Pureheart Read Online Free Page A

her to ask unanswerable questions.
Why do you wear your hair like that? How come you use such big words? Why is your grandmother so strange?
    And of course at recess and lunch, and in the classroom, she sat alone.
    Once a group of girls called her over to where they were standing in the playground and when she arrived just laughed at her, for minute after minute, as she stood before them, confused about whether she should stay or go – and which choice would make things worse for her.
    Then there was the time when one of the most popular boys trailed around after her all day, pretending to have a crush on her as a joke. Much hilarity ensued, for Deirdre was regarded as the least desirable person in the class. There were even lists circulating that always had her at the bottom.
    For in some basic way that was too obscure for Deirdre’s sheltered mind to grasp, it was all about sex.
    And then there was the day when she sat down at her usual desk in the front corner near the door to find something carved into the wood:
Dead-tree Dark is a WITCH
.
    She wasn’t sure how the witch thing started. Her grandmother was commonly believed to be mad, and there were rumours, some true, some not true. The true ones bothered her more.
    How did they know Deirdre sleepwalked?
    â€˜Can’t you talk to her? Can’t you tell her what’s happening? Can’t you get her to let you be friends with me – I mean, just at school? If we were friends you’d be okay. That’s all you need, you know, Deirdre. Someone to be friends with. It’s not as hard as you think.’
    The class was in the library, researching witch hunts for their History lesson. Deirdre was in an unfrequented corner, pretending to take notes from an ancient volume of the
Encyclopedia Britannica
, waiting for the others to finish with the real books. She didn’t dare wait near them.
    School had become hell for her.
    This was the first time Gal had spoken to her since her grandmother had forbidden him to do so. He was not looking at her. He was looking at one of the books on a nearby shelf. But his tone was pleading.
    â€˜Ten minutes more,’ said Mrs Shelley, the History teacher.
    Deirdre’s throat had constricted. She was so afraid she would burst into tears she could not speak.
    The lighthouse. The lighthouse. And she, tossed by the waves in her frail little boat. But she couldn’t reach him. She couldn’t make that journey, not even to save her life. Her grandmother had forbidden it.
    He glanced back at her and moved away. But she knew he had understood.

    That night, in sheer desperation, she tried her grandmother.
    â€˜Grandmother,’ she said, ‘I don’t know what to do. I don’t have any friends at school.’
    Her grandmother looked up.
    They were in the lounge room of Mrs Dark’s flat. It was a cold night, there was a fire burning in the open fireplace, and Mrs Dark was at the dining table studying architectural plans. She was a small, trim, neat woman whose movements were usually quick and restless. Until Deirdre had spoken she had been jigging one foot under the table as she worked. She was in her sixties, but she looked much younger, and had curious mannerisms for a woman her age, a physical restlessness that was almost like a child’s. Her eyes were dark. Her hair was silvery-blonde.
    The flat had only two inhabitants, or at least that is what Deirdre’s grandmother said on the census.
    But reclusive as they were – Mrs Dark had no friends and neither visited nor received visitors, apart from the tenants who pushed their rent in envelopes under her door – Deirdre and her grandmother were not alone in the flat. In fact, the flat was so crowded it was hard to breathe.
    Mrs Dark and Deirdre lived their lives under the gaze of dead relatives. They looked on now, through the photographs Mrs Dark had arranged profusely around the flat.
    Only one of the pictures was of someone