Ghosts in the Morning - By Will Thurmann Page 0,14

my body certainly whittled away at the “yummy” part. The thing was, I always felt that they could see past my expensive four-wheel drive car, through the veneer - that delicate gossamer blanket that Graham’s money afforded – right through to the shy, care-home girl beneath.

Only Anita called me ‘Andy’, I wouldn’t have accepted it from anyone else. I met her in the care home that they put me in when I was thirteen. The Garter Home for Girls, named after its founder, Felicity Garter. There were photos of Miss Garter all over the walls of the home; she had a sour face and a cruel squint, but I guess looks couldn’t always be true because it seemed she set up the Home for altruistic reasons, so she can’t have been all bad.

I remembered the first time I met Anita. ‘What’s your name?’ she had asked. I had barely put my suitcase down – a few meagre belongings, clothes that had seen better days – and she was standing at the door of my room. It was a very small room with a single bed and one cupboard. Shoeboxes we called them.

‘Andrea,’ I said. My voice sounded small, I was a bit overwhelmed, and Anita looked a little scary. She had a mop of unruly, dark hair, like she’d been in a strong breeze, and was twirling a lock of it, with her head cocked to one side.

‘An-dre-a, hmmm,’ she said, drawing out the syllables. Her voice was lilting, a hint of accent, Liverpool, perhaps, but I couldn’t be sure, I wasn’t very good at recognising foreign accents. ‘So, Andy for short. Well, Andy, I’m Anita. You can call me Anita.’

‘Er, it’s Andrea, not Andy,’ I said meekly.

‘Okay, Andy, whatever. Come on, I’ll show you round, meet some of the other girls.’ She grabbed my arm. ‘Ah, hi Frankie, this is the new girl, arrived today. Andy, meet Frankie.’

‘Hi Frankie,’ I said.

‘Welcome to hell, Andy,’ said Frankie.

‘Er no, Frankie, no. This is An-dre-a, not Andy, she doesn’t like to be called Andy.’ There was a hint of steel in Anita’s voice and Frankie cowed back a step.

‘Oh, okay, sorry, I mean, Andrea.’

Later, Frankie told me her name was Francesca, but Anita insisted on calling her Frankie. She shortened all of the girls’ names, even those that couldn’t really be shortened. Elizabeth was ‘Lizzie’, Sandra was ‘Sandy’, Susan was ‘Susie’, and Clare strangely became ‘Clay’. Anita was a few years older than most of us, so nobody argued with her.

‘So why are you here, Andy?’ Anita asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean why are you here? Here, in the glorious Garter Home for Girls. Or, as Frankie so accurately put it, hell.’

‘Er, well, I, um, guess I, well, I...’

‘Come now, Andy, don’t be shy, we’re not gonna judge you, we’re all friends here. Well-’ Anita winked at me – ‘we’re all outcasts here, anyway. Now, look, what I mean is, some are here ‘cos they got no parents, or ‘cos their parents don’t want them. And some are here ‘cos they’re just plain naughty. So, which are you?’

‘Um, well my Mum died and – ’

‘And your old man?’

‘You mean, my Dad, no, he, er, well, I never really knew him, he left when I was young.’

‘Bastards, aren’t they. Men, that is. My old man was a bastard. Used to get drunk and beat me Mum up. And me, too. Went too far one day though, beat my Mum a bit too hard, put her in a coma. She never came out of it. They locked my old man up, he’s still inside. Hope he rots in prison, the bastard.’ Anita looked sad for a moment, then it was gone. She was too tough for tears.

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s go and teach you how to play pool.’

***

Anita looked radiant, overpowering and completely at odds with the surroundings. She was wearing a voluminous purple pantsuit, topped with a golden coloured sari. Somehow she still managed to look glamorous and attractive, rather than just ridiculous. Centred between her bright turquoise eyes was a bright red dot. In the gloom of the pub, I thought it was a spot, perhaps a mosquito bite, but as she grabbed me and hugged me towards her I saw it was a bindi.

‘Oh, Andy, it’s so great to see you.’

‘Yes, you too, Anita, you too. You look great, you look different, your hair, you’ve lost weight, you...’

‘Yes, of course I look different, dear, I’ve been away for over a