"Now, Lisa," Auntie Cathy says, as we reach a big tall building, with a roof right up to the sky, "don't drink anything unless I give it to you myself, okay? And if I give you a glass of something, make sure you don't put it down anywhere. Keep it tight in your hand, where you can see it, okay?"

     I nod, and hang on fast to her gloved hand. I've never been away from home, away from Daddy, away from the animals, for this long before. I stare up at the roof of the building, wondering why the clouds don't get caught in it. There's music coming from behind the door. Auntie Cathy has stepped inside already. Now she's chatting to a funny lady. The funny lady is holding a bright red guitar with gold and silver swirls, and wearing a big red hat. It looks like a huge tomato on her head. I don't like tomatoes. I clutch my Auntie Cathy's coat in my fist, but my hands are too small, I keep losing my grip.

     "Come on, now, Lisa. Don't be shy. This is Macy Holden-Smith. She's a folk-singer. Do you know what that means? She sings songs, all about people. About people living, and dying, and loving each other. Say how-do-you-do to the nice lady?"

     "How-you-do," I say, then bury my face in my Aunt's big snuggly coat. When I'm bigger, like Auntie Cathy, I'm getting a coat like this one, all of my own. It could cover me up completely, and no-one would ever know I was there. I could go missing in it.

     "Hello, Lisa. Isn't it nice of your Auntie Cathy to bring you all this way?"

     "Did you know I was coming?"

     "Of course! Your Auntie promised me I'd get to meet you, just as soon as your daddy said he could spare you for a few days. You know," - and here, her voice goes funny, like there's food stuck in it - "You're the spitting image of your mother, dear."

     "I haven't been spitting," I protest. The women laugh at me. "But I haven't!" 

     The women keep laughing. Auntie Cathy rests a hand on the back of my head, guiding me through a door.

     "Is this your sister's little girl?" asks another lady. She's carrying a guitar, just like the tomato-lady, but it's only a plain brown one. I stand up a little straighter, and move as close as I can to the tomato-lady.

     "Yes. Little Lisa. Say hello, Lisa."

     "Isn't it sad? Isn't it just awful?" says the lady, in a horrible, quiet voice.

     "Yes, isn't it? Just awful."

     Auntie Cathy lifts me up onto a big stool, right up off the ground. There's a man next to me, muttering something into his glass.

     "Don't mind Ray," says the lady with the plain brown guitar and the soft voice, patting my back. "His bark's worse than his bite."

     I stare at the man's teeth in alarm. I never saw a grown man bark before, but perhaps they do sometimes. I like dogs, so a barking man might be fun. I don't want him to bite me, though. His teeth are a yucky brown colour, and some of them are even missing.

     "Macy's going to sing a special song, just for you," says Auntie Cathy. "What do you think of that?"

     I gaze, open-mouthed, at this beautiful grown-up folk singer in a tomato hat, with a special guitar, who's going to sing a special song, just for me.

     "Take your fingers out of your mouth dear, there's a good girl."

     But I'm too busy watching the Macy-in-a-tomato-hat. I don't take my eyes off her as she makes her way to the stage. She's much taller than the man on the stage, the man who tells us all: "This is Macy Holden-Smith, the sweetest voice in all of Devonshire!" She kisses his cheek, and the crowd cheers and whistles. Then, she takes off her long jacket, and I see that she's wearing a dress made of scarves! So many different colours splashed across it, I try to count them all, but there must be a hundred, or a million! Macy pulls up a stool and starts to play her guitar. A strand of hair slips down below her big red tomato hat. She doesn't tuck it away. I wonder whether Macy likes tomatoes. I decide to try one next time Joanie makes them for dinner. 

     She plays lots and lots of songs. Auntie Cathy tells me that Macy writes these songs, all by herself, except one song, which the lady with the soft voice explains was written by a very clever man named Bob Dylan.

     "I love Macy better," I say, then bury my face in Auntie Cathy's coat.

     "Better than Bob Dylan, eh?" says the man with yellow teeth, who hasn't barked even once yet. "Well, well. Mace will be pleased, won't she?"

     "Look, dear, she's going to say something now," says the soft-voiced woman. I look up and see that Macy has stopped playing her guitar, and is drawing the microphone to her smiling lips.

     "This song right here, I wrote for a very special lady, who we have in the audience tonight. So, everybody wave hello to my little friend Lisa, over at the bar."

     I cover my face with my hands and peep out from between my fingers. The bright lights glare into my eyes, making them water. There's a round of applause.

     "Ladies and gentlemen, there aren't many truly decent people in the world, and this girl is right lucky, because she has two of them for mother and a father. Did anybody here tonight ever know a woman named Chrissie O'Bourne?" I dig my toes into my shoes, proud of the crisp patent leather, pleased I'm not wearing any old horrible shoes, as everyone in the room turns around to look at me.

     "Some of you are nodding. Ladies and gentlemen, Chrissie O'Bourne - and her sister right there, by the name of Cathy - were the two greatest friends I ever had in my life. Are, in fact. They are the two greatest friends I ever had in my life. And I wrote this song for Chrissie's daughter, little Lisa over there."

     I'd never heard anyone say my mother's name out loud before, except Auntie Cathy, and Joanie says Auntie Cathy is crazy.

     "This song, ladies and gentlemen, is called 'At the Heart of You.'"

     I fidget in my seat under the hot lights and staring crowds, but when the songs starts I grow still. Macy's voice is so soft, like teddy bears against my skin, and the words she sings make my arms cover themselves in goosepimples, although I don't know why:

                  At the heart of you, little girl

                  There's a fingerprint of love.

                  And she's a part of you, little girl

                  You're made up out of love.

                  You'll never break, you'll never fall

                  As long as you remember all

                  you have, little girl; and you have it all

                  Right at the heart of you.

     After the show, Macy lets me come up on the stage, and gives me a cassette with the song on it. Auntie Cathy wants to give her some money for it but Macy says no, don't be silly. I tug Macy's middle finger until she bends down to hear me whisper that I have twenty-five pence saved. Macy tells me quite gravely to keep it for when I'm older. She asks me if I've started saving to buy my first house. I shove my knuckles into my mouth and look up at Auntie Cathy in alarm.

     "Don't listen to her, Lisa. Macy's just being silly."

     "She's not silly," I say, throwing my arms around Macy's leg. "I love her."

     When I get home, I tell Auntie Cathy I want to marry Macy. She laughs and says I won't say that when once I've met a nice young stud muffin. I tell her I don't know what studs are, but I only ever liked chocolate chip muffins.

     I play the cassette every day and night, over and over, until I know every single word. I sit on a stool in front of Auntie Cathy's bedroom mirror, holding a hairbrush on its side, pretending to sing along. I tie her red tea-towel around my head like Macy's tomato hat, but it keeps falling off. 

     I play it for Daddy in the kitchen when he arrives to pick me up. His mouth goes very thin and tight. Aunty Cathy stops pouring the tea.

     "Harry," she says.

     "Where did she get that?"

     "I took her to Goblin Street, Harry. To hear her sing."

     "Did you."

     I press 'stop' on the cassette player at once.

     "Mace wanted to meet her, Harry. Chrissie would… "

     Daddy clears his throat and busies himself getting mugs out of the cupboard for their tea. I kneel down and fiddle with my shoelaces, not looking at anyone, my throat going all sticky. Aunty Cathy starts pouring the tea again.

     "Can I try tea, Aunty Cathy?"

     "You won't like it," says Daddy. "It's a waste."

     "Let me sip?" I look at Aunty Cathy. "Just sip?"

     "You can have a sip of mine, dear. But wait until it cools first, okay? Sit yourself here at the table, there's a good girl."

     She sets two mugs down on the table. A bit of tea slooshes over the edge of the mugs. I climb up onto a chair. There's funny tea-rings on the table. I dip my finger in the mess, try to make a drawing of Ginger.

     "Lisa! For heaven's sake!" Daddy grabs a paper tissue and wipes up my picture.

     "But it's Ginger!"

     He throws the tissue in the bin, then sits down at the table, picks up one of the mugs.

     Aunty Cathy brings us a plate of hot cross buns. "For Easter," she says.

     Daddy takes one of the hot cross buns, splits it in two. I copy him. He butters it very carefully. He makes the butter go all smooth, and the edges look round and creamy.

     "Butter mine, Daddy!" I hold the two pieces out to him.

     "You can butter your own buns," Daddy says.

     "I'll do it for you, dear," says Aunty Cathy, dipping a knife in butter and taking my buns from me.

     "But I wanted them like Daddy's, with neat edges!"

     She butters fast, not looking at the edges, then puts the two bun halves on my plate. She pats my hand, smiles at me. I push the plate to one side and stick my bottom lip out. Daddy gives me a look. I pick up the bun and nibble the edges.

     "I suppose you're pleased with yourself," he says after a while. "Taking her like that, to see people like that."

     "People like that?"

     "And a bar. Suppose somebody gave her a drink?"

     "Macy gave me lemonade," I say. "But Aunty Cathy says I'm allowed fizzy drinks on my birthday."

     "Well, she shouldn't be giving you lemonade. She was being naughty."

     "She isn't naughty! She wrote a special song just for me!"

     Daddy looks at me for a long time. He doesn't say anything. His eyes have gone all shiny. 

     "She had a good time, Harry. She had a nice birthday."

     "Do you want to hear the rest of my special song? It goes 'at the heart of you, little girl, there's a fingerprint of love…' " I clap my hands to the song, bobbing from side to side as I sing. "And she's a part of you, little girl, you're made up out of love… "

     "Lisa, dear. Shh. Daddy doesn't want to hear your song now," says Aunty Cathy, touching my elbow.

     "You'll never break, you'll never fall, as long as you… " I move my arms wildly along with the words, "remember all, you have, little girl… "

     It happens so quick! My hand bashes the mug sitting there in front of Aunty Cathy, and hot tea is everywhere! Daddy jumps to his feet at once. 

     "You stupid girl! Look at all this mess you've made of Aunty Cathy's kitchen! Look at it! Take your hands away from your face, you silly girl, and just look at what you've done!"

     "It's only some tea, Harry," says Aunty Cathy, reaching for the paper towels. "No matter."

     "It's that song! That's what it is! If you hadn't spent all weekend listening to that awful racket, it never would have happened!"

     "It's not racket," I say, wiping my nose on the back of my hand. Aunty Cathy dabs my eyes with a paper napkin. "It's not. It's Macy. It's a special song just for me."

     "Listen, Harry. Why don't you take Lisa's bag out to the car?"

     "Don't put it in the boot!" I say. "I want Teddy in with me."

     Daddy's voice sounds like he's trying to stop it getting loud again.

     "What do you need it in with you for?"

     "To hold. In case I get sick."

     "Sick? You'd probably be sick on the toy."

     "I wouldn't!" I say, horrified. "I love him! He makes me not feel sick anymore."

     "Go on, Harry," says Aunty Cathy, who's finished wiping up the tea-mess now. "Lisa's not going anywhere. She'll be fine here with me for another few minutes."

     Daddy stands there for a moment. Then he comes over to me, rests a hand on my head. He kisses my forehead. Then he picks up my bag and goes out.

     "Listen, Lisa. Perhaps you'd be best to leave that cassette of yours here with me for now. It'll send your Daddy half crackers if he has to listen to Macy singing everyday."

     "Why doesn't he like her?"

     "Oh, Lisa. Of course he likes her. But you see, when your Mummy was alive, and they lived down here together, she used to take Daddy to listen to Macy's singing shows. At first, he didn't like her. So your Mummy made Macy write him a special song, just like she did for you."

     "Why didn't he like her at first?"

     "Let's just say he's more of a Mozart and Hayden man."

     "Hiding? Who's hiding?"

     "Never mind that. But this song she wrote for him, it was called 'Marry me, Harry,' and at the end of it, she asked your Daddy to marry your Mummy, right up there on that same stage where you saw her singing."

     "Is that song on a tape too?"

     "I think it must be."

     "I could play his song for him!"

     "No dear, I don't think so."

     "Didn't he like his song?"

     "He liked it very much, Lisa dear."

     "But why is he cross at me?"

     Aunty Cathy puts her arms around me and presses my head against her big soft chest. Her jumper is all fluffy. Fluff gets into my mouth and up my nose.

     "Sometimes when people feel lots of different things at once, all those feelings get jumbled up and made into one great bit muddle. I expect your Daddy doesn't like hearing that song, especially around this time of year. He's isn't cross at you. But hearing Macy's voice again must have given him a bit of a turn."

     "A turn?"

     "It must have made him jump. Made his heart go BANG!" she says. And when she says BANG, she bangs her fist on the table, and makes me jump off my seat in alarm. She giggles, and lifts me up onto her knee.

     "I didn't like that," I say, my lower lip sliding out further.

     "Do you want to try that sip of tea?" she asks me. "Daddy left his mug, look."

     She holds it out to me, and I take a sip. I hold in my mouth, trying to make the face grown-ups make when they're drinking tea.

     "What do you think of it, little Lisa?" she asks me, stroking my hair. Her ring is heavy, and it keeps rubbing against me. 

     I shake my head, then spit the tea back into the mug.

     "Yucky," I say, wrinkling my nose. "Yucky."

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