The Baby by Lisa Drakeford Page B

seconds.
    She knows she has done something wrong when the blonde girl snaps shut her book without even keeping the page. She stands up unsteadily while stuffing it into her bag, goes as red as Alice herself and mumbles something about having to go to a club.
    This is an excuse. There are no clubs on a Wednesday lunchtime as all the teachers have to attend a meeting. She knows this for a fact.
    She stands rooted to the spot in front of the mean, laughing year sevens, watching the blonde girl leave the room. They are making a lot of noise now. They are still laughing so muchthat some of them look fit to burst.
    The librarian, who must have seen the whole incident from her desk, sidles up. She takes off her glasses and looks sternly at the year sevens. ‘Girls – I am going to have to ask you to leave if you can’t be quiet in here. Some people are trying to work.’
    She places a hand on Alice’s shoulder which is very hot. She speaks kindly. ‘Alice dear, would you mind doing me a little favour?’
    Alice nods half-heartedly, her brain still burning.
    â€˜Would you mind taking this book to the staffroom? Mrs Crawford needs it for fifth lesson.’
    Alice nods again. Relieved to have an excuse to flee. In fact, maybe the librarian has done it on purpose. ‘Of course,’ she whispers, finding her voice suddenly broken and trembling.
    She takes the book from the librarian and leaves the room. She might just have enough time after she has dropped off the book to go to the toilets and check on Quartz, Amethyst and Malachite.

    Alice’s favourite place in the whole wide world is the meadow at the end of her road. She likes it for a lot of reasons, but today it is because the sun is shining; it is a Saturday morning; she has no school and she is with her friend Sandy.
    There are signs of spring. This makes her stomach feel light and airy. Maybe she’ll be an environmentalist when she leaves school. She appreciates the environment much more than her peers.
    There are bursts of birdsong, for instance. They chatter and jabber in the hawthorn hedge to her left and she pictures them tending to the beginnings of their nests and chirruping about their territory.
    It is before nine o’clock. This is early for a Saturday morning. But she has never been one to sleep in. Olivia, for instance, lies in her room all hot and fusty till midday if she is allowed. But Alice cannot seem to do this. Besides, there is the farm to tend to and Sandy is usually nosing at her door from eight o’clock.
    So her mum has agreed, now that she attends secondary school, that she can take Sandy out for an early-morning walk, just as long as she does not wake the rest of the house or return later than ten because of her piano lesson.
    She sighs as she reaches the stile and inhales the scents of the moist meadow grass. The blades glisten with rain from last night. They look like frosted-up fingers, tilted up to the sunshine, wilting at the tips with silver sparkle. She cannot wait to walk through them. She knows that her jeans will be wet through within seconds. But she loves it all the same.
    She thinks about her piano lessons. She enjoys them. She is an accomplished piano player and is shooting through the grades. Her teacher is a nice Polish lady with a funny-smelling house, who always claps her hands when Alice arrives at the front door as if she is surprised to see her, which is ridiculous because her mum has paid upfront, a term at a time, and consequently her Saturday-morning slots are booked well in advance.
    They will do warm up exercises and then Alice will show her what she has been practising. Her teacher will either sigh in ecstasy or wag her finger if she has not done enough practice. Either way she will be happy by the end of the forty-five minutes. And as a treat, because Alice once requested it, she will play a piece for her. Alice loves these moments. Her teacher is excellent and the music –