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chests of drawers and hand-me-down clothes. Fee gave Abren a stack of books; some of them were old and boring-looking, but he said she should never judge a book by its cover. Bentley brought her a cassette player with a broken lid, and a pile of music tapes. Mrs Bytheway bought her hairbrushes and washing things, nightdresses, socks and brand-new underwear.
    â€˜If anybody asks,’ she said, ‘I’m your Aunty Mena, and you’re our niece from away, come to stay. And if there’s ever anything you want to tell us – anything at all – then our door’s always open. But in your own time, of course. When you’re ready and not before.
Only please don’t run away again!’
    It was the last word on the subject – at least for now. The nearest Mena came to raising it was to leave the phone by Abren’s bed, just in case she wanted to make a call, and a blank postcard as well, in case she wanted to post it to put someone’s mind at rest. A stamp was stuck on it, and Abren spent restless hours wondering what she ought to do with it.
    In the end, guessing that Mena was the one whose mind most needed putting at rest, she got up early, went out and posted the card. She left it blank save for the stamp, but at least she could say she’d done it
,
if she was asked. Then she hurried back to Dogpole Alley, relieved to get inside and close the door. Outside, her questions clamoured to get at her, but inside she was safe. She was one of the family. A cousin from away.
Abren Bytheway
.
    Days passed by, turning into weeks. Autumn turned to winter. Have I really been here a week? Abren thought. Then, two weeks, is it really? Then, a month – surely not? She lived in Dogpole Alley as if the world beyond it simply wasn’t there. The house felt like a fortress, high above the river, buried among the streets and alleys in the centre of the town. She felt safe within it, never going out. Here there were no BC boys to chase her. No Seventy Steps to draw her down them at her peril. No days spent wandering around, trying to avoid attention. No nights spent wondering where to lay her head.
    And here there was no river, bearing questions for which Abren had no answers. Questions which she refused to think about, because
no questions asked
was the order of the day. Instead she buried herself in the routines of her new family’s life, watching Bentley going to school, Fee working with his pupils in the ‘music school’ and Mena going out every morning, only to return home after lunch and get on with her second occupation – dressmaking.
    It was the ritual of their lives. Fee went out busking at night, with ever-changing instruments and in matching costumes. Mena fussed over Abren,channelling her worries into making sure she kept her teeth clean, her hair untangled and she ate. And Bentley did his homework, at least when he had to, dreaming of Christmas and the end of term.
    It was getting closer every day, freezing rain beating down Dogpole Alley and decorations lighting Pride Hill. But they didn’t lure Abren. Even standing at the window watching passers-by with bulging bags of presents didn’t stir her. The world beyond the windows was like the world inside the television screen. It might be real, but not real enough to touch!
    One day, standing at the window, Abren heard Fee and Mena on the front step, locked in argument. Christmas was to blame, and so was money. Mena wanted Fee to stop making a fool of himself.
Using carols as a meal ticket
was how she described it. Fee said beggars couldn’t be choosers – and she flew at him.
    â€˜We wouldn’t have to beg if you’d only get a proper job!’
    â€˜I don’t beg –
I busk
.’
    â€˜That’s what you call it!’
    â€˜I call it an honourable profession, and an ancient one too! Hawkers and buskers have always been a part of life on Pride Hill! They’ve been here since the dawn