As Mel came out of the school gate at the end of the afternoon, a car hooted behind her. Keith Edwards put his head out of the window, smiling.

She got in reluctantly. She didn't want him to see her home. She didn't want anyone to see it until she could clean it up a bit first. But there was no escape, and when they reached Cowcross Street he parked the car outside Number Six and came in with her.

The tiny passage was dark, the big-patterned wallpaper brown with age, ton and greasy where people had rubbed against it for countless years. There was a narrow piece of lino down the centre of the floor, its pattern worn away, and the stairs were bare wood. To the right were two peeling dark brown doors. The kitchen was straight ahead.

The room was small, filled with heavy old furniture - a table, upright chairs, a sideboard. Large cardboard cartons and bundles of newspapers covered every available surface and stood in teetering piles on the floor, leaving only a narrow path from the door to the table.

He flicked open one on the table and stared at the heaped newspaper squares, letting them run through his fingers. 'I don't understand.'

'That's what she does all day. Packing. That's what she says. Packing.' She laughed but the laugh cracked horribly in the middle. 'Let's go in the kitchen. It's better there. She wouldn't let me clean in here.'

The kitchen was a glass-roofed extension. There was a dark brown dresser built into one wall, a wooden table, an old sink and a gas cooker. They were all clean, smelling overpoweringly of bleach, but even the bleach could not disguise the smell of decay. He saw that there were great damp patches on the walls.

'It used to be a private landlord, but the Council took it over last year. I'm sorry about the smell. Most of it is from the boxes and newspapers she brings in, and the windows don't open.' She tried to laugh again. 'I'm always frightened the smell will stick to me. It's difficult to keep yourself clean in a kitchen sink.'

'No, but I wash down twice a day in the kitchen,' she said defensively. 'If you can smell anything, it's my clothes. Even though I'm always washing them I can't seem to...'

He sat down on the wooden kitchen chair and looked around. A battlefield. A constant battle against decay and dirt. Before today he had hardly been aware of Mel's existence. She was so quiet and self-contained, her smooth brown hair pulled back tightly into an elastic band. He understood now why she had always looked scrubbed, shining clean. Her clothes were old, but neatly mended and clean. Just a kid. He hadn't even noticed those fantastic dark eyes.

Mel shrugged and turned away. She filled a kettle under the tap and began to make tea automatically. 'I don't know. She was all right when we lived in Lothian, I think. I can't remember very well. I was eleven. My dad was an engineer and we had this nice clean, modern house with carpets and new furniture and a proper kitchen and bathroom. Everything was clean and sparkling...'

She thought it over. 'Maybe. But if you lived in a street like this you'd be glad of a bit of cleanliness. Lothian seems like a dream now.'

'My mother used to get depressed sometimes. But my dad was great. He was big and cheerful. He had fair hair and blue eyes. You look a bit like him actually.' She turned hastily away to pour out the tea. 'He'd say to my mother, 'Buck up, Lovely, we're going out on the town tonight!' and we'd go to a film and have a Chinese meal afterwards. Or he'd take her off to buy a new dress and she'd be okay again.

'She was very pretty then, had her hair done nicely and used to put on make-up. I thought she was wonderful.' She laughed bitterly. 'You wouldn't recognise her now. She's like a skeleton. Dirty. Hair hanging all over the place and her eyes...' She swallowed.

'My dad got killed in an accident at work. A girder fell on him and crushed his ribs. He wasn't insured and the house was mortgaged, so we didn't have any money.'

'I don't think so. My mother was hysterical nearly all the time. Some men came and she signed papers. I suppose they were lawyers. She was crying all the time and all she could think of was to sell the house and move back to London where she came from. Then we moved to Cowcross Street.'

Mel stopped, remembering. 'We never thought...never imagined it would be as bad as it was. Her aunt got it for us. It was supposed to be furnished, so we sold all our own furniture.

'The funny thing was, at first the shock of the house was good for her. She stopped crying. She kept telling me not to worry, we'd be moving again pretty quickly, just as soon as she could find somewhere. She wouldn't unpack or do anything to the place because we were going to move soon, you see. Always it was only going to be for a few more weeks.'

She looked at Keith, suddenly struck. 'You know, everybody who lives in this street is like that. They all hate it. They all think they're only here temporarily and they're going to move out soon - so what's the point of doing anything?

'Anyway, my mother got a job in a canteen in a factory and she really worked hard, trying to save. She got more and more tired, you could see, working long hours. 'Don't worry,' she said, at first, 'We won't be staying here.' Then she had flu and didn't go back to work. She wouldn't go out at all. Just sat at home looking at the television, or rather not looking. She drank tea and smoked all day, and then she wouldn't even get up from her bed. They took her to the mental hospital for about a month. I had to stay with Great Aunt Edie. That was three years ago.'

'When she came back I suggested we might make the house more comfortable, but she said it was all right for the time being and that she wasn't going to throw good money after bad. She got a job in an office, but they closed down after a few months and then she had a lot of odd jobs, a few weeks here and there. Then she'd have a row with someone and walk out or they'd sack her. The hospital gave her these tablets, so she wasn't too depressed, but her temper got worse and worse. You couldn't talk to her at all without being shouted at. Nag, nag, nag, for nothing at all.

'It was like that for maybe two years. And then she didn't do any more work at all. And she didn't go to the hospital and she wouldn't take the tablets. She just sat watching television all day. And then...'

Mel took a deep breath. 'And then she started going out at night and bringing back cardboard cartons that people put out for the dustmen. And she got piles of newspapers. And started tearing them up...Packing, she said. We were going to move. I made her go to the doctor. Kept on. Until she went. I don't know what she told him. He gave her Valium tablets.'

She stopped and swallowed. 'Now she won't wash or look after herself. When I try to throw the boxes out she has these mad tempers. And they're getting worse. I didn't know what to do. I told the doctor, but he just gave me repeat prescriptions for Valium, which she won't take. He never comes to see.'

'It wasn't enough. There must have been something else. Miss Tracey said there were all these services, people to help. But how could I know? They don't tell you. You can't find out.'

Keith moved uncomfortably at the anguish in her voice. 'Look Mel, there's no point in tearing yourself apart. What's done is done. You've got to forget all that and think about the future.'

Mel looked at him, stunned. Forget it? Forget all that fear and disgust, the pain and degradation and misery? Almost six years of it? She knew she would never forget. There were lessons there. The hardest she had ever learned. But how could someone as sunny and happy as Keith Edwards ever understand?

She traced the pattern of the worn lino with her foot. 'I was stupid. I ought to have found out about things. I ought to have asked someone at school. But I didn't want them to know. I kept waiting for other people to do something. A fairy godmother! I didn't see you had to do things for yourself. That you can't rely on anybody.' She tried to laugh. 'Just call me Cinders!'

She looked at him directly. 'I hate her, Keith. I've hated my mother for two years. I've never admitted that to anyone before. Not even to myself. It was the nagging and shouting. When she began hitting me I thought I'd let her stew in her own juice. I suppose that's why I feel so bad now. I didn't love her enough.'

Keith Edwards looked away. He felt inadequate and out of his depth emotionally. He wanted to get away from the deep feelings and the gloom and misery. He slid off the table and stood up. 'It's getting late. I'll have to go.'

'You can get rid of all those boxes for a start. Now's your chance, before she comes back. And you can clean up. That'll make you feel better. Maybe you could give the living room a coat of paint? It's not difficult if you use emulsion. It would brighten it up and you've got all the summer holidays...'

'Keith - my special art study. You said we could do it on anything. Could I do it on house decorating? You know you see those pictures in magazines? 'Before' and 'After'. I could take some photographs and develop them in the dark room with Miss Leslie. And I could write about choosing the colours and find out about painting and decorating. Write about the difficulties. A kind of diary maybe.'

'Don't you see?' Her dark eyes were shining and brilliant. 'I want to find out how to make this place look good. Not just clean, but comfortable and beautiful. A surprise. Then perhaps if she comes back to a nice place she won't get ill again. She could have her friends here and...'

'Miss Tracey said she would arrange about Social Security for me. Maybe I can get a Saturday job. I've tried to put something away each week for emergencies, so there's a few pounds there. It might not cost a lot. The paint. Just nice colours.'

'You said I had a feeling for houses. I could do some sketches of the rooms, and show how they would look with different wallpapers and colours. Examples of fabrics. That kind of thing.'

He watched her curiously. He had never seen her looking so alive and excited. He realised how serious she was usually. No wonder he had never noticed those fantastic eyes before. Or that body. He looked her over covertly. There was colour in her cheeks. It deepened as she noticed the way he was looking at her.

She nodded, but she meant to start immediately, tonight, after he had gone. She went with him to the door. He stood on the doorstep, the evening sun making a halo around his fair hair and smiled into her eyes.

'I've got a flat the other side of the main road next to the park. Number 27A Highcroft Drive. It 's not far. About seven minutes on foot.'

He grinned and lifted an eyebrow. She blushed scarlet. All the girls in the school knew where he lived, but she was not about to tell him that.

'Call on me for anything, any time, Mel. I really mean that. You can rely on me. I'll help with the project too when you're ready. Come if you need me. Promise?'

Mel's flush deepened. He laughed and brushed her cheek casually with a long finger, and got into his rusty old Ford. Mel watched him go. She had always liked him; he was so helpful and good-tempered. She liked watching him move around the art room, making jokes, his fair hair curling flat against his neck, his tanned hands moving a pencil carelessly over the paper. And today he had put his arm round her, comforted her. Her heart began to thump at the memory. It wasn't possible that he could be interested in her, but she had understood that assessing look he had given her. Suddenly, despite her mother's breakdown, and all the horrors of the day, she felt good.

'Dishy. Very dishy. Not a day over twenty-two, I daresay. Why didn't I get someone like that when I was at William Watt, instead of old Marshmallow, always on about AIDS and Drug Abuse?'

Lucinda, once Mel's best friend, only friend, she thought sometimes, had left school last June, with eight good exam passes to Mel's five. They did not see each other much now and when they did, there didn't seem much to talk about.

'Got off early from the shop. I'm going to Donnelly's tonight. Come over and see what I got to wear. I'll have to put a coat over it in case my Mum sees.' She laughed. 'I look really good.'

'You look good in everything,' Mel said, smiling. Lucinda was wearing baggy khaki pants and a strange, misshapen orange vest, which glowed against her dark, golden brown skin. She looked fabulous. Her plaited hair was heaped into a fantastic arrangement with orange and green satin ribbons. Only Lucinda had enough confidence to go out looking like that in Cowcross Street and get away with it. She was tall, moving arrogantly like a queen.

Mel sighed, conscious of her crumpled school blouse, wishing she had more fashion sense, wishing she had Lucinda's flair and confidence. Keith Edwards might look twice at her then. Suddenly she wished that Lucinda hadn't drifted so far from her, and that they could talk to each other as they used to do. She'd like to ask her advice about Keith Edwards. But they were a long way apart now. It wasn't just the clothes. Lucinda was leaving her behind.

Lucinda shook her head. 'No time. I came over to get you. The evening meal's ready. I hear they took your mum to the funny house today.'

Mel nodded hesitantly. 'Your mum came into school. Saved me from Great Aunt Edie. Is it all right? I mean, I don't want you to feel I'm...like...pushing in.'

Lucinda laughed and put her arm round Mel's shoulders. 'Welcome to the family. You're a funny colour, but I promise I'll love you like a sister!' She grinned. 'Come on now. Grab your nightie and toothbrush, or she'll kill us both.'