Frankie Styne & the Silver Man by Kathy Page

it.’ The sink, plugged with nappies and wipes, filled with what looked like pond water. She turned off the tap and paused, considering her own words, as she dried her hands on her T-shirt.
    â€˜But even if you don’t, makes no difference to me. Because it’s just the same with talking people anyway. Purvis, for example. Yes, yes, she goes, I know what you mean, Liz, she says, mmmm— but I don’t think she does. In the hospital there was no end to it. Not just her, though she was the worst.’ Liz screwed a piece of damp tissue into a ball, stared at it a moment, then looked back at Jim, bent to wipe his nose.
    â€˜Maybe,’ she continued, lowering her voice, ‘that understanding crap isn’t so important anyway. Not the point. I’ve thought of that. But even then, see, it’s still better I talk to you, because you probably can’t and so nothing I say will upset or confuse you or make you do anything and you won’t make me lose the thread by reacting. Makes it easier to say what I want. Complete freedom. If I want . . .’
    She bent low over Jim and stared into his eyes, examining the two tiny reflections of herself. He still wasn’t blinking very much, even though they’d managed to teach him how at the hospital. As an experiment she tried not to blink herself, but it made her eyes water. His skin was cold. Liz fastened the clean nappy, fed his legs back into the pink babygrow. She set him on his back in the bath while she cleared the sink.
    â€˜All on our own,’ she smiled at herself in the glass. ‘Just the two of us. And let’s keep it that way.’
    It was a long time since she had had so much—the first time really, and it worried her. Things, she knew, could be ties that bound. People attached to them like barnacles to rocks. She remembered a girl called Suki at the carriages who talked all the time about being attached and how it fucked people up. Things involved people in getting and keeping them.
    She thought of the things she had: one three-quarter-size bed with head and footboards in dark oak, plain, except for a moulded border at the top; one mattress, satisfyingly sunk in the middle; two pillows in striped ticking covers; three pillowcases; three off-white sheets; two crocheted blankets; one faded pink satin eiderdown; one lime green candlewick bedspread; one wooden cot, with sides made of dowelling bars, painted yellow; one plastic covered mattress with pictures of kites (split at the side); various small sheets and blankets. All of this had been in the house when she arrived, given by Help, arranged by Annie Purvis.
    Neither the cot nor its furniture had been used for Jim, though she did drape her clothes over the cot’s sides: one calf-length Indian-print skirt, purplish, voluminous, with an elasticated waist and tassels around the hem (the only thing that wasn’t thrown away by the hospital); one track suit, grey with maroon piping, saggy at the knees; one horizontally striped T-shirt; one plain white T-shirt with the sleeves cut off; two acrylic mohair jumpers, one purple, one black; one pair of Dr Martens boots; one pair of flip-flops; two nursing bras, little worn; various underpants, socks; one pair of skin-tight footless tights; one navy blue woollen coat, second- or third-hand like the rest, a little stained here and there but good quality—thick, lined, with deep pockets and a wide buckled belt, a coat to shelter in, to live in if you were stuck with no things and not even a roof over your head . . .
    She’d decided to use the front bedroom as a kind of enormous closet for Jim’s clothes. Those that were still slightly damp hung over the wooden frame of an unfinished airing cupboard which surrounded the hot water tank. The rest were arranged on the floor in piles: velour babygrows, small vests, felted woollen jackets, tiny socks, plastic pants—too many to count. In high-street