The Lost Child. Ann Troup

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      Miriam didn’t meet her gaze and instead delayed her response by sloshing milk into mugs. ‘Well, it’s just that I don’t want her to think you’re taking advantage by hanging around too much, that’s all. She is a guest you know, and it’s my job to make sure she has a good stay.’

      Brodie felt her face flush, ‘I’m not bothering her, she asked me to go yesterday, and she wants me to go round there today too. She’s going to show me how to draw. She’s an artist.’ She was bridling at the inference that she wasn’t wanted.

      Miriam poured the tea, ‘An artist? Well, that’s nice. As long as you’re sure she’s happy to have you around. Will you take this in to Esther and tell her I’ll be there with her breakfast in a minute?’

      Brodie scraped her chair backwards along the hard floor and stood slowly, hoping that both the noise and the gesture would demonstrate her reluctance. It was lost on Miriam who just passed her the sippy cup that Esther drank from. Brodie took it, her lip curling with distaste as she ventured into the sitting room.

      Esther sat as she always did in her chintz-covered chair, plucking and pinching at the arm cap as if something upon it profoundly offended her. Brodie found this incessant habit both repellent and irritating. The gesture suggested a contained malevolence, tempered only by the impotence of Esther’s condition. As Brodie approached, the old lady’s eyes flicked away from the cottage door, which she watched almost constantly. She appraised the black clad cuckoo with a withering look.

      Brodie skirted the chair with extreme caution and placed the tea on a side table. She whipped her hand away with whistle stop speed lest the old woman should reach out and grab her with her one functional, claw-like hand. It was hard work for her to suppress the shudder that threatened to reveal her fear of the woman.

      ‘Miriam says she’ll be in with your breakfast in a minute.’ It was statement for which she received a curt nod before Esther resumed her vigil of the door.

      Brodie struggled to imagine who would want to willingly visit the old lady. She had a fleeting mental image of the grim reaper, complete with scythe, popping in for tea. ‘We can live in hope’ she muttered cruelly under her breath.

      Once free of Miriam’s fussy ministrations she escaped into the garden. Breathing in the prospect of her few hours of freedom like a condemned man might relish his last meal, she walked towards the holiday let and tried to push away the niggling worries that begged her to contemplate her burgeoning attraction to Elaine. Perhaps she was looking for a mother figure? It wasn’t weird, she told herself, it really wasn’t. She just really liked her and she needed a friend, especially now. Elaine seemed like the first adult she had met who had time for her, who wasn’t more concerned with something – or someone – else. Even the social worker was always looking at her watch and willing Brodie’s time away

      She thought Elaine was pretty. She had merry eyes and dimples when she smiled. It made Brodie want to copy her and smile back, and that didn’t happen very often. If she were honest, the vast majority of people irritated the hell out of her, but she was drawn to Elaine and she had no real idea why.

      *

      Elaine lay on the grass, propped up on her elbows, watching the fascinating, prickly girl who sat cross-legged and diligent, quietly struggling to capture the essence of a tree with pencil and paper.

      ‘Relax, just let your mind guide your hand’ Elaine said, as the girl scowled and scrubbed at the paper yet again with her dwindling eraser.

      Brodie rolled her eyes, ‘It’s easy for you to say, you can do it.’ She pointed at the delicate drawing of a beech tree that Elaine had completed with a few strokes of her pencil.

      Elaine laughed, ‘Yes, but I couldn’t draw like that when I was fifteen. I had to go to college and learn. You’ll get there.’

      ‘Where did you go to college?’ Brodie asked, as if it was something she had been giving some thought to for herself.

      ‘Bristol, where I live.’

      Brodie flung the sketchpad aside, frustrated with her feeble efforts. ‘How come you didn’t move away? I’d have gone to London.’

      ‘I wanted to,’ Elaine was picking at a blade of rye grass and stripping it with her nails, ‘but my mum didn’t really want me to be away from home. I think the thought of me in a big city on my own frightened her. She was a bit clingy.’ It was a massive understatement and Elaine knew it, but this girl didn’t need to be burdened with that kind of information.

      ‘Huh, I reckon if I wanted to go to London my mum would have my suitcase packed and by the door before I’d finished the sentence. She can’t wait to be rid of me.’ Brodie’s voice was loaded with dull resignation.

      ‘Mothers eh? Bloody hard work. Anyway, tell me about you, what do you like? Tell me about your friends.’ Elaine was eager to change the subject. It was bad enough that Jean’s continued presence in the boot of the car was weighing on her conscience, without having to go into territory fraught with mother issues.

      Brodie shrugged, ‘There’s a few people I hang out with at school I suppose. But no one likes coming round to our house, Mum freaks them out.’

      This was going to be hard work. ‘What about boys, do you have a boyfriend?’ Elaine imagined a sullen, silent goth loping around in Brodie’s abrasive wake.

      It was Brodie’s turn to tear at the grass; she did it fiercely, grasping a great handful and brushing it from her hands into an untidy, wilting pile. ‘Nah, all the boys I meet are complete twats. If I ever find one with a brain I might think about it. Have you got a boyfriend?’

      Elaine’s hand drifted to her throat unconsciously, once her fingers found that her muslin scarf was still in place she spoke. ‘No, I tend to meet that kind too. But I must admit, I do quite fancy my builder.’ Her cheeks were flushing red with the admission while her brain demanded to know why on earth she had felt the need to confess such thing to a fifteen-year-old girl.

      ‘Really? Cool. Is he good looking?’ Brodie was intrigued, the sniff of romance making her all ears.

      Elaine blushed again, ‘Well, I wouldn’t say he’s Brad Pitt, but yeah, he’s nice in a craggy, rugged sort of way. And he’s funny, which always helps, makes him less of a twat.’ she said with a wry smile, the word didn’t roll as easily from her own tongue.

      ‘So are you going to go out with him?’ Brodie asked eagerly.

      The hand fluttered to the throat again. ‘I don’t know, maybe. I think he’s just being nice because I’m paying him a truckload of money to do up the house. So maybe I’m just being daft.’

      Brodie shook her head. ‘Nah, he likes you. Blokes don’t mess about when they’re older. Tony says they haven’t got time to muck about. You should go out with him, see what happens.’

      Elaine laughed, amused at the receipt of dating advice from a teenager. Perhaps she should take it. After all, normal relationships weren’t exactly her forte and maybe she needed the practice, the last time she had tangled with Dan it had ended miserably because Jean and life had got in the way. She looked at Brodie; it felt like they were heading into uncomfortable territory again. ‘Hey, why don’t we go and explore the estate? I fancy having a look around the folly, I can see it from my bedroom window and it looks like it might be interesting.’

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