Free In a Good Light by Clare Chambers Page A

and then as the moment of recognition dawned her face seemed to collapse with embarrassment. ‘Oh Christ. It’s never today already,’ she said, and shrank back behind the door, emitting a strange whimpering noise.
    â€˜Look, why don’t you lot wait in the car,’ Dad said, taking control. He handed Mum the keys and the fudge and we trooped back down the steps, while he slipped inside and closed the door.
    â€˜What was wrong with her?’ Christian asked, when we were all safely inside the car.
    â€˜I don’t know.’ I could see Mum’s face in the mirror, her eyes pinched shut. ‘She may have only just got out of bed. Clearly she’s not expecting us for lunch.’
    â€˜I’m hungry!’ I wailed.
    â€˜Here.’ Mum passed back the box of fudge, an uncharacteristic gesture which showed the full measure of her preoccupation. ‘You might as well have some of this. There’ll be nothing else for a while.’
    Christian and I fell on the box, clawing at the cellophane, before she could change her mind. On the front was a woman in fancy dress – a black and white checked skirt and a sawn-off witch’s hat with a frill, superimposed on a background of mountains and blue, blue sky. It wasn’t a scene we recognised from the mudflats of Milford Haven, but the fudge was everything we could have wished for: smooth and buttery and sweeter than sugar itself. We ate piece after piece, our heads lolling in ecstasy. Mum hunted in the bag at her feet and produced her knitting needles from which hung the beginnings of another square for the Universal Quilt. Her fingers began to work, quickly, rhythmically, the ball of wool jumping beside her.
    Half an hour passed. The woollen square was finished and cast off and another one begun. A pound of fudge sat heavily in our stomachs, the box lying empty on the seat between us, proclaiming our guilt, our greed, our lack of restraint. Any second now Mum would notice and we’d be in disgrace for the rest of the day.
    â€˜What do you think he’s doing in there?’ Christian ventured to ask.
    Tick, tick, went the knitting needles. ‘I don’t know,’ Mum replied. ‘Just lending a hand.’
    â€˜How much longer will he be?’
    â€˜I’ve no more idea than you, darling. We shall just have to wait patiently.’
    As she said this, the front door opened and Dad emerged,holding a small suitcase. Behind him stood the boy whose frowning face we had glimpsed briefly. Dad gestured to me to move across onto the uncomfortable ridge between the two back seats. ‘This is Donovan,’ he said, ushering him in. ‘He’s coming to stay.’
    We exchanged quick, embarrassed smiles, sizing each other up, then Donovan turned back to stare at the blank windows of his house. His mother had not come out to wave him off. Mum raised an enquiring eyebrow.
    â€˜She’s suffering from the . . . er . . . wrath of grapes,’ Dad replied in a whisper. ‘I’ve rung her best friend, Joan. She’s on her way over. It’s not the first time, apparently.’ And then at full volume: ‘Everyone comfortable in the back? Ha ha. Just say if it gets too breezy.’
    The small matter of lunch seemed to have been forgotten, but I could hardly raise it without reminding Mum about the fudge. In any case I was feeling slightly sick. I concentrated on stealing glances at Donovan’s profile. He had light brown hair, thick and close cut, like the pelt of a small mammal, so that it was all I could do to stop myself stroking the furry nape of his neck. His nose was straight and sprayed with freckles, and when he finally turned his head and caught me staring I could see that his eyes were pale green like the pebbles of glass that wash up on the beach after years and years at sea.
    â€˜Are you a boy or a girl?’ he asked, squinting. His confusion was understandable in