Free Now You See Me by Lesley Glaister

chair. ‘Nice lass, Sarah,’ he added, which had sunk in by then. He’d got his Zimmer near the sink and was leaning perilously out to fill the kettle.
    â€˜I’ll wash these things up,’ I said when he’d moved out of the way. There were little bits of rice in the sink from the risotto. ‘How old is she?’ I asked.
    â€˜Twenty,’ he said, ‘or thereabouts.’
    â€˜Same as me,’ I said.
    He turned. He can’t turn his head so he swivelled his whole body. ‘No!’ he said after peering for a minute. ‘I’d have put you down for sweet sixteen.’
    I don’t know why people think you should be so pleased to look like a kid when you’re not, even if you do feel like one. ‘Actually I’m twenty next week,’ I said.
    He turned back to his teapot. ‘Flesh on her bones though,’ he said. ‘Nice pair of Bristols.’
    â€˜What!’ I went. I couldn’t stop myself. I mean, Bristols .
    He did his dirty laugh and starting hacking at a ginger cake with a potato peeler. ‘She did me a mop-round,’ he said, ‘so there’s no need for you to lift a finger this afternoon. Just keep me company.’
    â€˜Great,’ I said thinking she could at least have washed up. But I had no heart for cleaning. Really I just wanted to think about Doggo. Or, to not think about him. I didn’t know what to talk about so I asked if I could look at his photos again. He asked why. I said I was doing a thesis about fashion.
    â€˜Thesis?’ he said.
    â€˜For my degree.’
    â€˜Didn’t say you were a student,’ he said.
    â€˜Art school,’ I said and he looked surprised. I don’t why that should be so surprising.
    He nodded at the sideboard. ‘Help yourself, duck.’
    But it is rubbish about art school, that’s the last thing I would ever do. Since I was about three all I really wanted to be was a doctor. I used to toddle about with one of those plastic hammers banging people on the knee and bandaging their fingers together. Then when I got older I could see myself in a white coat, rushing importantly from ward to ward, stethoscope slung around my neck. In a way I still want to be a doctor but I do realise I’ve totally blown it now.
    Mr Dickens poured the tea and rabbited on while I turned the pages of the album very slowly, watching the tissue flutter between the stiff card. I stared and stared at Zita in all her fantastic dresses and hats and especially the wigs. When I got to the page with Zita holding the baby I stopped.
    â€˜Whose baby?’
    â€˜Ah …’
    I could have kicked myself when I saw Mr Dickens’ face cave in. His eyes went dull as if there’d been a power cut inside him.
    â€˜It’s OK,’ I said.
    But he swallowed and said, ‘Belinda, our little lass. We had her three weeks. It were what they now call a cot death.’
    We sat quiet for a minute then listening to Doughnut wheezing and the clock ticking. I was thinking back to what he’d said before, that there was only the one offspring between the three brothers. I wanted to ask if he didn’t count Belinda just because she had died. Do you count babies that have died as offspring or not? It seemed like an important question. I wanted to ask that but how could I?
    â€˜Two tragedies of my life,’ Mr Dickens said. ‘Cot death – and then Zita. I do wonder if their deaths had been more run of mill it might not have been so …’ He stared at the plastic flames then he did a long sigh like he was going to breathe his whole soul out. ‘On the other hand,’ he said, ‘they would still be …’
    â€˜Yes,’ I said fast to stop him saying it.
    He looked up. ‘Sarah says I must get someone on to garden,’ he said and I breathed out. He’s good like that, Mr Dickens. Brave. He took a long slurpy sip of tea. ‘Know anyone?’
    I