Good Me Bad Me(71)

‘Sit down on the bed, I’ll get a cloth for your face.’

She winces as I clean the blood from the swelling around her mouth.

‘Who did it?’

‘I wish he was dead,’ she replies.

‘Who?’

‘My uncle.’

She bursts into tears, I hold her, rock us back and forth, begin to hum. Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly … Her breathing calms, her tears stop.

‘I love that song,’ she says.

‘I know. Lie down, you need to rest.’

She does without protest, turns on her side towards me, draws her knees up to her chest. I cover her with the duvet, an extra blanket. Her eyes close. She pushes one of the pillows from under her head on to the floor.

‘I only have one at home,’ she says.

I sit next to her on the bed, watch her face contract, relax, as she tries to forget what happened. You shall be safe, dilly dilly, out of harm’s way, Morgan. I can’t help with her uncle but she’s different. Out of harm’s way, that’s what I can do. I pick up the pillow, think how much she’d like Neverland, a place where dreams are born and time is never planned, but she moves, rubs her eyes, balled-up little fists like small children when they’re tired. She opens her eyes, looks up at me, at the pillow in my hand, asks me what I’m doing.

‘Nothing, just putting it back on the bed.’

‘I’m safe here, aren’t I, Mil?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good,’ she replies, the smallest voice.

When I wake up in the morning she’s gone. Pyjamas at the foot of the bed, a tiny pile.





31


I didn’t see Phoebe at home this morning but she and Izzy are the first people I see when I walk into Thursday assembly. I sit in the row behind them, a few seats to the left. I listen to the conversations going on around me, any hint people might know, but it’s the usual. Hairstyles and boys, plans for Christmas, who still needs tickets for the play. The organ starts, we stand up as the teachers file in on to the stage. A younger girl, from Year Nine I think, gives a presentation about ‘paying it forward’, the good things we can do over the festive period to help the less fortunate. She gets a strong round of applause. Ms James stands up to deliver the weekly announcements, talks about the proposed refurb of the senior common room, if anybody’s interested in fundraising please see Mrs McDowell in the office. A couple of other items related to the running order of the performance days for our play are detailed, and the last announcement is:

‘The recipient of this year’s Sula Norman Art Prize is Milly Barnes in Year Eleven.’

The applause is slow, better than none. Ms James goes on to say that my name will be etched in gold paint on the awards board in the stairwell leading up to the Great Hall, and to see Miss Kemp for the rest of the details. I feel uncomfortable, not because of the public praise but because I haven’t seen MK since the day she was supposed to meet me at the gallery. And because I can sense Phoebe’s eyes on me. When I look over at her, she immediately looks away.

MK finds me in the library during lunch, trying to work on a history essay, but I’ve read the same sentence over and over again. She smiles as she approaches me.

‘Congratulations, I had a feeling you’d win. Sula’s parents and the gallery owner loved your sketches, it was a unanimous decision.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You should be very proud, especially with everything that’s –’

She stops but it’s too late, the look on her face, the telltale signs of her adjusting each layer of beads round her neck, her rings next.

‘Everything that’s what?’

She sits down next to me. I was right to suspect when I saw her on Monday.

‘That’s why you didn’t come.’

‘Come where?’ she asks.

‘To the gallery. You said you’d meet me at seven, I waited for over half an hour.’

‘You mean Monday? Oh, Milly, I said I’d try but couldn’t promise anything.’

‘It’s fine, I understand.’

‘It’s not like that, my friend came over earlier than expected, we went out. I forgot. I’m sorry.’

She breathes in through her nose, lets it out slowly, her cheeks inflate. She leans in towards me, the scent of lavender.

‘I had a feeling something was up, Milly. The sketches; the emails; the present you tried to give me; you being off school. I spoke to Ms James again and she ended up telling me about, well, where you’re from.’

I count the books on the shelf above her head. I get to eleven, then she says, ‘I know about your mum, Milly.’

‘That’s why you don’t want to be my guidance teacher any more.’

‘That’s absolutely not the reason but it might have been helpful for me to know.’

‘You signed your emails MK.’

‘Sorry, I don’t understand.’

‘I thought you cared.’

‘I do care but I sign all my emails MK, have done for years. I’m sorry if you felt I was misleading you. I’d have been more careful if I’d known.’

A banner pops up, the upper-right corner on the screen of my laptop, an alert for an email: ‘New post added on Year 11 forum.’ I click on the link, it takes a while to open, an image downloading.