like your drawing.’
When the curtain twitches and Mrs Green waves, I wave back, and Aisha joins in. ‘Is she the landlady?’ Aisha wants to know. ‘I thought you said she was mean and scary?’
‘Oh, she’d like to be,’ I say. ‘But she’s not. We keep the flower beds at the back weeded and buy her mint humbugs, and she’s a pussycat.’
‘Oh.’
Aisha likes the flat too.
‘Definitely no fungus,’ she says, eyeing the walls. ‘It’s huge! Oh wow, your room is so cool !’
Last week, while I was at school, Mum painted bluebirds all round the doorway, swooping and diving and dipping down towards the skirting boards. Once she’d checked I liked it, she added a scattering of bluebells growing up from the floorboards.
Aisha’s right, it’s cool.
We eat pizza and shop-bought cream cakes, and sip hot chocolate with melted marshmallows because Aisha’s never tried it before. Then we make popcorn and Ian Turner comes round just in time to share. Aisha and I steal a dish of hot, buttery corn and flop down in my room playing CDs. Misti charges in and we dress her up as a fairy, all pink net and fluffy wings. I make her a wand from card, silver glitter and a green garden stick, and Aisha makes a crown out of sweet wrappers, dried pasta and the back of the cornflakes box. Misti tiptoes away to cast spells on Mum and Ian.
‘She’s so cute,’ Aisha says. ‘Your sister. I wish I had a sister.’
‘You can have Misti…’
‘Nah. Really. So cute. And your mum is really nice, really young and pretty. She likes blue, doesn’t she? The colour blue?’
‘Mmmm. A fortune-teller told Mum that blue was her lucky colour, when she was sixteen. She always wears blue. Blue boots, blue skirts, blue jeans, blue tops, blue jackets. That’s why she called me Indigo, why Misti is Misti. I suppose we should be grateful she didn’t name us Ultraviolet and Navy, or Turquoise and Sky.’
We giggle. I don’t mention that I’ve often wondered if Mum fell for Blue because of his name. I couldn’t exactly have a dad called Red, could I? And Danny, he had blue-dyed dreadlocks. Even Max has a blue builder’s van and blue eyes. Scary-blue, piercing, ice-blue.
‘It’s so romantic,’ Aisha sighs. ‘Does it work?’
‘Does what work?’
‘Does it bring her luck?’
I pull a face.
‘What do you think?’
Mum has a job.
She’s working at the supermarket, part-time, so she starts at ten and finishes at three, just in time to meet me from school on the days when I’m not rehearsing. Misti gets to stay in the supermarket crèche while Mum works, and she loves it. Everyone is happy.
Mum looks very young and sweet in her little white cap, her hair scraped up into a bun or a spiral of plaits. She wears a candy-striped nylon tabard over her blue top and skirt, a red enamel name badge like Ian’s. It says, Anna, Store Assistant .
The first week, Mum stacks shelves and moves boxes around in the warehouse. She meets me at school every afternoon, her eyes bright, her cap and her tabard folded neatly in her blue suede shoulder bag. Misti curls up in the pushchair, pink-faced and happy.
Every time, Mum produces a different treat for the long walk home. An iced bun, a punnet of strawberries, French bread still warm from the bakery ovens.
The second week, Mum gets to work in the supermarket cafe, clearing the tables and wiping up spills and emptying the dishwasher. She likes that too. She brings home egg mayonnaise baguettes that didn’t sell in time, and chocolate muffins, Danish pastries, a whole cheese-and-onion quiche.
‘You wouldn’t believe the stuff they give away at the end of each shift,’ she tells me. ‘Just to make sure the food on sale is ultra-fresh. We can eat like kings.’
The third week, she’s put on the checkouts. It’s easy, she says. The computerized till does all the hard work, and she just has to scan the bar codes and say friendly things to the customers.
And when her pay cheque comes,
When the curtain twitches and Mrs Green waves, I wave back, and Aisha joins in. ‘Is she the landlady?’ Aisha wants to know. ‘I thought you said she was mean and scary?’
‘Oh, she’d like to be,’ I say. ‘But she’s not. We keep the flower beds at the back weeded and buy her mint humbugs, and she’s a pussycat.’
‘Oh.’
Aisha likes the flat too.
‘Definitely no fungus,’ she says, eyeing the walls. ‘It’s huge! Oh wow, your room is so cool !’
Last week, while I was at school, Mum painted bluebirds all round the doorway, swooping and diving and dipping down towards the skirting boards. Once she’d checked I liked it, she added a scattering of bluebells growing up from the floorboards.
Aisha’s right, it’s cool.
We eat pizza and shop-bought cream cakes, and sip hot chocolate with melted marshmallows because Aisha’s never tried it before. Then we make popcorn and Ian Turner comes round just in time to share. Aisha and I steal a dish of hot, buttery corn and flop down in my room playing CDs. Misti charges in and we dress her up as a fairy, all pink net and fluffy wings. I make her a wand from card, silver glitter and a green garden stick, and Aisha makes a crown out of sweet wrappers, dried pasta and the back of the cornflakes box. Misti tiptoes away to cast spells on Mum and Ian.
‘She’s so cute,’ Aisha says. ‘Your sister. I wish I had a sister.’
‘You can have Misti…’
‘Nah. Really. So cute. And your mum is really nice, really young and pretty. She likes blue, doesn’t she? The colour blue?’
‘Mmmm. A fortune-teller told Mum that blue was her lucky colour, when she was sixteen. She always wears blue. Blue boots, blue skirts, blue jeans, blue tops, blue jackets. That’s why she called me Indigo, why Misti is Misti. I suppose we should be grateful she didn’t name us Ultraviolet and Navy, or Turquoise and Sky.’
We giggle. I don’t mention that I’ve often wondered if Mum fell for Blue because of his name. I couldn’t exactly have a dad called Red, could I? And Danny, he had blue-dyed dreadlocks. Even Max has a blue builder’s van and blue eyes. Scary-blue, piercing, ice-blue.
‘It’s so romantic,’ Aisha sighs. ‘Does it work?’
‘Does what work?’
‘Does it bring her luck?’
I pull a face.
‘What do you think?’
Mum has a job.
She’s working at the supermarket, part-time, so she starts at ten and finishes at three, just in time to meet me from school on the days when I’m not rehearsing. Misti gets to stay in the supermarket crèche while Mum works, and she loves it. Everyone is happy.
Mum looks very young and sweet in her little white cap, her hair scraped up into a bun or a spiral of plaits. She wears a candy-striped nylon tabard over her blue top and skirt, a red enamel name badge like Ian’s. It says, Anna, Store Assistant .
The first week, Mum stacks shelves and moves boxes around in the warehouse. She meets me at school every afternoon, her eyes bright, her cap and her tabard folded neatly in her blue suede shoulder bag. Misti curls up in the pushchair, pink-faced and happy.
Every time, Mum produces a different treat for the long walk home. An iced bun, a punnet of strawberries, French bread still warm from the bakery ovens.
The second week, Mum gets to work in the supermarket cafe, clearing the tables and wiping up spills and emptying the dishwasher. She likes that too. She brings home egg mayonnaise baguettes that didn’t sell in time, and chocolate muffins, Danish pastries, a whole cheese-and-onion quiche.
‘You wouldn’t believe the stuff they give away at the end of each shift,’ she tells me. ‘Just to make sure the food on sale is ultra-fresh. We can eat like kings.’
The third week, she’s put on the checkouts. It’s easy, she says. The computerized till does all the hard work, and she just has to scan the bar codes and say friendly things to the customers.
And when her pay cheque comes,
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