Learning To Swim

by Clare Chambers

Mother sniffed. ‘She writes with red pen,’ she said, as if this was a further sign of Lexi’s moral turpitude.

Itching all over with prickly heat and sunburn, I had commandeered the only shade for miles and skulked like a lizard in a cleft in a rock.

The object of their concern was Lexi. She had just poked her head around the door to tell us she was off to play golf with Clarissa, and we had heard her clattering around in the cupboard under the stairs where she kept her clubs. A moment later she had emerged with the hoover over her shoulder, and before any of us could intercept her, had slung it in the boot of the car and driven off.

We installed ourselves – instruments, music stands, a chair for me – rather self consciously between two daubs of graffiti: FREE NELSON MANDELA and, further along, TRACIE IS A FAT SLAG.

The sun was shining, love songs were playing on the radio, children were out on their bikes, and Auntie Mim was packing up and moving into Death’s waiting room.

One thing I’ve learnt: we never learn.

She wears so much face powder nowadays it’s a bit like kissing a bap.