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The barcode lines around Miss Bacon’s mouth deepened. Her brows drew together.
‘Are you arguing with me?’
I felt the other kids watching from their desks. Several snickered behind their hands. I raised my head a little higher, tried again—
‘I’m just saying, I know how to spell colour.’
It didn’t occur to either of us that there might be two ways of spelling it.
Miss Bacon stiffened, narrowed her itty-bitty eyes. Asked, didn’t they teach manners where I came from?
‘Not at school,’ I said.
Her lips disappeared into a thin line.
‘I’ll be sending a letter home to your mother. I must say, I’m very disappointed in you, Sophie.’
I’m disappointed in you too, I thought. You’re a teacher, and you can’t even spell.
‘What did you say?’
‘Nothing.’
It wasn’t an auspicious start. But auspicious beginnings aren’t everything. Just because something bodes well, doesn’t mean it’ll turn out that way.
The sunlight filtered through the slats in my blinds, painting the walls butter yellow. I stretched under the covers, thought about getting up and watching Wacky Races. Weighed that up against the pull of my warm bed.
My mother had been out the previous night with a friend from work– Linda, the only friend she’d made since we’d moved to London. If Linda hadn’t been so insistent about it, I don’t suppose she’d have even made friends with her.
She was never very social. I like my own company, that’s all, she used to say. The other mums at school had invited her to join their coffee mornings to begin with, but she’d always found an excuse not to go and in the end they gave up asking. I expect she was pleased.
‘Remember what Dr Norman told you?’ Nanna said. ‘It’s not good for you to be by yourself all the time.’
I could empathise with that. I could also see Linda was good for her. Gets me out of my shell,she used to say.
I don’t know about shells, but the woman certainly talked enough for both of them.
I’d tried to stay awake, listening for the reassuring sounds that she’d returned. My mother didn’t go out much in the evenings. When she did, I’d torture myself worrying what would happen to me if something happened to her. Would anyone even think to tell me?
As far as I knew, Linda was the only one in London who had our phone number and she was the only person my mother ever went out with. The math wasn’t in my favour.
‘Let’s go let our hair down!’ she’d said as they went out last night.
‘Amen to that,’ my mother replied.
Her tone sounded fake. I wasn’t surprised. Letting your hair down seemed a pretty boring way to spend an evening.
I rubbed my eyes now, glanced at the clock on my bedside table. A fat green sphere with frog eyes on the top and glow-in-the-dark numbers. A present for learning to tell the time.
A minute tick-tocked by, two, three and, just as my eyes were starting to close again, a creaking sound from the living room made me freeze. Footsteps, too heavy to be my mother’s.
I tiptoed to the door; chest tight, breath held. Then eased down the handle; carefully, carefully so its squeal wouldn’t give me away. Opened the door a crack. Just wide enough to peek out.
I saw a man– burnished blonde, cashmere sweater, brown Oxfords– standing by the couch, picking up the framed photographs my mother displayed on the end table. Examining them, putting them neatly back. There was something methodical about his actions, unhurried. At ease.
I figured a burglar wouldn’t move like that, wouldn’t be interested in family snaps.
My heart rate steadied, my respiration returned to normal. I pushed the door wide.
