Free Touch by Graham Mort

wasn’t really watching. It was a children’s programme anyway, one she felt too old for. She leaned forwards to switch it off and then went to open the blinds.
    The light struck at her eyes, cascading across the surface of the boating lake. They lived very close to the park and she was used to seeing couples sprawling on the grass with transistor radios, joggers with Walkmans, or solitary men walking their dogs. Lucy whispered the words of the television commercial. So silly that it was mesmerising.
    Now you know there’s a better way to feed your dog!
    She looked through into the kitchen again, frowning at her mother’s calves.
    A young starling flew down in front of the lounge window and startled her for a second by clawing at the glass.
    â€˜Wouldn’t you like to go round to Anna’s or something?’
    Her mother’s voice came over the sound of the lettuce being sluiced in the sink. Everything had to be brisk, smart, efficient. Like her little Ford Fiesta that she went health visiting in, parked right there in the driveway.
    â€˜Anna’s on holiday, remember?’
    â€˜Oh yes, where did you say she’d gone?’
    Lucy knew very well that her mother hadn’t forgotten.
    â€˜I told you, Russia.’
    â€˜Ah, yes.’
    Her mother sounded disapproving and bored at the same time. She always managed to turn the tables on you somehow.
    â€˜So what are you going to do today?’
    An edge of annoyance was creeping in to sharpen her voice. Lucy wandered into the kitchen and took a cherry from the fruit bowl, biting it around the stone.
    â€˜Uhm, I don’t know.’
    Her mother put down the colander with a sharp rap.
    â€˜For heaven’s sake, Lucy, you’re fourteen years old! Why on earth can’t you occupy yourself with something?’
    â€˜What’s the matter?’
    â€˜The matter? Nothing’s the matter, it’s just that you’re so... languid.’
    â€˜Languid?’
    Lucy was at her most provocative. Her mother snatched up a knife and began slicing it through the stems of rhubarb that lay on the chopping board. There was silence between them for a few seconds, just the rap, rap, rap of the knife and the little scrunch as her mother pressed on, sliding the blade to sever the fibrous skin. Everything about her was brisk and organised.
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Lucy took another cherry, slowly and deliberately.
    â€˜When’s Daddy coming home?’
    Rap, rap, rap went the knife.
    â€˜When’s Daddy coming home?’
    She repeated it slowly as if her mother was deaf. She watched her stop chopping and straighten up.
    â€˜I don’t know, tomorrow sometime.’
    â€˜Tomorrow?’
    Lucy said the word as if she’d never heard it before. She knew by the way that her mother turned back to the board and crunched the knife through the rhubarb stems that she’d touched her on the raw.
    â€˜Where’s he gone?’
    â€˜Where’s who gone, dear?’
    Lucy opened the pedal bin with her foot and spat the cherry stone in.
    â€˜Daddy, of course!’
    â€˜Oh, he’s at a conference. About allergies.’
    Her mother lifted the rhubarb into another colander – it matched the one that held the lettuce – and rinsed it under the tap. For a moment the water coming through was stained pink from the skins. Lucy’s father was Dr Ainsley and they lived in a large house near the park. Her mother was the health visitor at the local Health Centre. The household was run with medical precision.
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Lucy ran her finger across the working surface. She was bored. Her mother began to untie her kitchen apron and put on a housecoat. Lucy moved towards the door, anticipating a request for help. She was too late.
    â€˜Would you like to dust the lounge?’
    â€˜I was just going out.’
    â€˜Were you? It didn’t look like it to me. Come on, it won’t take you long.’
    Lucy refused to put on an