After I spoke with the adopted girl, things seemed fuzzy, as if I was peering through thick London fog.
Beside me on the worn slats of an old park bench, a little girl of five swung her feet in that ageless, restless way and told me bits of her life, her voice floating strangely as if the air itself bent and wobbled around us:
I never saw my father, because he left when I was awfully small just me and Mum. Mum, she she died last year. The grown-ups said shed passed on.
She glanced up at me, eyes like marbles borrowed from a rainy street, and carried on with her tale:
After the funeral, my aunt Edna that’s my mothers sistershe came to live with me. They all said she was very grand for not sending me to the childrens home. They told me Aunt Edna was now my guardian. So thats who I live with.
The girl fell silent, staring at an odd spot beneath the bench as though something invisible and important waited there, then drifted back into her story:
Once I moved in, Aunt Edna started tidying things up in the house. She took all of Mums things and put them in a heap, ready for the tip. I cried and begged her not to. She let me keep them in the end. Now I sleep among Mums old things. At night, tucked over her dresses and scarves, its so warm, like shes snuggled right beside me.
Every morning, Aunt Edna gives me breakfast. She cant really cook not the way Mum did but I eat it all up anyhow. I dont want her to be sad, not after shes made the effort. Its not her fault, not cooking like Mum. After that, she sends me out for a wander, and Im not to come back until dusk shoes the chimneys blue. Aunt Edna is so terribly, terribly kind!
She likes to tell her friends about how good shes been to me. I dont know these friends these aunts but they visit a lot. Aunt Edna has tea with them, tells funny stories, says nice things about me, and hands round biscuits and sweets to everyone, me included.
The girl let out a long, day-dreamy sigh and kept going:
I cant only eat sweets always, though. Aunt Ednas never cross, not even once. Shes gentle with me. One day, she even gave me a doll. Of course, the dolls a little poorly. One legs twisted and her eye winks all the time. Mum never gave me a poorly doll.
Suddenly, the girl hopped from the bench, wobbling on one leg like shed become a heron or just forgotten how many feet small girls usually have:
Ive got to go, because Aunt Edna said her friends are coming, and I must get properly dressed before they arrive. She said shell give me a scrumptious cake after. Goodbye!
Then she skipped away to run her mysterious errands. I stayed on the bench, thinking hard as the afternoon clouds drifted by, and all I could think about was good Aunt Edna. Why did she want so badly for everyone to believe she was noble? Could someone really watch a child sleeping on the floor, wrapped in her dead mothers clothes, and feel nothing at all?
