Page 107 of Lyrebird

‘Yes,’ she says softly. ‘It’s the first time I realised it. But then, when I realised it, it became clear it wasn’t the first time I’d done it.’

Bo nods at her to tell her more.

‘Gaga brought it up with me one day, years before. We were lying on the grass, behind the house, I was making daisy chains. Mam was reading a book, she loved romance books, Gaga hated them. Mam would sometimes read the sentences aloud, just to annoy Gaga,’ she laughs. ‘I can hear them, at each other. Gaga blocking her ears la la la la.’

Isabel isn’t reading aloud. It is silent. And suddenly Gaga starts laughing.

‘That was a good one, Laura,’ she says.

Laura has no idea what she is talking about.

‘Stop it,’ Laura’s mum says to her, glaring at her over the book.

‘What? It was a particularly good sound. She’s getting better, Isabel. You have to admit it.’

Laura sits up in the long grass. ‘What am I getting better at?’

Gaga raises her eyebrows at her daughter.

‘Nothing, love, nothing. Ignore your Gaga, she’s going senile.’

‘Well, we all know that. But there’s nothing wrong with my ears,’ Gaga winks at Laura.

Laura giggles. ‘Tell me.’

Mum lowers her book. She glares at Gaga, but there’s submission in the look, like she’s giving her permission but warning her to tread carefully.

‘You make these wonderful sounds, dear child. Haven’t you noticed?’

‘Sounds? No. What kind of sounds?’ Laura laughs, thinking Gaga is fooling her.

‘All kinds of sounds. Just then you were buzzing like a bee. I almost thought I was about to be stung!’ She gives a belly laugh.

‘No, I wasn’t,’ Laura says, confused.

Her mother looks at Gaga, there’s concern in her eyes.

‘Oh, indeed you did, my little bumble bee,’ she closes her eyes and raises her head to the sun.

‘No, I didn’t, why would you say that?’ Laura says, voice shaking.

‘I heard you,’ she says simply.

‘Enough now, Mother.’

‘Okay,’ she replies, looking at Mum through one eye, then closes it again.

Laura stares at the two of them. Her Gaga lazy in a deckchair, Mum reading her book. Rage rushes through her.

‘You’re a liar!’ she shouts, then runs from the garden and into the house.

‘How old were you?’ Bo asks.

‘I was seven. It didn’t come up again for a long time. Maybe a year later. Mum didn’t want to talk about it, she knew I was sensitive about it, and Gaga was under strict instructions not to say a word.’

‘Why do you think you were particularly sensitive about it?’

‘Do you know what it’s like to be constantly told you’re doing something that you don’t even know you’re doing?’