Free In a Good Light by Clare Chambers

you’d better pray you’re never shipwrecked!’
    It was an exceptional day in every way. The early start meant we hadn’t had time to buy food for the evening meal, so on the way back to the caravan we stopped for fish and chips, which we ate out of paper with little wooden forks. Frizzled nuggets of golden batter, and soft, fat chips, stinging with salt and vinegar: nothing would ever taste as good again.
    â€˜When I’m earning money,’ Christian whispered later, as we followed Dad’s swinging torch beam across the field to the chemiloo before bedtime, ‘I’m going to have fish and chips and white ice-cream every night. You wait and see.’
    I kept that little fork wrapped in a piece of tissue in my pocket until we were back home again, when I transferred it to the empty Germolene tin that held all my treasures.
    When it was time to leave and return to the Old Schoolhouse and what remained of the summer holidays, Mum told us we would be stopping in Bath for lunch with the owner of the caravan, whom we were to address as Aunty Barbara, though she was no relation. Although I’d never met her, I knew the name from birthday cards, whichshe sent several weeks late, if at all. These cards were sometimes accompanied by an inappropriate gift – indoor fireworks, for example, or a glassblowing kit. Her latest present to me had been a model of a silver Aston Martin, as driven by James Bond. On the bottom of the box was a label reading: To Donovan, love from Daddy.
    â€˜Will I have to kiss her?’ asked Christian, who at twelve was starting not to enjoy being slobbered over by grown-ups.
    â€˜No. Not if you don’t want to,’ Dad promised him.
    â€˜If she gives us mash will I have to eat it?’
    â€˜Of course. She’ll have gone to a lot of trouble to give us lunch.’
    â€˜Will we have to sit and talk to her?’ Christian wanted to know. We were just turning up the hill to her house, one of a sand-coloured terrace, with black railings and steps leading up to the front door.
    â€˜Do stop worrying,’ said Mum. ‘It’ll be perfectly fine. ‘She’s got a boy about your age. You can talk to him.’
    â€˜Whose age?’ I said, brightening at the prospect of young company and strange new toys to play with.
    â€˜Oh, in the middle, I think,’ Mum said vaguely, as we pulled up outside number twelve Clifton Villas. A terracotta plant pot containing some bruised petunias stood awkwardly on the third step, partly blocking the way. Dad bent to move it and then stood up sharply as a fat drop of water hit him on the back of the neck. We looked up to see a steady drip, drip, falling from the overflow pipe to land squarely in the flower pot. ‘Ah,’ said Dad, stepping round it to ring the doorbell.
    From within the house a voice called, ‘Get that, Donovan,’ and a few seconds later the door opened an inchor two and snagged against a chain. A boy bigger than me stood in the gap, frowning.
    â€˜What do you want?’ he said.
    Dad rocked nervously on his heels, holding out the box of Genuine Welsh Fudge he’d just bought at Aust Services. ‘Hello. We’ve come to see Mummy.’
    â€˜Hang on,’ the boy said, slamming the door on us. We could hear his retreating footsteps and then a muffled exchange of ‘Who is it?’ ‘Some people to see you.’ ‘Find out what they want. Oh never mind, I’ll do it myself.’
    Mum and Dad rolled their eyes at each other, and then there was a clatter as someone fumbled the chain off and the door flew open. Although it was nearly lunchtime the woman standing before us was still in her dressing gown, which was pink satin and decorated with coffee-coloured stains. Her hair was half in and half out of a bird’s nest arrangement on top of her head, and her eyes were two squashed spiders of smudged mascara.
    â€˜What the F—’, she began,