Sabrina Fludde

by Pauline Fisk

  ‘Bentley, is that you?’

  Bentley pulled a face. He didn’t say anything, but led the girl back down to a first-floor room with tall windows looking out on Dogpole Alley. At one end a collection of armchairs, a sofa and a TV set were arranged around a fireplace. At the other stood a cooker and a washing machine, workbenches and a sink, an old dresser and a huge kitchen table.

  Between the two ends, facing the door, sat a big bony woman with a straight face, high, flat cheeks and a square box of fringed hair. She looked just like Bentley and had to be his mother. Around her were spread a tailor’s dummy, a pile of paper patterns and a heap of cloth which went whizzing past her under the needle of her sewing machine.

  She raised her head as Bentley came in. Started on about detention and coming home late – then saw the girl behind him.

  ‘Mum, this is …’ Bentley broke off. Looked at the girl.

  ‘Abren,’ she said, blushing as she plucked the first name that came to her out of thin air. ‘My name’s Abren.’

  ‘Abren,’ Bentley’s mother said, looking the girl up and down – and finishing at her sweater.

  The girl shuffled awkwardly, wondering if something was the matter.

  ‘We met down in the alley,’ Bentley said. ‘The BC boys were chasing her – you must have heard them!’

  It seemed his mother had. ‘So that was what was going on!’ she said, looking at the girl in a whole new light. ‘You can stay for tea, if you want. You look like you could do with it. Bentley’ll show you to the bathroom and you can get yourself clean. Don’t take too long, though, because tea’s late already. By the way, I’m Mrs Bytheway!’

  It was obviously her idea of a joke, but Bentley groaned and said he’d had enough of that at school, thank you very much! He showed Abren the bathroom, where she scrubbed her face and hands, brushed a few tangles out of her hair and stared long at her face. Mrs Bytheway broke in upon her thoughts by calling her down. She returned to find a man, in corduroy trousers held up with braces, laying the table. He was Mr Bytheway, he said. ‘But you can call me Fee. Everybody does. Come and sit down.’

  The girl sat where she was bidden, between Bentley and his mother. They talked about their day, including Bentley’s latest reason for detention. Their voices droned over the girl’s head, and she ate in silence. When she’d finished, she licked her plate. Everybody stared at her, but she didn’t notice.

  ‘Here, have some more,’ said Fee.

  He pushed the bright enamel stewing pot across the table, and the girl helped herself to more stew and dumplings. She hadn’t realised that she was hungry until now. She licked the second plate clean and would have had a third if there had been one. Fee cut up some bread and she scoffed it down. He brought a chocolate pudding out of the fridge and she scoffed down more than her fair share, groaning with delight over its chocolate sauce.

  While she ate a second helping of this too, and licked her pudding plate, a conversation sprang up about the BC boys, and whether the police did enough to protect the town at night. Mrs Bytheway was in favour of closed circuit TV but Fee said it would make no difference. He turned to the girl, as if to see what she thought, but tiredness had overwhelmed her. Her face lay on the table within reach of the last of the chocolate sauce, but too exhausted to do anything about it.

  ‘We’ve got to get that poor child back home!’ Mrs Bytheway said.

  ‘She hasn’t got a home – can’t you see that?’ Bentley said.

  ‘Of course she’s got a home! Everybody has,’ Mrs Bytheway said.

  ‘No, they haven’t,’ Bentley said. ‘At least, not her. I mean, look how pale she is. And look how she eats. And the way she watches us, as if she doesn’t know if she can trust us? She’s been living rough – it’s obvious!’

  When the girl woke up again, the argument had been settled. Bentley had unfolded a sofa bed in front of the fire, and Fee was making it up with crisp white pillows and bedcovers. They were keeping her for the night and would ‘sort her out in the morning’, according to Mrs Bytheway. She got the girl to her feet, walked her to the sofa bed and forced her into pyjamas, carting off her clothes, declaring, ‘If I do nothing else tonight, I’m going to wash these filthy things.’

  Among them was the sweater, which she muttered over, calling it her ‘poor, ruined birthday present’.

  The girl fell back to sleep, realising for the first time that this was the very house from which she’d snatched the sweater. But she was too tired to care, and there was nothing she could do about it anyway. The curtains were drawn, the sheets smelt sweet and the crackle of the fire was hypnotic. Her stomach was full of stew, dumplings and chocolate pudding, and she fell asleep again. She didn’t hear her dirty clothes being piled into the washing machine. Didn’t wake up when a hot-water bottle was tucked under her feet, nor when the Bytheways went up to bed, turning out the lights.

  She fell into a drowning deep sleep until morning, and awoke at first light. Someone was moving across the floor. She heard them drop something on her bed, then creep away. Through slits of eyes, she saw that it was Mrs Bytheway. She left the room, closing the door behind her and, a moment later, closing the front door too.

  Her footsteps clattered down the alley, and the girl sat up. The fire was cold, and grey light came prying through the cracks between the curtains, dimly revealing a pile of ironed and folded clothes at the bottom of the bed. The girl took a closer look and found that they included the sweater, folded up for her, an unexpected gift. But before she had the time to appreciate it, the girl noticed her blanket too.

  Her special woolly blanket, which she’d brought with her from her old life! The girl grabbed it and rubbed its feathery edge against her cheek, relieved that though it smelt of washing powder, it still felt like the same old blanket. Then, holding it in her arms, she fell back to sleep.

  Only when she awoke later, in the full light of day, did she realise that the blanket wasn’t quite the same, after all. She lifted her head, and there upon her pillow was a mass of colour, all the grime washed away. No longer was the blanket a dull uniform grey. It was covered with embroidery. Birds flew over it, and flowers blossomed. Mountains rose upon its soft woollen cloth, and rivers ran away from them. Woodlands stood tall, and the sky above them was as blue as skies can only be in dreams.

  In astonishment the girl looked at a row of white swans, a gang of men towing a square-sailed boat and a palace in an embroidered town with trees and roads and little houses. Underneath them all, five letters had been embroidered with gold thread. They ran along the bottom of the blanket, where the river turned to sea. The girl touched each of them in turn. And even then she couldn’t quite believe that here, as if embroidered for her especially, was the very name she’d chosen for herself:

  ABREN

  St Chad’s crypt

  Abren didn’t need to put on her freshly ironed clothes in order to feel dressed. She had a name – and not one plucked out of thin air. A real name. Abren. She snuggled back down in the bed, clutching her little blanket as if she’d never let it go. She mightn’t know what she’d been doing on that river; mightn’t know where she came from, whether she had a family or a home. But she knew this much. She was Abren.

  Fee came downstairs and started making breakfast, singing to himself. Bentley clattered down to join him, all dressed up for school. How was Abren? he wanted to know. Had she slept? Was she all right? And, most importantly, was she going to stay with them?

  ‘We could put her in the boxroom,’ he said, glancing at the figure in the sofa bed, pretending to be sleeping. ‘I’ve always wanted a brother or sister, and Mum’s always going on about needing women in the family, and—’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Bentley. We’ve got to take her home,’ Fee said.

  ‘But she hasn’t got a home!’ Bentley said.

  ‘She must have someone somewhere, Bentley! She isn’t just a puppy we’ve picked up on the streets!’

  ‘I don’t care what you say. I wan
t her to stay!’

  The toaster popped and the kettle boiled. Fee went one way and Bentley the other, and only later did they return to the subject.

  ‘She can’t stay,’ Fee said. ‘I’m sorry, Bentley. But you can’t just keep people like that! She’s someone’s child. She has to be. She has a home somewhere, and we’ve got to take her back. Either that or we’ll have to call the police!’

  They finished their breakfasts and Bentley left for school, pausing only to take a look at Abren, who was still pretending to be asleep.

  ‘I’ll never speak to you or Mum again if you call the police!’

  Abren lay still until he’d gone, shortly followed by Fee. Then she leapt up, grabbed her clothes and pulled them on as fast as she could. She didn’t want to be the reason for Bentley’s family never speaking again. But she didn’t want them calling the police, and neither did she want them finding her family.

  Grabbing her embroidered blanket, she bolted down the stairs and out through the front door. For all her questions about herself, she didn’t know whether she wanted answers after all. None of them could tell her why she felt a stranger in her own body, or why everybody stared at her as if she were different, or why she couldn’t remember anything.

  Abren wandered round the town in a dull, strange daze. Every time she passed a newspaper hoarding she looked away. Yesterday she’d hoped to find a headline about a missing child, but not today. Every time a bus drove by she hoped its journey destination scroll wouldn’t ring a bell.

  As the day wore on, people started noticing a little girl who seemed to have nowhere to go. Shoppers turned and stared at her as she went by. News-sellers said that, yes, they’d seen her on Pride Hill several times today – and yesterday as well, come to think of it. And, no, they didn’t know who she was.

  Feeling eyes following her wherever she went, Abren returned to the river. She rested in a shed, among a pile of tennis nets, until a class of schoolgirls and their teacher came along. Sheltered under a bandstand while a crowd of boys and girls flirted overhead, and even fell asleep down there until a dog chased her out.

  By now it was getting dark and she returned into town, skulking in alleys and hiding behind rubbish bins until the shops shut and the streets fell empty. Then, cold and hungry, she trailed through the main streets of the town, with no clear idea of where she was heading or what she should do. Drawing level with the market hall she noticed a tall, thin boy in a flapping coat methodically combing through the rubbish bins, looking for food. She hid in the shadows until he’d gone, then tried the same trick. But he’d left nothing edible in any of them, just a pile of empty boxes, some old newspapers and a bunch of dog-eared roses.

  The girl hauled these out. Some were dead, but some weren’t too bad. She straightened the cellophane around them, fished out their plastic bow and stuck it back on. Then she took the flowers round to Dogpole Alley and left them poking through the Bytheway’s letter box. The house lights were out and the alley was dark. She hurried away, hoping that the flowers would thank them for their kindness and for the sweater. Hoping, too, that they wouldn’t mind about her running off. That they’d have forgotten her already, and were out somewhere having fun.

  She reached the end of the alley and suddenly it felt lonely, imagining other people having fun. A bitter wind blew across Old St Chad’s Square, rattling the windows of the tall town houses, their curtains drawn against the night. Abren turned her face away from them and their little bits of light, and started round the square, following the old wall which held up the mound.

  Halfway round she came upon an iron-grilled gate, leading to a dark place which could have been an old church crypt, or maybe a store attached to one of the houses. It looked warm down there out of the wind, and perhaps it could be a shelter for the night. Abren decided to investigate. She slipped through the grill and stumbled down a flight of steps. The darkness rose to greet her like an old friend. Overcome with weariness, she edged her way forwards, looking for a place to lay down her head until finally she struck a far wall.

  She started working along it, feeling her way into some sort of niche, thinking that she’d found her shelter for the night. But then she sensed something in front of her. Something warm. She couldn’t see what it was, but suddenly she caught a whiff of something pungent and unpleasant.

  Abren turned away, trying not to gag. She put out a hand – and touched something clammy! She spun around with a cry, hit the wall on one side of her, bounced off it and stumbled backwards through a darkness which seemed to last for ever. Finally she fell against the steps. She scrambled up them and squeezed through the iron-grilled gate. And never had a night in a lonely square in an empty town felt so good! The wind was fresh, not cold. It wasn’t bitter any more. It just felt good and alive.

  Abren crossed the square, scarcely knowing where she was going – until she bumped into someone coming the other way.

  ‘It was you! Mum and Dad thought that kids were mucking about. But the moment I saw the flowers, I just knew!’

  The someone was Bentley, clutching the roses. He hugged Abren with relief, and she burst into tears. She felt a fool, but couldn’t stop.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Bentley said, letting her go as if he felt a fool too. ‘It’s all right. We’ve found you again – that’s what matters. We never thought we would. We’d almost given up. But now we can go home.’

  He turned towards Dogpole Alley, but Abren hung back. Home, she thought? What home? The wind blew at her, but she couldn’t move.

  Bentley turned back. ‘We can’t just stay here,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t go with you. Not unless you promise,’ Abren said.

  ‘Promise what?’

  ‘No looking for my family. No police. And no questions asked!’

  No questions asked

  They kept their promise, but what they thought about it, Abren could only guess. She became a member of the family, and none of them asked her anything. She moved into the boxroom next to Bentley. Fee emptied it out, and they all helped do it up, providing everything a proper bedroom needed, from pictures on the walls to chests of drawers and hand-me-down clothes. Fee gave Abren a stack of books; some of them were old and boring-looking, but he said she should never judge a book by its cover. Bentley brought her a cassette player with a broken lid, and a pile of music tapes. Mrs Bytheway bought her hairbrushes and washing things, nightdresses, socks and brand-new underwear.

  ‘If anybody asks,’ she said, ‘I’m your Aunty Mena, and you’re our niece from away, come to stay. And if there’s ever anything you want to tell us – anything at all – then our door’s always open. But in your own time, of course. When you’re ready and not before. Only please don’t run away again!’

  It was the last word on the subject – at least for now. The nearest Mena came to raising it was to leave the phone by Abren’s bed, just in case she wanted to make a call, and a blank postcard as well, in case she wanted to post it to put someone’s mind at rest. A stamp was stuck on it, and Abren spent restless hours wondering what she ought to do with it.

  In the end, guessing that Mena was the one whose mind most needed putting at rest, she got up early, went out and posted the card. She left it blank save for the stamp, but at least she could say she’d done it, if she was asked. Then she hurried back to Dogpole Alley, relieved to get inside and close the door. Outside, her questions clamoured to get at her, but inside she was safe. She was one of the family. A cousin from away. Abren Bytheway.

  Days passed by, turning into weeks. Autumn turned to winter. Have I really been here a week? Abren thought. Then, two weeks, is it really? Then, a month – surely not? She lived in Dogpole Alley as if the world beyond it simply wasn’t there. The house felt like a fortress, high above the river, buried among the streets and alleys in the centre of the town. She felt safe within it, never going out. Here there were no BC boys to chase her. No Seventy Steps to draw her down them at her peril. No days spent wandering around, trying
to avoid attention. No nights spent wondering where to lay her head.

  And here there was no river, bearing questions for which Abren had no answers. Questions which she refused to think about, because no questions asked was the order of the day. Instead she buried herself in the routines of her new family’s life, watching Bentley going to school, Fee working with his pupils in the ‘music school’ and Mena going out every morning, only to return home after lunch and get on with her second occupation – dressmaking.

  It was the ritual of their lives. Fee went out busking at night, with ever-changing instruments and in matching costumes. Mena fussed over Abren, channelling her worries into making sure she kept her teeth clean, her hair untangled and she ate. And Bentley did his homework, at least when he had to, dreaming of Christmas and the end of term.

  It was getting closer every day, freezing rain beating down Dogpole Alley and decorations lighting Pride Hill. But they didn’t lure Abren. Even standing at the window watching passers-by with bulging bags of presents didn’t stir her. The world beyond the windows was like the world inside the television screen. It might be real, but not real enough to touch!

  One day, standing at the window, Abren heard Fee and Mena on the front step, locked in argument. Christmas was to blame, and so was money. Mena wanted Fee to stop making a fool of himself. Using carols as a meal ticket was how she described it. Fee said beggars couldn’t be choosers – and she flew at him.

  ‘We wouldn’t have to beg if you’d only get a proper job!’

  ‘I don’t beg – I busk.’

  ‘That’s what you call it!’

  ‘I call it an honourable profession, and an ancient one too! Hawkers and buskers have always been a part of life on Pride Hill! They’ve been here since the dawn of time!’

  ‘I don’t care about the dawn of time! This is the modern world. A world that costs!’