Free In a Good Light by Clare Chambers Page B

the face of my unisex shorts and T-shirt, and androgynous haircut – a result of Mum’s ongoing war against nits and one-style-fits-all technique.
    â€˜A boy,’ I replied, and he nodded, relieved.
    Christian gave a little snort from his corner, but didn’t give me away.
    â€˜How old are you?’ I asked. I could see he was some years older than me: his mouth was full of large, new teeth, while I still had gaps top and bottom.
    â€˜Ten,’ he replied.
    â€˜Ten,’ Dad sighed. ‘That’s a wonderful age.’
    Donovan looked unconvinced.
    â€˜How long is he staying?’ I asked Mum, who was usually in charge of visitors. I didn’t want him vanishing without warning, like Cindy.
    â€˜Oh, well, Donovan’s welcome to stay as long as he likes. Until his mummy’s better.’
    â€˜Is she poorly?’
    â€˜Yes. She just needs a little rest,’ Mum said lightly, though how she knew this I couldn’t imagine. She hadn’t even spoken to Aunty Barbara but had been in the car with us all the time. Sometimes it took your breath away what adults knew. Until that day I don’t think it had even occurred to me that grown-ups could be ill. I thought it was something to do with childhood, like having nightmares, or crying over nothing, that you grew out of. Mum and Dad certainly never complained of feeling unwell or took ‘little rests’.
    â€˜I was sick in a bucket once,’ I confided to Donovan, who continued to stare out of the window.
    â€˜My mum’s often sick in buckets,’ he said, without turning round.
    â€˜Wh . . .’
    â€˜Do you play cricket, Donovan?’ Dad cut in heartily.
    Donovan said he did, but that he couldn’t be in the school team because he didn’t have any whites. ‘I’m the third best batsman in my class,’ he said, with punctilious honesty.
    â€˜Splendid. There you are, Christian. Now you’ve got someone to bowl at,’ Dad said.
    â€˜He’s already got someone!’ I protested, a whole summer of wicket-keeping stretching before me.
    About a quarter of an hour into the journey, Donovan gave a gasp and said, ‘Chewy!’
    â€˜What did you say, dear?’ Mum asked.
    â€˜We’ve forgotten Chewy, my hamster. Mum won’t remember to feed him.’
    The car slowed down fractionally. ‘I’m sure she will.’
    â€˜She won’t,’ Donovan said vehemently, his green eyes growing wide with alarm. He looked as if he might cry.
    â€˜We’ll turn round. It’s no problem,’ Dad said, and at the next exit we swung off and headed back towards Bath. ‘I can check that this Joan has turned up,’ he said in a whispered aside to Mum.
    Twenty minutes later we restarted our journey with an extra passenger: a fist-sized furball who stayed wedged in a plastic tunnel at the bottom of his cage all the way home and refused to wake up and entertain us or show any gratitude for his rescue from certain starvation.
    On our arrival at the old Schoolhouse we found that in our absence a jay had fallen down the chimney into the dining room. Sooty streaks and smudges on the walls and ceiling were evidence of its suicidal panic to be free. A row of beheaded stalks was all that remained of a dried flower arrangement on the mantelpiece, and a pair of china figurines lay shattered on the tiled hearth.
    â€˜Good-ee. Shan’t have to dust those again,’ Mum said – as if she ever did!
    The jay itself was discovered in a dishevelled state,patrolling the top of the Welsh dresser. Dad threw open the French windows and it took off like a rocket into the garden, almost scalping him.
    â€˜Well!’ said Mum, as the five of us stood there surveying the debris. ‘Who’d have thought a thing that size could do so much damage?’

7
    â€˜YOU’RE A GIRL!’ Donovan said, watching me change into my nightdress. Mum had put him in