up again, forget it had ever