‘Who is she?’

‘Her name’s Clarabelle. Such a pretty name for such a pretty little doll, don’t you think?’

I swallowed with difficulty, my mind racing. ‘Where’s she from?’

‘Utopia,’ Mother said dreamily.

I hesitated. There was a fiction book in Mother’s bookcase called Utopia, which meant it couldn’t be real. My textbooks had taught me the difference between fiction and non-fiction, so I knew that much. I swallowed. ‘Where’s she really from, Mother?’

Mother’s head whipped around, her hair spraying out like sparks of fire. She glared at me, nostrils flaring. ‘Don’t you like her? Don’t you like your present?’

I took a step away from the table. ‘I think she’s perfect, Mother, I do. I just want to know more about her, that’s all.’

Mother’s eyes narrowed and she tilted her head to the side. ‘If I tell you she’s from Utopia, she’s from Utopia.’

I nodded and glanced at the sleeping child, a queer, sick feeling working its way up my throat like thick treacle.

‘Thank you for my book, Mother,’ I said.

‘That’s fine. Tell me what you think of her, of Clarabelle.’

Mother watched me intently. I looked at the child’s face, thought about how oddly similar our names were. Mirabelle and Clarabelle.

‘She’s beautiful and, er, really small. She must be quite young.’ I paused, telling myself to be brave, ‘How old is she?’

‘She’s five,’ she said. ‘I rescued her.’

The sick feeling eased a little, ‘You rescued her?’

Mother nodded. She bent down and lifted the little girl out of the bag. Kissing the girl’s forehead, she left the kitchen and walked through the dining room into the living room where she placed the child on the sofa and covered her with the crochet blanket. I watched Mother perch on the edge of the sofa and stroke the child’s face over and over again, a faint smile on her thin lips.

‘If I hadn’t saved her, she’d be dead right now,’ Mother said softly.

‘What do you mean, Mother?’

‘That’s enough, Mirabelle,’ she said, her tone sharpening.

She picked up the little girl and I watched her carry her out of the room. I listened to Mother’s feet travelling up the stairs, heard her turn at the top. She’s taking her to the spare room, I thought.

The spare room that I haven’t been allowed in for months.

Mother came downstairs two hours later. Curled in the rocking chair trying to focus on my book, I looked up at the sound of her footsteps and opened my mouth to speak but she walked straight past the living room door without glancing in my direction.

‘Mother?’ I said, rushing after her into the kitchen.