Free Imperfect Strangers by David Staniforth Page A

a length of fishing rod on another. I push these to one side, determined to save that section of the puzzle for last.
    The piece of boulder slotted in, I sit for a while as if gazing at a distant memory.
    Hiding .
    With a shudder I glance at the clock. “Time I was off, Mrs. Seaton.” Suddenly I feel excited. Wound up tight and ticking away. “Don’t want to miss her, do I? Not today.”
    Watcherupto ? “What are you up to?” I correct her droning voice. “You really should pronounce your words properly.” Whoeryerseein ? “Pro-nun-see-ate! Who. Are. You. See-ing? I’m seeing a girl, mother. A beautiful, wonderful girl called Sally. And when I see her, if things go well, who knows I might talk to her. And if that goes well... well, we will have to wait and see, won’t we?”
    We will won’t we? Can’t hide sins under cardboard sheeting. End in trouble it will. Y’mark m’words.

     
    CHAPTER
10
    How old had we been? Eight? Nine? Ten?
    “Come on Keith,” said Heather Unwin, taking me by the hand, as she led me down the garden path. Her garden path. The garden next to mine, which being so shambolic, often fell victim to Mother’s scorn.
    “Just look at these weeds,” she would snarl, as she carefully cut dandelions from her own lawn. “A kind of cleansing, this act, which would always be done with a sharp slender knife.” On such occasions she wore two pairs of gardening gloves: a small tight fitting pair, which were waterproof, underneath a pair made of tough, impenetrable-leather, the cuffs of which covered half the length of her forearm.
    “Any wonder m’lawns such a mess w’that shambles next door?”
    She’d scowl at the fence separating the Unwins’ garden from ours. At times such as this, when mother was tending the garden, complaining about the weeds, I said nothing. There was less chance of catching some of the blame if I kept a low profile. I’d just take the extracted weed from her, run and put it in the bin, fetch back a handful of compost to fill the hole, and wait patiently for the next weed.
    “There,” she’d say, “Grass’ll soon grow back, ‘n’ nobody’ll be able t’tell.”
    Nobody will be able to tell. Just like nobody can see a bruise if it’s covered with hair.
    That day, though, the day Heather Unwin led me down the garden path, Mother was not in the garden. She was indoors, no doubt cursing all the neighbours for generating the dust that collected in the home she so diligently cleaned. “Fires burning and soot billowing, all day long when it’s not even cold.”
    Up until the moment when Heather appeared, I’d been content, bouncing my football in the covered passage between our houses. Not being allowed in the house during daylight hours, the passageway is where I often found myself. And, even though it had stopped raining at least twenty minutes ago, I remained there, bouncing the ball, over and over. B-doyng, B-doyng, B-doyng, over and over – the timing of the bounce and resulting echo as consistent as the tick of a slowly unwinding clock.
    “M y mum says: will you stop bouncing that bloody ball !”
    Heather yelled the words much louder than she needed to. She did it on a purpose, did it to make me jump. She laughed viciously when I flinched. The ball drummed to a halt at my feet. She yelled that command at me as if she were an adult. Yelled it with much more authority in her voice than a girl only four months older than me was entitled.
    “S- S- Sorry,” I finally managed. It was the worst my stutter had ever been. It wasn’t nerves, though ; it was excitement. Little did I realise at the time, but my stutter was to get much worse. Heather laughed. I blushed. My face felt hot, and it prickled. Maybe she felt sorry for me then, because she walked into the passage, took hold of my hand, and told me to not look so sad.
    “Why don’t you go in doors when it’s raining?”
    I’m not allowed, I thought, but shrugged my shoulders rather than tell her that