Free This Perfect World by Suzanne Bugler Page B

crisps, the ripped-up, tangled streamers –
with the unfairness of it all boiling up inside my head, and
yelled, ‘But I didn’t want to invite her! I don’t like her!’
    And my dad grabbed hold of my arm, tight, and glared
at me right up close, with just this one muscle flickering
under his eye, and said, ‘Laura, I do not care whether you
like her or not. That is not the point.’
    But if that wasn’t the point, then what was?

    This morning’s post is still on the table, unopened. I glance
at it, and push it to one side. It’s bills mostly, and junk mail,
all after money, one way or another. One in particular catches
my eye, although I don’t want it to. It’s a begging letter, a
guilt letter. I shouldn’t call it that, but that’s what it is. There’s
a faint, grey pencil sketch of some poor starved child decorating
the envelope. I’ve seen it now; the picture will be stuck
in my head until I open it up, and pay whatever is needed
to make the image go away. I get a lot of these letters.
    I give money here, I give money there, I give it no more
thought.
    But the piece of me that Mrs Partridge wants cannot so
easily be dispensed.
    I have no intention of going to see Heddy Partridge. I
agreed under duress, as James would say. And what possible
use could I be anyway? What do I know about mental hospitals,
for heaven’s sake? What does Mrs Partridge expect me
to do when I’m there? Have a good look round, say This
won’t do , and pack Heddy up and take her home with me?
    The thing is, how shall I say no? It’s always much harder,
once you’ve already said yes.
    The house is quiet now, and my glass empty. I stand up
and take the wine bottle from the fridge, and pour myself
another glass. And then I take the phone from where it’s
lying beside James’s half-drunk cup of tea, and sit back down.
    I’ll tell her I’m too busy. I’ll say, Look, I’m really sorry,
Mrs Partridge, I’d love to be able to help, but I just don’t
have the time at the moment.
    It’ll be easier on the phone than face to face. She’ll get the
message. With any luck she’ll just give up on me, and let me
go. If she does still push me to come and see Heddy, I’ll say
I’m really busy at the moment and can’t fix a date right now,
but I’ll call her, sometime soon. Ultimate fob-off. I’ve done
it a million times before; I can do it again.
    It’s the best thing to do. I don’t have the time. And at least
on the phone I won’t have to avoid her bird-like stare,
imploring me.
    I don’t have Mrs Partridge’s number and our phone directory
doesn’t cover that far out, so I have to phone up
directory enquiries.
    ‘Partridge,’ I say to the operator. ‘Mrs V. Partridge, One
Fairview Lane, Forbury. In Middlesex.’
    But the operator comes back to me and says, ‘Sorry, we
have no listing for that number,’ and hangs up.
    I sit there, listening to the dialling tone.
    ‘Shit!’ I mutter out loud and lay down the phone. Why
on earth would Mrs Partridge be ex-directory?
    This means I’ll have go to her house on Tuesday, then, like
I agreed. I don’t have any choice now. But I’m not going with
her to see Heddy. I’ll go to Mrs Partridge’s house and I’ll tell
her, straight away. I won’t even go in, I’ll ring the doorbell,
say I can’t stop, I just wanted to let you know . . .
    I’ll think of something.
    I drum my fingers against my glass in annoyance; wine

sloshes over the rim, and runs red across my hand.
    There’s no way on earth I’m going with Mrs Partridge to
St Anne’s Hospital to see Heddy.

 

SIX
    On Sunday evening I am sitting on the floor with bits of
grey felt and white fake-fur spread out all around me. I’ve
cut out a big body shape from the felt, like a tabard, that
Thomas can just pop his head through, and now I’m sewing
on the arms. The legs were a problem, a big problem. I was
going to cut out two long pieces of felt and sew them up