Read Online Mud Girl by Alison Acheson - Free Book Online Page A

fight her, but his narrow shoulders bunch, and one hand begins to pick at the strap. She takes it from his hand and draws it up between his legs to hold the vest in place; he’s such a little guy, with such a nothing-there body, the vest could slip right off him. She remembers the buckle of this strap now: it wouldn’t hold, and here, attached to the side of the vest edge, is the pin that Mum always used to keep it in place. With the memory comes an image of her mother’shands, tanned the colour of honey, and slim. There was always a sureness to them that never seemed quite to fit with the rest of her.
    She hooks the strap into its buckle and tightens it just as her mother did, and that’s when he begins to struggle. His struggle is silent though, as if by his saying nothing, she’ll not notice what he’s doing.
    â€œYou have to,” she says and remembers those were Jude’s words to him. How often does Dyl hear those words? She fastens the pin.
    He frowns and looks at her as if trying to make sense of nonsense. Then he begins to pull at the vest, at the strap, the pin – the pin is old and gives way, and there’s a ping of metal as it flies across the room. He yanks the strap until it’s hanging like a tail behind him. Then he stands tall; he has scared himself a bit, she’s sure of it, but there’s triumph in him.
    â€œOkay,” she says, a little disarmed and even slightly in awe of his performance. “Let’s go play in the field.”
I might have to tie a rope around your waist, though.
    But no, he shakes his head. More shuice is what he wants. His request is another whisper. Does he ever speak up? The longer he’s here in her house, the wider his eyes grow. He seems to be more apprehensive with time, not less. She fills the cup again, then sets about looking for a ball or something – anything – to play with.
    There’s an empty cereal box, a couple of tins, and in the corner is a heap of stiff, yellowed newspaper. “Paper boats,” Abi says, pleased with this bit of inspiration. He has no idea what she’s talking about, and stands there with his hands wrapped around the cup, that frown moulded to his face. So far, she can picture his face in distress, running over with tears, or like this – all creased and closed. Maybe a paper boat will bring a smile. She begins to fold.
    Funny how it comes back, the folds, the turns. She and Dad used to make them all the time, lower them to the river, see how long it took until they disappeared into the white sun.
    The boy holds his, while she makes one for herself.
    â€œOne for Dad,” he says, and he looks at the door.
    Should she tell him it might be a while? She doesn’t even know how long Jude will be.
    â€œAll right.” She continues folding.
    â€œOne more,” he says when she’s done. And “one more” again. He takes each as it’s finished and puts it next to the last, nose to nose. His little fingers are precise. She didn’t know little kids could move like that. He waits, moving with a little hop on first one foot, then the other, back and forth, while she folds the next.
    â€œI’ll fill the sink now,” she says.
    He looks panicked. “No! One more!”
    â€œWe might run out of paper,” she says, but he looks at the thigh-high stack of classifieds – EMPLOYMENT (lots of red-pen circles) – and she starts to laugh. “Okay, maybe not!”
    She plugs the sink, and turns the tap on.
    â€œNo, no!” He’s followed her, cup of juice still in hand, and grabs hold of one of her legs. Even with just one arm, he has an amazingly tight hold.
Velcro-kid, right?
    â€œI can’t fold boats all day!” She leans over to free herself, and up comes the juice – yellow pours down the front of her white shirt.
My white shirt. Job interview.
Her yell makes him drop his arm, step back, and