Lullaby Girl Read Online Free

an’ stop at the bottom of the stairs. Iss darker in here, cos no one’s bothered to put the lights on. The ceilin’ has wooden panels with pictures carved on ’em, an’ iss higher than the other ceilin’s in the house. The stairs are made from the same wood as the ceilin’. Dark an’ shiny, with smooth oval hollows in the middle of each step. Like a heavy person walked up ’em once an’ left footprints. Above me is the landin’, which leads to the corridor where the bedrooms are. On each wall of the downstairs hall thur’s a doorway. One leadin’ to the day room, one to the offices, one to the dinin’ room, an’ one to the outside. The dinin’-room corridor has a bump halfway along, with a glass door. Through that is the back porch.
    Where is ev’ryone? I don’t want to be with ’em, an’ I don’t want to talk to ’em, but I want to know where they are.
    A noise comes from my right, so I go through that doorway. This is the way to the day room. Another noise, now. A voice. Music. I edge along the corridor an’ peek through the day-room door. There they are. All sittin’ down on chairs. I can’t see what they’re doin’, an’ I kinda want to know, but thur’s no way I’m goin’ in. That’s the place where I used to sing. If I go in, they might make me do it again. Then ev’ryone would laugh.
    No chance …
    I creep away from the door.
    Wait though. Wait. What’s that ?
    I stop. At the end of the corridor, thur’s somethin’ I never noticed. A little door at the top of three steps. Library , it says. Have I been in there before? I can’t remember.
    I look back into the day room. No one’s lookin’ this way, so I sneak past an’ climb the three steps. The door at the top has a handle with a six-pointed star. I go in.
    Books, of course. They’re everywhere. The room’s not much bigger than my bedroom, but iss packed tight with novels an’ manuals an’ picture books. Shelves from floor to ceilin’, saggin’ in places. I sit cross-legged on the floor an’ grab a book called Native Woodland of the British Isles . In it, thur’s a drawin’of a tree that looks like the one outside. Common ash , it says. ( Fraxinus excelsior .) Thur’s two more drawings beside it. One of green leaves, an’ one of the brown things that dropped on the roof. They’re not leaves at all, it says. They’re called keys.
    I like the library room very much. I sit in it for a long time. At one point I hear voices, but nobody comes in here.
    #
    Some men ring the bell at the perimeter gate, an’ Mrs Laird lets ’em in. They’re news men, from a paper called the Western Courier . When I see their faces, I know they’ve been here before. I don’t know when or how many times. That whole time is fuzzy in my head. But I remember them bein’ here, drinkin’ tea. Specially the biscuit man. I remember him sayin’ Any wee treats? an’ Mrs Laird bringin’ the chocolate biscuits out. Then he ate half the tin, an’ there weren’t enough left to go round.
    The men are old an’ they smell like tobacco. All of ’em wear pullovers an’ these stretchy band things round the arms of their shirts. Biscuit man’s teeth click when he eats, an’ his hair looks funny, like iss slidin’ off the front of his head.
    I watch ’em write with the blue biros. Watchin’ me all close. Waitin’ for me to say somethin’, or cry, or do somethin’ they can put on the front page. But I don’t say anythin’. I jus’ sit here, squashed between Rhona an’ Mrs Laird. Mrs Laird does all the talkin’. The worst bit comes when they try to take my photo. A man stands up, without askin’, an’ sticks a cam’ra in my face. ‘Smile!’ he says. Rhona puts her hand in the way.
    ‘We already told you, no!’ she says.
    ‘We can blur it afterwards. It’s really no big—’
    ‘Then why bother?’
    Photo man sighs. The man with the blue biro gives him a look.
    ‘ You don’t mind if I take one, do you, Kathy?’ says photo