She'd always lived to fuck. As if that made her unique. But still, me, I might've connived a way to not be pregnant again before my first milk had bar...ly let down. In fact, I'd managed my life so that I never got knocked up in the first place.But even as they got older, they still loved coming over to my house. They called me Aunt Cooly. Clever kids: if you rearranged the sounds of Cooly, it did speak Lucy, my name. Unlike my sister, I lived alone. I had art on my walls. My shelves were filled. Inside, through a wide, oak door, was a vast space neatly arranged with workbenches and a huge variety of tools and stores. But the room was dominated by a small, rather world-weary steam engine standing at one end beneath the chimney. Some of its brass shone feebly in the dim light. “This is the little beauty. A genuine Gurnard. Do you know much about steam engines?”“Not enough.”“You will, I know you. Isn’t it beautiful?”“It really is.” I’d stripped my little yellow sundress off and put. More

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