Free Lullaby Girl by Aly Sidgwick

brings an old woman out of a caravan to look at me. I walk round a darkened sitting room, between old people in brocade chairs. The clock on the wall has golden pine cones hanging from it. At bath time the water that comes from the taps is brown, but Mummy says it isn’t dirty. We eat meatloaf, and soft peas which come from a tin. Tomorrow we will have the special meat pie from the butcher’s. If I’m good I can have a stick of tablet, and they might let me ride the tractor again.
    #
    A hand shakes me awake. I flinch. But iss jus’ Mary. I fling my arms round her, an’ she hugs me back. I look round the room. We’re alone. The walls are the same colour as when I fell asleep, but I see by the freshness in Mary’s face that iss morning. Mary points at Joyce’s perfectly made bed. Then she points to the door. Makes an eating sign.
    ‘Am I locked in?’ I ask. The smile fades from Mary’s eyes, an’ she nods. I return my head to my pillow. After a bit, Mary’s hand touches my shoulder. She strokes my arm, then my hair. When I raise my eyes again I find her starin’ at the floor. Not for the first time, I notice the lumps on her wrists.
    ‘What time is it?’
    Mary holds up one finger. I nod.
    ‘Is it windy outside?’ I ask. But I barely get the words out before burstin’ into tears. Mary drags me to her shoulder. Her tight little fingers dig into my back. For ages we rock backwards an’ forwards. Then I dig my face in her side, an’ ev’rythin’ goes still.
    By the time I look up, Mary’s eyes are back on the floor. As my breathin’ gets more normal, her eyes drift back, an’ we watch each other through the thickenin’ film of tears.
    ‘I’m scared,’ I say.
    Mary does not nod or smile. She jus’ pushes the hair from my forehead. I droop back to the pillow, close my eyes, an’ try to breathe. Mary’s shadow casts a cool blindfold across my face, shieldin’ me from the light bulb. Mary makes no sound, but I know she is still there.

7
    January 13th, 2005.
    The Tyneside skies are the colour of charcoal as the ferry coasts towards the open sea. On the land, Mum’s face is so tiny I can barely tell it’s her. But my instincts tell me it has to be. Poor old thing. In the car park there, on the easternmost tip of the land. One hand fluttering endlessly, the other raised to her head, probably holding Dad’s binoculars. Can she see our smiles from there? I hope so, for her own peace of mind. Magnus’s hand is warm around my own. He has stopped waving, but I keep going for my mother’s sake. She hasn’t changed position for a full five minutes. Around her, couples break off and amble to their cars, which are parked in a neat line behind them. Isn’t that their Beetle? The rust-red one peeking out from behind the wall? It stings me to know Dad is sitting inside and did not come out to wave. Mum can’t drive, so he must be there. His last, clumsy insult replays in my head and drives an involuntary scowl from me. But this time I refuse to let the pain take root. Today, my real life begins. I have Magnus, and Magnus is a better man than he’ll ever be.
    ‘I am frightened to speak, in case she reads my lips,’ gottle-o-geers Magnus. I look at his face – uncharacteristically deadpan – and get a fit of the giggles. ‘Let’s start swearing,’ he says, ‘just in case,’ and reels off an increasingly colourful list of English profanities. I stop waving and push him in the chest. The trademark boyish smile beams through then, and for a moment I am paralysed by his beauty. Magnus brushes the hair from my eyes, and it looks for all the world like he’s about to kiss me. But a bloodthirsty cackle comes out instead, and he swoops to fake-bite my neck. I scream.
    ‘You are not a vampire,’ I scold, half-heartedly.
    ‘Mwah hah hah!’ he rumbles into my throat.
    ‘Wait … my mum …’
    ‘She’s gone,’ he murmurs, placing a kiss in the hollow above my collarbone. I look over his shoulder and