Free About a Girl by Joanne Horniman Page A

and beautiful pieces of cloth hanging on the walls. There was a room for Morgan to work in; it contained a desk and books and all sorts of strange and lovely things she’d collected – masks from all over the world, various body parts of porcelain dolls, Japanese fabric, and handmade paper. I could have lingered there for hours. My father had the garage as his studio, but it didn’t look nearly as lived-in yet as the old one had. There wasn’t much furniture – my father had only taken his personal possessions.
    Morgan chatted to me while she showed Molly how to make animals with coloured pipe cleaners and painted her toenails the same colours as her own. My father joined in our conversation from time to time, looking pleased and happy that we were there. He went out to shop for food, leaving us alone with Morgan. Molly scarcely noticed he was gone, and when he came back, loaded up with stuff that we never ate at home – prepared pasta and sauces, baked beans, and chocolate biscuits – I glanced at him shyly. This was my father – my new father, my old father – and I had to get to know him again.
    Driving home with him, Morgan having seen us off at the door, I felt surprised and rather shocked. I had been prepared to hate the new woman in my father’s life. What I hadn’t expected was to fall in love with her.
    There followed a period of conflicting loyalties. My mother would ask about my visits, and I feigned indifference, or even scorn, but they were the glittering centre of interest in my life.
    â€˜What did you have for dinner? my mother would ask.
    â€˜Tinned spaghetti on toast.’
    â€˜Oh. Doesn’t she cook?’
    â€˜I don’t think so.’
    â€˜Oh, that’s a shame …’
    My mother’s sarcasm rankled. She was an excellent cook. My father and Morgan ate takeaways, or stuff from tins, or bacon and eggs. Lots of things on toast.
    I vowed to do the same. Why spend time cooking? Stuff on toast was fine.
    The first time Morgan touched me I almost swooned. The word swooned came to me as I closed my eyes and felt the world falling away. I went home and looked the word up; the computer’s dictionary described it as to be overwhelmed by happiness, excitement, adoration, or infatuation, to experience a sudden and usually brief loss of consciousness.
    And all Morgan had done was to touch my hand. We were standing at the kitchen sink. ‘Anna, look at that,’ she said, indicating a tree in the backyard filled with blossom, its branches dancing in the wind.
    Her hand was soft and warm; she left it there, in no hurry to take it away. I could tell she was used to touching people. I was to find that she did it often, casually and apparently unconsciously.
    The first time Josh went to visit Dad in the new place, I went out to the garage when he got back.
    â€˜What did you think of Morgan?’ I asked, standing at the door. Josh never invited me to enter, and I didn’t have enough confidence to barge in.
    Josh looked up. ‘Oh … she’s all right,’ he said indifferently. I turned away with a smile. So Josh was smitten, too – smitten : past participle of smite , to hit somebody or something hard; to affect somebody strongly or disastrously ( archaic or literary ) ( often passive ); to fill somebody with love or longing ( humorous or archaic or literary ) ( often passive ).
    The house was only a few streets away. I took to calling round when my father wasn’t home, hoping to find Morgan there. One day she opened the door with a pair of scissors in her hand.
    â€˜Oh, Anna, you’ve arrived at just the right time. I’m cutting my hair, and it’s so hard to do the back.’ She made me feel more than welcome, and despite my protests that I was no good with scissors, we went to the back yard and Morgan instructed me on what to do. I lifted the hair from the back of her neck, closed my eyes and breathed