The Unlikely Life of Maisie Meadows. Jenni Keer

this book were so inextricably linked, that she simply must be the winning bidder on sale day. After all, it was her curiosity about the teapot that had led Meredith to give her the book in the first place.

      ‘Why does your pot only have a pattern on one side?’ Maisie asked Meredith, tipping her seven-year-old head to one side and drawing in her eyebrows as she’d seen her teacher do when she wanted the children to know they had her full attention.

      Since Mummy and Daddy had decided to live apart (although Maisie was pretty sure Mummy had done most of the deciding) Maisie and her mum often popped in on Meredith in that delightful slice of the afternoon between walking back from school and the number fourteen bus dropping off her rowdy older siblings – when all peace and order was irrevocably shattered.

      Maisie was the baby of the house. Her brother and sisters were born within five years, and then there was a gap of another five before she was even thought of – if indeed she’d been thought of at all. It meant she always felt slightly apart from the cluster. So with a houseful of hormonal teenagers, high-pitched screaming and the reverberating echoes of a drum kit being thrashed to within an inch of its life, Maisie trotted behind her mother whenever there was an offer of tea and sympathy next door. It was either sit in a strange old lady’s house and listen to boring grown-up conversation, get caught in the cross-fire of squabbling teenage girls playing tug-of-war with a much coveted halter-neck top, or get shouted at by Ben for walking in front of the PlayStation 2 screen.

      Meredith smiled. ‘I suppose it does look rather unfinished. Almost as if the person painting it got bored and went off to do something else. But then that’s what I like most about it. It isn’t uniform or conventional.’

      Grown-ups really used ordinary words in the most surprising of places. The only uniform Maisie knew anything about was the mustard-yellow polo shirt and bottle-green jumper she had to wear to school. She felt like a plate of salad in those dumb colours.

      ‘Gamma loved that it wasn’t dotted with pink flowers like every other tea service around. And yet my mother hated it for those very reasons. Drab old set, she would say. No colour on the damn thing at all. But things don’t have to be colourful to be beautiful. Think of black and white photographs – considerably more atmospheric than colour. And how striking a zebra is when compared to a horse. What do you think, Maisie?’

      Even at her young age, she could tell Mrs Mayhew was a retired teacher. She was good at explaining things, would ask Maisie questions that made her think and often actively sought her opinion. Grown-ups normally didn’t care what she thought. If they did, Daddy would still be living at home.

      Maisie put her best thinking face on to show her neighbour she was adult enough to take this question seriously – this time she allowed her eyebrows to rise up her forehead in a considered manner. Eyebrows, she noticed, did a lot of talking.

      ‘I love Lisa’s black and white stripy dress. I think she looks super cool. But colours are fun too. I like Coca-Cola because it’s in red shiny cans—’

      ‘Not that she drinks lots of fizzy drinks, Meredith,’ her mother interrupted, keen to be seen as a responsible and caring parent by their neighbour.

      ‘But if everything was black and white, like in the old days,’ Maisie continued, ‘you wouldn’t be able to tell things apart.’ Now wasn’t the time to admit she had lots of Coca-Cola at Daddy’s house. In fact, she pretty much got whatever she asked for, on the condition she didn’t run back and tell Mummy.

      ‘I do so love a child who knows her own mind,’ Meredith said, much to Maisie’s delight. ‘You are quite right, young lady. Variety is key. It doesn’t matter how wonderful something is, if it becomes too commonplace, it loses its appeal.’

      ‘Someone tell that to my wandering husband,’ her mum muttered, under her breath.

      ‘So if everyone had your teapot it wouldn’t be special any more?’ Maisie was trying to follow the logic. Just when she thought she’d grasped something, adults threw something else into the mix.

      ‘Exactly, and according to Gamma, this teapot is particularly interesting for reasons she never properly explained – at least not to me or my sisters. If she elaborated to my mother, sadly that information went with her to the grave.’ She stroked the spout, running her finger along it carefully, and let out a little sigh. ‘Gamma always rabbited on about finding someone to look after the whole set, but in the end, it passed to my mother and I can’t think of anyone less guardian-like she could have left it to. It was divided up between me and my sisters not long after Gamma died. But then I suppose at least it remained in the family even if it wasn’t together.’

      ‘You have sisters?’ gasped Maisie. Did old ladies have sisters? And if so, were they as much trouble as her own? Lisa, never mind drama queen, was a drama goddess, and kept blaming Mummy and Daddy’s quarrel for everything. And Zoe, rather boringly, had turned to exercise – as if she could work through her worries by pumping weights and running around the estate in Lycra. She was now far too busy to play with Maisie.

      ‘Five,’ Meredith replied. ‘Including me, that made six girls and I’m the oldest. Which is why I was given the teapot. Talking of which, it’s time to make a fresh brew. You look like you could use another cup, Beverley.’ Meredith swept up the tray of tea-making paraphernalia and returned to the kitchen.

      Maisie was left wondering what made the teapot so special. Could you rub it and get three wishes, like Aladdin’s lamp? Or could you peer into it and see the future, like a crystal ball? She never did find out but perhaps it was one of those things said to a child merely to get an impressed, wide-eyed look. She’d fallen for all that nonsense before: unicorns and tooth fairies. Thank goodness Father Christmas wasn’t one of those silly stories made up by adults – she’d seen him with her own eyes.

      A cheery rat-a-tat-tat at the back door interrupted Maisie’s memories and her mother, passing by after a late shift, let herself into the kitchen. As she snuck a home-baked cookie from the plastic tub on the side, Maisie entered. They faced each other and both gave weary smiles, her mother stepping forward to tuck a strand of Maisie’s loose hair behind her daughter’s ear.

      ‘Don’t hide your pretty face behind your hair. You’ll never get a boyfriend by hiding away.’

      There had never been another man for her mother after the divorce; instead she’d launched herself back into the workplace to compensate. She once confided in her youngest daughter there had been a few tentative romantic offers over the years but no one had that dazzling smile, exuded that charming personality, or made her feel her insides would implode with longing as she entertained lustful and wanton thoughts when she was within a ten-metre radius of his intoxicating aftershave.

      As soon as Maisie was at secondary school and relatively independent, her mother registered with a handful of job agencies, wondering what on earth she was qualified for with a cavernous twenty-year gap in her CV and no qualifications to speak of. Eventually, she took a part-time job in a local care home and over the years worked her way up to duty manager, having found her true vocation. The plus side of being a highly emotional person was she understood and respected the emotions of others. The old dears loved her, and Maisie’s mum, who had survived the horrible teenage years being repeatedly informed by her offspring that she was the worst mother ever, was loved again, by a myriad of doddery but tender-hearted residents.

      ‘How are things?’ her mum asked, as she slipped her coat off and helped herself to a second cookie. Her shoulders drooped and her face was pale and drawn.

      ‘Good,’ but Maisie didn’t return the question. It was obvious her mum had not had a good day. ‘Lost another one?’ she asked, flicking on the kettle.

      ‘Oh, sweetheart, sometimes I can’t bear it.’ Any pretence things were okay was now gone. A salty tear dribbled down her soft cheek and dangled from her jaw. ‘Such a darling. Thought she was still eighteen and didn’t understand why her mother never came to collect her. Every day she waited in reception, black leather quilted handbag at her feet, wringing her tiny hands together. She was the sweetest, meekest soul you’d ever