Bishop's Road Read Free

morning. Mrs. Miflin has convinced the powers that be that her house is the ideal place for wayward girls. Being God fearing and all, who better than herself to shape up degenerate youth? Aside from the weekly visits to her probation officer and a counsellor, the bulk of Judy’s rehabilitation now rests on the capable, albeit sloped, shoulders of Mrs. Miflin, a position of power that pleases the old doll no end.
    Judy is seventeen, a little beyond foster care even if anyone would have her. The last child after three rowdy boys, Judy’s only flaw, if you don’t count her height of six feet, is that of being too damned smart for her own good. When she dares to dream, her ambition is to become wealthy beyond belief at which time she will go home and burn the place to the ground. If you catch her smiling you can be sure she is imagining the part where they all come running to her for help and she tells them they are shit out of luck, go to hell the lot of you friggers. Judy has been stealing make-up and clothes since she was ten and has a record as long as her wingspan. She has dropped out of school for one reason or another a good seven times already and has the IQ of an Einstein.
    Judy owns five pairs of jeans and six tee shirts with things written on them. She has a short black dress and her underwear has seen better days. She has running shoes and hiking boots, socks and a pair of men’s pyjamas, never worn, because she sleeps in her day clothes just in case she has to leave in a hurry. On the dresser on a pink plastic doily that Mrs. Miflin bought on sale - five for a dollar - is a black wooden jewelry box that plays a rusty
Fur Elise
when you wind it and a little spring inside goes around and around without the ballerina that used to be there. In the boxis a pair of tiny real gold earrings and a few other odds and ends. And there’s the cover of another box wrapped in brown paper, with small shells glued on in a daisy pattern and a red velvet lining with two satin strings that once attached it to a bottom that is somewhere else.
    If Judy hadn’t suggested that Ginny Mustard take a look in the attic this morning when Mrs. Miflin was out and they couldn’t find light bulbs, then Ginny Mustard might not be having a hard time of it now. But she did and Ginny Mustard did and there’s a tear in the fabric and time tugging the edge. Someone might want to lay a hand on that girl’s yellow hair and smooth it back. Tell her everything will be okay.

    Mrs. Miflin has been away for much of the day, signing papers and assuring the probation officer and Judy’s counsellor that of course the girl will behave herself and make her appointments on time. Tonight she will formally introduce her latest acquisition to the rest of the household. She has already squeezed another chair into the dining room and if they ever felt tempted to put elbows on the table they can forget about it now. Four might be comfortable here - with six and Mr. Miflin’s place it’s a stretch. Here they come - right on time. Bladders newly emptied for the duration. Once you’re sitting there’s room for no other movement but fork to mouth.
    The room is the size of a breadbox and packed to the rafters with furniture, old and intimidating, dark and forlorn and smelling always of Murphy’s Oil Soap. There’s a useless window never opened, its sill crawling with porcelain puppies. From the centre hangs a plastic geranium, bathed weekly in warm soapy water. Sprayed with a bit of air freshener. It is the only plant in the house but Mrs. Miflin is thinking of getting another like it for thefront porch. This is where every meal is taken and if you’re a minute late and no money in your pocket you’ll go hungry until the next one. Breakfast at seven, lunch at noon and dinner at six, that’s all there is to it and nothing in between unless you manage to hide a box of crackers in your closet, or an