Seventeen 5 страница

Catherine fell backwards. If she had been closer to the edge she would have fallen over the side. She hauched a wad of spittle into Leek’s white face.

“Aw, fuck’s sake! ”

“Well, what the fuck did you try to scare me like that for? ” Catherine pulled her knees together and searched her red hands for blue splinters. The fear and shame flooded her then, and her face was awash in frustrated tears.

Leek wiped his mouth with his jumper sleeve. He misunderstood her weeping. “Don’t start greetin’ about it. You coming in or what? You’re letting the rain in. ”

Catherine sulked over to the opening and climbed down into her brother’s den. Leek pulled the loose pallet closed over their heads. Inside it was as musty as an open grave and dark as a closed coffin. Catherine no sooner began the low exhale that preceded her moaning than Leek warned her, “Haud yer wheest, ” as he shuffled about in the pitch-blackness. In the farthest corner there was a clinking of metal, and the space lit up with a faint smoky light.

The camping lamp threw long shadows around the cave-like space. The centre of the hollowed-out pallets was easily twice the size of their bedroom at home, but the ceiling was only about six feet high. Leek had covered the floor and the walls in old bits of discarded carpet and flattened cardboard boxes. Through the narrow hole in the top he had dragged old bits of furniture and broken kitchen chairs. The pallets had been arranged to make supporting columns, and some had been angled and covered with old rugs to make a type of hard-looking settee. On the carpeted walls were naked pictures of Page Three girls. Someone had put up a picture of Maggie Thatcher and another joker had drawn a veined cock going into her haranguing mouth.

Catherine watched her brother go about making his home comfortable for her. She had known some of the older Sighthill boys who had hollowed it out a few years before. After the wildest of them had stabbed a nosy night watchman they had been left pretty much alone. It was a great place to get drunk and sniff bags of glue. Most of the younger boys just liked that it was a space free from their heavy-handed fathers. Some of the boys brought girls here and would make beds out of borrowed coats and jumpers. Slowly, as good reputations became ruined, the Sighthill girls stopped coming to the pallet den. The boy’s voices kept breaking and their hormones kept raging, so most of them skulked away in randy pursuit. The pallet house became emptier and quieter. Now Leek could often spend the entire weekend there alone.

If Agnes would take a drink on a Thursday, then Leek would take some tins of beans and powdered custard from his granny’s kitchen and come here to hide. When he’d come back on a Sunday night, they would all be watching the television. Agnes would be soft and repentant, the demon drink having left her. She would make a cuddling space on the settee next to her, and he would sit close, enjoying the warm, perfumed smell of her bath. Lizzie would look at him with a distant smile and ask him if he’d been in his bed all weekend. It was good to be a quiet soul.

Not that he was small. By the time he turned fifteen he was already over six feet tall. He had always been skinny, and as he grew he became even more thrifty and efficient in build. His hair, like his build, he had inherited from his long-forgotten real father. It was fine and wispy, mouse brown in colour, and hung softly over his ears and eyes. His eyes were grey and clear but always slow to show emotion. He had long perfected the art of staring through people, leaving conversations to follow his daydreams through the back of their heads and out any open window.

Leek was as economical with his emotions as he was spare in build. From his real father he had inherited a gentle personality, quiet and pensive, lonesome and faraway. His only real physical concession to his mother was his nose, large and bony, too severe to be Roman. It broke the line of his soft, shy fringe and sat upon his thin face like a proud monument to his Irish Catholic ancestors. Agnes had gotten it from Wullie, and Wullie had gotten it from his own father, who had brought it from County Donegal. It left no one unscarred and overlooked no man or woman in the Campbell lineage.

The den was a carpeted fort, a boy thing. It smelled like beer, glue, and semen, and Catherine did not personally see the appeal. Walking around the room, she shrank from the mess and the tins of half-eaten food. She wiped the tears from her face and sniffed. “How long have you been here today? ”

“Dunno, ” he said, pulling a discarded coat from a mouldy heap in the corner. “She blootered the dregs of the christening whisky by lunchtime. ”

He held the dry overcoat out to her. Catherine stepped out of her good green coat and slid into the man’s Harris tweed. It smelled of lanolin and sweat, but the crispy dryness of the rough wool felt good. Leek took an old biscuit tin from the shelf above the girlie pictures and handed it to her. They sat together on the home-made sofa. He put his arm gently around her and climbed inside the coat till they had an armhole each.

Catherine lifted fingerfuls of the sweet cake from the tin. She could taste the amber sugar of the syrup her granny was fond of. It made her feel better. “I haven’t eaten anything the day. There was no one to cover the phones, and Mr Cameron said he would bring me in a sandwich when he got his own lunch. But he didn’t. And, well, I didn’t like to say, or else he would know he had hurt my feelings. ”

“Feelings are for weaklings. ” He was using the Dalek voice she hated.

Catherine drew her head out of the collar and looked at him coldly. “Well, hiding is for cowards. ” The long shy eyelashes fell low on his pink cheeks. Ever since he was a boy, he had been easy to hurt. She drew her arm back inside the mothy coat and wrapped it around his back; she could feel his thin ribs through his school jumper. “I’m sorry Leek. It’s terrifying coming out here to find you. I’m wet, and I was afeart, and now my new boots are ruined. ”

“You can’t keep anything good around here. ”

She pulled him to her, two years younger and already a foot taller. She buried her damp crown in the crease of his broad chin. She let herself cry quietly and tried to let the anger she felt for the neds and their fishing knife bleed out of her. “Have you been hiding here all day? ”

“Aye. ” His sigh ran through her. “I told you. She woke up and I could tell over the cartoons that there was a belter coming. She was shaking something terrible, so she asked me to watch the wean while she went out to the shops …” He trailed off.

She knew he was staring into the distance. “Did she take a drink in a pub? ”

His eyes had glazed over again. “No. I … I don’t think so. She had the whisky, then I think she got a carry-out and battered some in the lift back up. ”

“Well, it is very dry up at that altitude. ” Catherine licked the last of the sticky mess from her fingers and put the tin down.

“Aye, she seemed fair parched, ” he said sadly. There was a long silence between them. Leek took out his top set of porcelain dentures and rubbed at his cheek as if they had been pinching. Agnes, annoyed with the constant trips to the dentist, had convinced him to have his teeth, weak and riddled with aluminum fillings, pulled for his fifteenth birthday.

“Do they still hurt? ” Catherine asked, grateful that her teeth were still her own.

“Aye. ” He flicked the slabber from the plate and put it back in his mouth.

“I’m sorry, Leek, and I’m sorry I left you the day. ” She gently kissed his cheek.

It was a tenderness too far. He put his hand over her face and held her away from him. “Get off me, ya minger. Besides, don’t ever feel sorry for me. I’m done feeling bad about this shite. ” Leek unbuttoned the oversize coat and stepped back out into the cold. He pulled the sleeve of his black school jumper over his knuckles and wiped his sister’s kiss from his face.

Watching him, Catherine thought how Leek would have looked twelve had it not been for the large Campbell nose. She watched how his long fingers, as delicate and fine as a clockmaker’s, worried it, ran the length of it constantly, fidgeted with it, measured it, and then regretted it. He lowered his hand from his nose. “Stop gawking. ” He stepped out of the lamplight into the dark side of the den.

Catherine picked up a black sketchbook. Leek had been drawing again. She flicked through the pages holding intricate sketches of bikini-clad beauties sitting on top of a muscular Ferrari or astride winged wyverns. Leek’s was as good as any rock-album artwork, a beautifully rendered world of shy fantasy. The muscles and sinew and naked beauties eventually gave way to precise, ruler-drawn plans for architecture and woodwork, technical drawings for futuristic buildings and smaller, more thorough ones for record player units and one for a home-made easel. There wasn’t a minute she could remember that he didn’t have his pencil in hand.

She was smiling proudly to herself when Leek emerged from the darkness and snatched the sketchbook from her. “I don’t see your fucking name on it. ” He lifted his jumper and tucked the book into the waistband of his denims.

“Leek, I think you are very talented. ”

He made a raspberry noise and disappeared back into the darkness.

“I mean it. You are going to be an amazing artist, and I’m going to get married, and between us we’re both going to get the fuck out of here and away from this dump. ”

The hissing came from the dark. “Fuck you. I know you are going to leave me. I’ve seen you making eyes at that Orange prick. I know that you are going to leave me to deal with her on my own. ”

“Leek. Can you not stay in the light, where I can see you? ”

“No. I like it over here. ”

Catherine dried her hair on the coat sleeve and thought for a moment. She pushed back against the fear the neds had left inside her. “Shame, I’m here to take all my clothes off and wrestle a giant winged snake for you. ”

He stepped from the darkness, shaking his head. “Dinnae bother. I prefer to draw bigger tits. ”

Catherine flinched, but she said, “Use that imagination of yours. ”

“I don’t have a pencil fine enough to render their intricate, miniatur-ey-alley-osity. ”

They glowered at each other with serious expressions. Catherine made the dry boak face first and pretended to throw up all over the old man’s coat. Leek copied her, until they were swimming in imagined vomit. Catherine watched her brother’s shy smile return, and she thought how it was a shame he didn’t do that often enough any more. Leek caught her searching his face. “Take a picture, why don’t ye? ”

Catherine tried to soften her gaze, afraid she might send him back into the shadows. “So did Mammy look in a fighting mood or more of a maudlin mood when you left her? ”

He shrugged. “She was on the phone most of the day looking for Shug. I could just tell it was gonnae end badly. ”

“How comes? ”

“She was drinking like she wanted to get somewhere else. ”

“Was she loud? ”

He shook his head. “More sad than loud today. ”

Catherine sighed. “Fuck. We’d better get back. I think there’s been some trouble. ”

“No way. I stole enough food to stay here the night. ” He was halfway back to the dark already.

“You’ll catch your death of cold. ”

“Guid. ”

“Come on, Leek. You’re a bit bloody old for a Wendy house. ” It was a mean thing to say, and she knew she wouldn’t win if she continued in this way. Her brother had been gifted with legendary stubbornness; he just stared through you and floated away, leaving behind his frame to be pecked to pieces. Catherine didn’t want to face their mother alone. She did not want to walk back through the darkness without him. “Please. I came to get you. I didnae give your glue-sniffing pals a look up my skirt for nothing. ” She bit her lip pitifully. “They have a fishing knife, Leek. They grabbed my tits. ”

Leek looked very angry then. She was always scared and secretly delighted by the sudden force of his temper. It always came quietly and brutally, and the smallest slight could turn horseplay into horsepower. “Please. ” Her arms went limp by her side in a gross pantomime of helplessness. Being pathetic was not in her true nature.

Leek went back into the dark corner of the cave and returned with his hooded anorak and the broken handle of a garden shovel. He turned it menacingly in his hands. He put out the smoky camping lamp, and together they climbed quietly back up the hole and out on top of the pallets. Leek slid the trapdoor shut, and they stood looking out over the glistening city below. It was beautiful. Catherine lifted her right hand and pointed into the darkness far beyond the orange city lights. “Leek. Do you see that o’er there? ” she asked.

It was a line of emptiness on the horizon, black like the edge of nothing. He followed the line of her finger. “Nope. ”

“There! ” she said and pointed harder, as if this might help. “Look past Springburn and Dennistoun. Look past the very last scheme. ”

“Caff! Just because you make your arm go stiff it doesn’t help me see any better. It’s pitch-black. There’s nothing there. ”

“Exactly! ” She considered this before lowering her finger and turning back towards the high-rise. “That’s where I overheard Shug say we were flitting to. ”

Six

Agnes had lain with fits of coughing and hacking most of the night. Now the morning light that was pushing in through the curtainless window would give her no peace. She could no longer ignore the wet draught that was pushing into the room and down on to her clammy body. Opening her eyes, she searched the room feebly for a solution to this nuisance. Her eyes hadn’t expected to find the black fingers of soot. She had bolted upright in a panic before she recognized the burnt bedroom as her own. Like a terrible postcard from the night before, her reflection stared back, fully dressed, with a face full of spoilt make-up. She looked at the pillow behind her and at the wet blue mess she had left there. Her gaze shifted across to Shug’s side of the bed. It hadn’t been slept in.

Agnes lowered her chin back to her chest and tried to clear her blackout. The correct images wouldn’t come. Running her fingers through her black curls she felt the crispy brittleness of too much hairspray. From habit she placed her head in her hands and dug her nails sharply into the hairline, feeling the poisoned blood flush to her scalp. It felt good. The memories of the previous night started to ring like large chapel bells in her skull.

Clang, here is the wean dancing on the bed.

Clang, here is the flame on the curtains.

Clang, here is Shug, twisting his wedding band with a face full of disappointment again.

Agnes lay back in bed. She sobbed, but it was the self-pitying kind that brought no tears. She thought about holding the wean down as the flames raced up the curtain. She pushed the memory away and willed herself not to look at it again, yet the more she looked away the more it blossomed like a terrible flower. The guilt sank like dampness into her bones, and she felt rotten with the shame. She searched for a cigarette to coat her sore throat; it felt as black and sticky as tarmacadam in July. There were no cigarettes left in the room and no matches either. She had been placed under surveillance. This at least cheered her a little.

Out in the hallway the house was quiet. It must have been late enough, because the door to her parents’ bedroom was open and she could see their bed was neatly made. She went into the windowless bathroom and closed the door, sitting on the toilet. She thought about taking a bath and sinking to the bottom to wait for the Lord. In the tub were two sodden bath towels, badly blackened by fire. She couldn’t bring herself to move them.

Agnes wrapped her lips around the cold metal tap and gulped the fluoride-heavy water, panting and gasping like a thirsty dog. She began to wipe the ruined make-up off her face; the cotton wool came away blackened with soot stains. Opening the medicine cabinet, she searched the plastic shelves for Wullie’s medicine, something to take the edge off, but the painkillers were gone. She lifted a bottle of congealed cough syrup and took a mouthful, and then she took another.

When she finally emerged into the dark hallway, she stood for a long time arranging herself. In the dark she tried on different smiles, small apologetic ones where she lowered her eyes and looked up through heavy brows with tight trembling lips. She tried some light casual smiles, like she was just back from the shops. She tried a large, toothy, beaming smile, a gallus head nod that said, So what? Fuck you. If Shug was in there, this would be the one she’d wear.

Wullie and Shuggie were sitting at the round dining table eating soft eggs and soldiers. Sixty years apart, they were huddled together in the far corner like old drinking pals. Leek was upended on the settee, his bare legs up and over the back, a sketchbook in hand. When he saw his mother, he got up very quietly and passed her with a polite nod, like a stranger in the street.

All the windows were thrown open, the house already scrubbed with bleach. The air was bitter and sharp. Wullie turned his head back towards his eggs when he saw her. He must have been at early Mass, his good suit was folded neatly over the kitchen chair. He sat in his undervest, his thick arms a tapestry of faded blue ink from his wrist to his shoulder meat, names and places never to be forgotten from the War, a laughing black-haired girl from Donegal, and Agnes’s own name and birthdate in proud elegant letters.

“You’ve missed Mass. ”

Agnes tried several faces and finally decided on contrite. She heard sniffling in the kitchenette. “Is Shug here? ” she asked nervously, a grin breaking over her false face.

Wullie shook his head. It had all been too ugly for him: the fight, the fire, the wean crying. He pushed his glasses up his nose and stared deeper into his eggs. “Please don’t grin, Agnes. Please don’t smirk at me like that. ”

Her son, God bless him, had lit up like the Blackpool illuminations when she came into the room. Shuggie’s eggy hands were outstretched towards her, a bath towel tied around his head like a turban. “Mammy, Catherine wasn’t very nice to me this morning. She said I was a sook. ” Agnes picked the boy up. He wrapped himself around her sore bones, squeezed the life back into her. “Granda said I can have three empire cakes the day. ”

“Hugh, come back over here and finish your breakfast or there will be no cakes. ” Wullie waved a thick hand at the boy, and with a sullen tut Shuggie slid down from his mother’s trunk. She felt the shaking in her bones start again. Her father shovelled a mouthful into Shuggie’s pursed lips before he spoke again. His voice was measured, but his eyes would not meet hers. “I know it’s my fault, Agnes. I know I’m the reason you are the way you are. ”

Agnes shifted in irritation. Not this again. Her throat was desperate for a smoke.

“Hear me out. I know I spoilt you when I should have given you that belt. I know I’m sentimental, and I know I’m soft. But you have no idea. No idea what it was like. ” Wullie rubbed the meat of his fist across his lips. He looked to the door of the kitchenette like there was someone offstage feeding him lines. “Fourteen of us there was. My auld ma saw none of them get what couldn’t be earned by their own hands. Not even our baby Francis, with his twisted leg. Poor wee bastard had to fight and shove like the rest of us. So when your mammy tells me I’m to be blessed with you, I prayed to let it be different. I promised that you’d never know want the way I knew want. ”

“Daddy, please, you don’t have to …” Where were the fucking cigarettes?

He cracked his rough hands together; the sound was like booming thunder. “Am I always to be a milksop in my own house? ” He was not a man who raised his voice. Agnes buttoned her lip; even Lizzie stopped her sniffling in the kitchenette. Wullie Campbell was a man built for loading granary barges down on the Clyde. She had seen him single-handedly clear a pub of a half dozen disrespectful Liverpudlians.

“Every day at a quarter past five you’d come running down that road to meet me as neat as a new pin. I asked your mammy to make sure you were clean. She used to say to me, ‘Wullie is all this palaver really necessary? ’ But sure it was the only thing I ever asked her to do. A man needs to take pride in his family. But people don’t care about things like that any more, do they? ” Wullie’s tattooed knuckles were knitted together in anger. “It gave me that much pleasure just to be proud of you. I could tell they were jealous, hanging out of their windows with tight faces. Grown men and women, jealous of a wee shiny bit of life like you. I used to laugh when they said you’d be ruined. ”

“You did good, Daddy. I was happy. ”

“Aye? Then what have you got to be so unhappy about now? ” He sucked at his teeth and placed his hand on top of the boy’s head, the weight of it looked like it might buckle Shuggie’s neck. There were sentimental tears in Wullie’s eyes, but he was watching her coldly, like it was the first time he had seen her properly. “So tell me, Agnes. Am I to belt you? ”

Agnes’s hand went to her throat, she felt like she might laugh. “Daddy! I’m thirty-nine! ”

“Am I to beat this selfish devil out of you? ” He rose slowly from the table. His arms were loose at his sides, his hands massive silt buckets at the end of iron cranes. “I am tired of you coming first, Agnes. I’m tired of watching you destroy yourself and knowing it’s my fault. ”

Agnes took a step backwards. She wasn’t smiling any more. “It’s not your fault. ”

Wullie closed the living room door quietly. He drew his heavy granary belt from his wool trousers, the Meadowside Union logo was debossed into the leather, and the sheer weight of it dragged on the carpet. “Aye, mibbe it’s for the best. ”

Agnes held her hands out and backed slowly to the door. The gallus grin was gone from her face. As her father advanced she kept walking backwards, until she felt the living room cabinet at her back and heard the glass-eyed ornaments tinkle in warning. The boy was at her legs now, his head hidden halfway behind her denims. Wullie twisted the belt around his hands, once, twice, for a better grip. “Put that wean away from you. ”

She held the boy closer. Wullie folded his hand around her soft upper arm. With his other hand he separated the boy gently but surely from her leg. He led Agnes over to his chair, where he sat down and pulled her over his knee.

She didn’t struggle, and no more begging words would come.

“Lord Jesus Christ, I ask You to give me the strength to forgive. ” The union belt came down with a loud crack on the back of her soft buttocks. Agnes did not cry out. Wullie raised his hand again. “I thank You that my burden is never more than I can bear. ” Crack. “Show Agnes the many blessings of her life. ” Crack. “Quiet her needs. ” Crack. “Show her some peace. ”

There was a soft shuffle at her side, and Agnes felt her left hand be taken up. She felt the cooling of bloodless hands on the back of her clammy neck; she felt the gentle stroke of her mother. Lizzie knelt on the floor by her side. Her voice joined Wullie’s in prayer. “Lord, it is only through your forgiveness that we can forgive ourselves. ” Crack.

After the fire Shug had gone out on the night shift, and for the second time that week he hadn’t come back in the morning. Besides his brother, Rascal Bain, and a few boys at the taxi rank, he didn’t have many male friends. Still, Agnes knew, there was a million other places he could happily be.

She sat gingerly on the edge of their bed. The backs of her legs were scalded red from Wullie’s belt, and she couldn’t concentrate as she folded Shug’s clean socks, one inside the other, matching the faded hues together exactly as he liked. Whose arms would he be in now? She felt the fight inside her begin to grow again. Could he be as close as the next tower block, with big Reeny?

She had to get out, she had to show face.

From the linen cupboard she picked up one of the folding deckchairs they would take to the fair-week caravan. She took out and rinsed her dentures under the warm tap. In tight denims and wearing her new black bra as a bikini top, she went out into the landing and waited for the piss-stained elevator. When she made it down the sixteen floors, she was relieved to see there were no burnt curtains lying around.

Except for petrified dog shit and some faint scorch marks, the forecourt was empty. Agnes checked out back of the tower block to see if Shug’s taxi was parked there. She had caught him out like that once before. When he was supposed to be working a day shift he had been upstairs fucking some unknown wifey. His sweaty shenanigans had been separated from his family by a few feet of council-grade concrete. Agnes had ridden the Sighthill elevator all that afternoon with a mop bucket full of cold tea dregs and piss. She waited at each landing for the doors to open on him and called off the hunt only when they opened on a group of bonnie young girls who were going outside to play. The children took one look at her and fearfully refused to get in the lift with the mad-looking woman from the sixteenth floor.

At first she had thought how stupid Shug was to get caught out so easily. Only later, when she confronted him, did she learn that she was the stupid one. He hadn’t been caught out. He wanted to make sure she knew all about it. Some things were not to be missed.

The sun was white in the sky. The concrete was already vibrating with the morning heat. On the waste ground, Lizzie was sunbathing on an old blanket with her back against the foundation. Her floral dress was opened to the breastbone and pulled apart to make the most of that rarest of occurrences, sunshine. Her hair sat in tight baby-blue curlers and was carefully wrapped in a gingham tea towel. She was reading the day’s paper and gossiping with a clutch of old dears on the patchy grass. The other women sat in a cluster of kitchen chairs and were peeling the skin off big brown potatoes and dropping them into an old plastic bag.

Agnes set her deckchair a respectful distance from her mother and her gang. Lizzie barely looked up from her paper, and Agnes knew she was being punished. She tried to settle herself casually into the warmth of the sun, but her eyes kept flitting to Lizzie, wanting only a sliver of friendship to ease the loneliness in her chest.

There was new graffiti on the wall above Lizzie. It sprang like a dirty thought bubble from her curls: Don’t be Shy … Shows Yer Pie. To Lizzie, the graffiti could have been a helpful plea to a bashful baker. Agnes knew better and couldn’t help but laugh.

Lizzie scowled at her. “What do you find so funny? ”

It was the first time she had spoken since the front-room chapel that morning, and Agnes took a moment to consider whether she felt like encouraging it or ruining it. “Nothing. Where’s my wee man? ”

Lizzie answered as spartanly as she could. “At the bakers, getting his cake. ” She went back to her paper.

Agnes knew the routine. Saturday and Sunday afternoons, Wullie walked with his grandson the half mile or so to the shops. It was a scant row of half-shuttered storefronts set into a shadowed recess that never seemed to catch the daylight. They had dragged families out of the old Glasgow tenements for this scheme, and it was meant to be different, futuristic, a grand improvement. But in reality the whole scheme was too brutal, too spartan, too poorly built to be any better.

Shuggie would stand well behaved inside the Paki shop while his granda bought a noose of sweetheart stouts and a half-bottle of whisky, enough to carry them through Saturday night and discreetly through the Sabbath. The growing boy gave Wullie and Imran something to talk about as the bags were loaded with the alcohol. It was a routine in which neither man was allowed to acknowledge the drink moving between them, as though it would have broken the charade. Across the shadows, inside the bakery, Wullie would make small talk with the pretty girls while Shuggie greedily eyed the cakes. Shuggie always chose the same bright pink sponge pyramid, covered in red and white desiccated coconut and trimmed with a sugary sweetie on top. He would walk home very slowly in Wullie’s shadow, enjoying his spoils.

Agnes looked in the direction of the shops but couldn’t see them. She rose and stood on the edge of the waste ground. In her black bra she threw her head back and stretched her arms wide to enjoy the sun’s tingle on her pale skin. She caught a sideways glance from Lizzie. There was the start of a puce bruise on her lower back. It was this that held her mother’s attention. Agnes’s ringed fingers traced the belt welt, and she winced dramatically.

Lizzie stiffened proudly and hissed, “For the love of God. Cover yourself. ”

The women peeling potatoes exchanged a sympathetic glance that said they knew how bruises could be more plentiful than hugs in a marriage, and not just for the women. Agnes was not to be told. Irritated now, she collapsed into the deckchair again and bounced it gracelessly like it was a child’s space hopper, bouncing, bouncing, till she was sat closer to her mother.

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