The First Person: And Other Stories - By Ali Smith Page 0,32

it wasn’t amusing to think any more, not in the same way, now that what she talked about down the phone to her mother or to the people from work were things she didn’t really want to hear come out of her mouth, about what the boy wasn’t doing, like eating much today. Or wanting to watch TV, even the cartoons. Or letting himself be got up without a fuss so he could be carried through to go to the bathroom. Or even responding at all any more when she sat on his bed and asked him questions: do you want to watch the cartoons? Will I put the football DVD in? Is it sore in your eyes? Where in your head? Too bright? Too dark? Do you want the light on? Off?

The phone in her hand rang. Caller unknown. She watched it ring. She let it click into answerphone then waited for it to tell her that it had received a new voicemail message. She played the message back. It was the voice of Karen Pretty from Heavenly. It offered three initial consultation times. The boy’s mother phoned straight back and left her choice on Heavenly’s answerphone.

The doorbell rang. It was after lunch, after the boy had shrunk back into the sheets away from the plate saying he was too cold, and after she’d sat at the dining room table downstairs and eaten, herself, the two fish fingers and the microwave chips she’d put on the plate for him.

There was a rough-looking woman at the door. She was middle-aged and sloppily dressed in a stained long t-shirt and black leggings.

Fifty up front cash, the woman said. Where’s the, what’s it again, a boy? Is he in his bed?

She had her foot in the door. The boy’s mother explained, holding the door, that she’d engaged someone else.

Yeah, right, the woman said. Karen Pretty, ear wax queen. Can’t even spell complementary medicine right and you’re letting her near something you love. I wouldn’t. Each to their own. Karen Pretty. KP Nuts is what I call her.

The woman had got into the house. She was standing in the hall now, looking past the boy’s mother up the stairs.

I’ll take a cheque if it’s made out to cash, she said on her way up.

Her bulk made the stairwell look small. She held out her hand to keep the boy’s mother at the foot of the stairs. She breathed like a heavy smoker; her breath was audible over the traffic noise through the open door.

Be down in a minute, she said. Hurry with that cheque, will you?

It was true; it was only about a minute, maybe even less, before she was wheezing down again and standing in the doorway of the sitting room.

I’ve no idea what’s wrong with him, she said. He’ll probably be okay. By the way, can I get a glass of water?

The boy’s mother went to the kitchen and filled a beer glass with tap water. When she came back the front door was shut, the cheque had gone from the arm of the armchair with the chequebook and the bank card, there was no sign of the woman anywhere up or down the street outside the house and it wasn’t till half an hour later when she looked for her handbag that she realized it was gone as well and so were the two Capo Di Monte figurines, gone from the sideboard.

Seated Lady And Child. Clown Balancing A Ball.

Karen Pretty from Heavenly Health Analysis Ltd came at the appointed time two days later even though the boy’s mother had cancelled her by answerphone. She was on crutches. She stood precariously on the rug in the middle of the sitting room.

Do you have a hard upright chair? she said. Like a dining room chair? Thank you very much. I’d just like to make it clear that I don’t intend to charge you for this visit because it is an initial consultation visit. Can you put the chair exactly here?

She drew a line on the floor with the end of a crutch.

Bless you, she said.

She was too young to say bless you. She looked about twenty-five. She had long brown hair held back with a clasp at the nape of her neck. She looked familiar to the boy’s mother.

Do you not work at the Abbey National? she asked the girl.

Karen Pretty put her crutches neatly together, held them in the one hand and sat down in the middle of the room.

You probably