Living In Perhaps Read Online Free

knew it
would end in trouble. Most things did. If I tried again Mum or
Dad was bound to spot me backing out of the hole. Or I'd be discovered
in the act of spying by the people who lived next door.
And you never knew with people . I could imagine the shouts:
'Hey! What do you think you're doing? Get out! Get back to where
you came from!' Or worse: taking me by my collar and marching
me, red-handed, or, rather, green-kneed, back to my parents. I
could see the pair of them, clustering in our front doorway, their
faces anxious and uncomprehending. 'What on earth were you up
to? Making an exhibition of yourself! And us .' Explain that
away.
    I relied on my imagination, my usual tactic. In my mind's eye
their garden expanded even further. The pockmarked lawn
stretched in all directions and grew almost as green as ours, the
thicket of shrubs I'd crouched in sprang into a forest, the summer
house into a play-palace fit for Marie Antoinette. In my head I
played – and won – endless games of tennis. I cycled like the wind
up and down, up and down, never hitting a pothole, never catching
my shin on the backspin of the pedal as I put my foot down
to heave my bike round the corners. In my head, I never had to
put my foot down to heave it round corners. I was perfectly
competent, and that garden was mine. All mine.
    Sad to say, those little chats with Lorna have become a daily event.
I thought I'd beaten her, that first time she came into my room. I
thought I'd won that round, and she wouldn't try again. Shows
how much I know.
    We meet in a small room off the front hall. Mid-morning or
mid-afternoon, usually. Someone comes and gets me from
wherever I am, Mike or Trudy or whoever is on duty. 'Time to see
Lorna,' they say. Or just 'Carol?' and a hand signal, a beckoning
finger and then a point towards the front hall. They don't let me
go on my own, just in case I never get there. They always take
me right up to the door.
    There's a table which is not quite a desk, and two chairs beside
it, facing each other. It's not exactly formal but it's certainly not in formal, either. I expect Lorna thinks it strikes just the right note.
Whatever that might be.
    Today she asked me what I was good at, what I liked doing, and
I said, 'Nothing much.'
    'Oh, I'm sure that can't be true.'
    She pressed her lips together as if she was cross. There was a
long silence. I examined my fingers. As far as I was concerned, we
could go on like this until the end of the session. It didn't matter
to me.
    Then Lorna coughed in a fake sort of way, and pushed with her
fingertips at the edge of a folder beside her on the table. A folder
which was shut. 'I've been looking again at your records,' she said.
'You've had rather a tricky time, haven't you? Almost four years in
the children's home before being placed for adoption. Some
rather difficult years with your new family. And then this latest
business. Still, at least you always had your brother with you.'
    She didn't say anything else. After a bit she let me go.
    But outside, I thought: Why can't I look at my records? They're my records. Why can't I see what everyone's been saying about
me?
    I should have said piano. When she asked what I was good at,
that's what I should have said.

4
Piano Lessons
    Lorna's had another go at asking me to describe my home. She's
persistent, I'll give her that.
    I said, 'It's a big white house, with a big garden. There are lawns
and paths and flower beds. There's a long line of steps down from
the front door to the gate. The slope is very shallow. There are a
hundred and twenty steps, but only in sets of five. Five steps and
then a flat bit, then another five steps.'
    'Do you often count things, Cora?'
    She always calls me that. It's just a name on a piece of paper, it
isn't me. I've half a dozen other names I'd prefer. I'd like to say,
'Don't call me that,' but I think that's what she wants. What she's
after. To get a rise out of me, to get me to say something I really
mean. So I don't.