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  ‘Then who was it?’ she said. ‘Who did it, Cymbeline?’

  And she wasn’t the only one who wanted to know that.

  Mr Baker held a SPECIAL ASSEMBLY before home time. After we’d all trooped in, he stared down at us from the stage. He went on about respect, and behaviour, and asked for the culprit to come forward. Elizabeth Fisher glanced at me, which made me go bright red again even though I was really trying not to. Did Mrs Martin notice? I kept my head down, hoping she wasn’t looking at me.

  ‘Well,’ Mr Baker said, when no one owned up. ‘I was told that this school was full of kind, considerate pupils. And honest ones too. It seems that this might not be true.’

  We were all given an envelope which we were told to take home to our parents. We filed out, my neck and face burning YET AGAIN when I had to walk past Mrs Martin. She was standing next to the wall bars and I could finally sort of understand how Daisy felt. Mrs Martin was trying to look cheerful, as if it was all just some stupid thing.

  But she couldn’t really manage it.

  I kept my head down and followed Vi into the playground, where Daisy was sucking on a new stick of rock (which she must have snuck into her schoolbag because there was NO WAY her parents could have allowed her to bring it in). She was glaring at the passing kids.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ said Billy Lee, when it was his turn.

  ‘You tell me,’ said Daisy, pointing the stick of rock at him. I thought they might get into an argument actually, but his mum was there to pick him up so he walked off.

  There was no one there to pick me up – not yet anyway. I do ICT club after school on Wednesdays because Mum works. I’d rather do football but that costs more and, anyway, Mum says I can use the time to catch up on my homework.

  ‘Spellings especially,’ she says.

  I want to argue – but I can’t really. Spellings! There are just so many letters! And the way they join together, the Is and Es always swapping places like Year 1 kids trying to wind up Mrs Mason. We’ve also started doing these things called apostrophes, which at first I didn’t understand.

  ‘They show you own something,’ Miss Phillips said. ‘Like “Cymbeline’s football”.’

  I nodded but I still didn’t get it. Everyone knows that it’s Billy’s football. As for where you put the apostrophes in the actual words, that’s just not possible to know. You may as well be playing pin the tail on the donkey. I can’t wait until I can use a computer to do my writing because of the wavy red lines that help you out, and it makes me wonder: why has no one invented a pencil which does that?

  ‘Hi, Cym,’ Mum said later that day, putting her head round the door of the ICT suite. ‘Ready?’

  I said I was and when she’d signed me out I put my coat on. I followed her into the playground and through the gate on to the road. There were some men out there with clipboards, staring at the school and making notes. One was even on the roof. The police …? Mr Baker really was taking this jelly thing seriously. I grabbed Mum’s hand and pulled her up the steps towards Blackheath.

  Now, if I’ve done something at school which perhaps I shouldn’t have, I would NOT normally want to tell my mum. This time, though, I did want to tell her, because Mum knows Mrs Martin. They’re both in the Friends’ Forum, which raises money for St Saviour’s. They do things like getting everyone to bake cakes to sell to themselves at the school fair and they ask parents to donate back the same bottles of cheap wine they won at the last fair and didn’t drink. Toys as well. In Year 2, Lance’s mum donated his old Buzz Lightyear for the Christmas Fair without telling him. Darren Cross won it in the tombola. Neither of them knew until Darren’s mum donated it back for the Easter Fair without telling him, and who should pull it out of the lucky dip? Lance!

  ‘Buzz!’ he exclaimed. ‘I thought you’d gone back to Gamma 4!’

  When his mum saw it at home later, she said she thought she was going crazy.

  The reason I wanted to tell Mum was simple – I had to explain my giggle. I wanted her to tell Mrs Martin that it was just a giggle and that I DID NOT PUT JELLY IN HER SHOES. The idea that she might think it was me was terrible, not least because she’d have to tell Mr Baker, wouldn’t she? So I started to tell Mum – but she wasn’t listening. First she had to find her car keys, which always takes ages because her bag’s like the TARDIS (well, probably – ask Lance, why don’t you?). Then, when we were finally in the car, she just said things like ‘Oh dear’ and ‘What a shame’, before coming out with something totally and utterly RANDOM.

  ‘Cym,’ she said, putting her hand on my arm, ‘you do want me to be happy, don’t you?’

  Now that was a weird question, and not only because it had nothing at ALL to do with Mrs Martin (or jelly). Before Christmas, Mum had been totally not happy, and that had been horrible. Had she asked me then if I wanted her to be happy, I’d have said yes, of course – but she seemed happy enough now. And why wouldn’t she be – Charlton were up to third! Also, my last school report was, and I quote, ‘not quite as bad as the last one’.

  She’d also got a new job teaching art, which meant we could afford a car now, and she’d started going out to the cinema on Friday nights with this new friend of hers called Stephan.

  ‘You mean even happier?’ I asked.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Like in The Sound of Music?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘We’d better hope Charlton beat Wigan, then. Though no singing in front of my friends. Why are you asking?’

  Mum went red. ‘Something happened today.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just … something I need to think about.’

  ‘But it’s a good thing?’

  ‘I hope so. But I have to think first. Actually, forget I said anything, okay?’

  Mum put the key in and I shrugged, happy to forget it because I wanted to go back to the subject of Mrs Martin. Even now, my favourite teacher could be asking herself what she’d done to turn me against her. When I got back to telling Mum, though, she got distracted again. I was just getting to the bit where we came down from the heath, when Mum’s phone rang.

  ‘Hello?’ she said, sounding a little surprised by who was calling. I tried to carry on talking, but Mum put her hand up. Her face went serious and she said, ‘Of course,’ and ‘Right away,’ before hanging up. She started the car, did a three-point turn, and thirty seconds later we were shooting across the little roundabout as I asked her what was going on.

  ‘Is it Mrs Martin?’ I said, my voice a bit wobbly. ‘Does she want to see you?’

  The answer was no, because Mrs Martin lives in Westcombe Park, and three minutes later we were pulling up outside a house on the other side of Blackheath Village.

  Veronique’s house.

  And in the driveway was an ambulance.

  The first time I met Veronique’s granny she was asleep in her chair. Veronique took me down to her little wooden house. We’d brought her tea, but instead of watching her drink it I looked at all the photos on the wall showing her with Veronique when Veronique was little, and even older ones when she herself had been a child, standing with her mum, dad and sister with some boats behind them.

  I would have liked to ask her about that time, and just talk to her generally, because I don’t have any grandparents, and people say they’re fun. Apparently they give you sweets and pound coins AND they fall asleep when you’re watching telly (which means you don’t have to stop). Veronique’s granny didn’t do any of these things that first time I saw her because she didn’t wake up, making me wonder what the point of her was.

  But the next time was different.

  ‘So,’ she said, squinting at me through these MASSIVE glasses. ‘You’re the famous Cymbeline. What sort of a name is that, might I ask?’

  ‘Nanai!’ Veronique said.

  ‘I don’t mind. It’s Shakespeare, Veronique’s granny.’

  ‘I know that! I’m not completely gaga, you know. And call me Nanai. But Shakespear
e used normal names as well, didn’t he? Duncan, Richard, Henry …’

  ‘But I could have been called Hamlet,’ I said. ‘Or Romeo.’

  ‘Well, let’s agree that it could have been worse, then.’ Nanai crossed her feet over on this little footstool she had. ‘But what have you got to say for yourself, young man?’

  It was a surprising question and I didn’t know how to answer it at first. But I talked about Saturday football, which we do on the heath, and then Charlton, and how I hoped they’d be up in the Premier League by the time I started playing for them.

  ‘You want to be a footballer, then?’

  ‘Of course. Jacky Chapman’s even got his own helicopter! He’s got a pilot’s licence and he flies himself around.’

  ‘Jacky …?’

  ‘Chapman. He’s the captain. I’m doing my Person Project on him.’

  ‘Your …?’

  ‘You have to find out about someone amazing,’ interrupted Veronique. (She does that. I mean, a lot.) ‘And do a presentation. I’m doing a scientist.’

  ‘Einstein?’

  ‘No. Niels Bohr.’

  ‘Niels Boring,’ I said. ‘Jacky Chapman’s going to fly me to a match and he’s going to fly me home.’

  ‘Is he?’

  ‘Well, I’ve written to him. I asked if he’d fly his helicopter to school and pick me up. Haven’t heard back yet.’

  ‘Seems you really like football, Cymbeline.’

  ‘Course. Did you ever play?’

  Nanai said no, and when I told her how Daisy and Vi, and Vi’s sister Frieda, were all really good, she pushed herself up from her chair. I fetched the ball I’d given Veronique for Christmas (which looked suspiciously clean) and we played in their garden. Nanai hopped about like crazy. Defensively she was very strong (her walking stick helped). As an attacking midfielder she was also impressive. She might not have got round Jacky Chapman, but she nutmegged Veronique no bother and scored a goal between two flowerpots. She was tired then, so I only added two minutes on for stoppages. We helped her back to her chair and she beamed at both of us. Veronique especially.

  Veronique sat on the edge of her chair and Nanai took her hand before doing something a bit weird. She pushed Veronique’s index finger into a triangle and gave it a little nibble! Veronique rolled her eyes.

  ‘She says it’s because I’m so delicious,’ she explained. ‘When I was a baby she wanted to eat me.’

  Nanai giggled, and Veronique rolled her eyes again (though I could tell she secretly loved it). And then Veronique brought Nanai up to date on her French and Chinese classes, fencing competitions, violin, clarinet, ukulele and piano lessons, and how she’d recently got into Tolstoy.

  ‘At your age! Do you like Tolstoy, Cymbeline?’

  ‘I like Toy Story. Lance has got a Buzz Lightyear.’

  ‘Your brother, is he, this Lance?’

  ‘Friend. I don’t have a brother – or a sister,’ I added, which seemed to be a mistake because Nanai stared at me before getting a little panicked, until she turned to the photos on the table by her chair. There was one of a big ship, another of people who looked like they were probably her parents. She grabbed the third one, though – just her as a young woman with another young woman who looked just like her.

  Nanai clung to the picture, tight, mumbling to herself as she drifted off to sleep.

  Veronique reached forward and pulled Nanai’s rug up over her knees. ‘She holds on to it all night,’ she said, meaning the photograph.

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘It’s a photo of her and Thu,’ said Veronique.

  ‘Thu?’

  ‘Her twin sister. You know I told you Nanai was a refugee?’

  I did know. It was one of the things that made Veronique and her family SO interesting. Nanai had been one of what British people called the Vietnamese boat people – refugees, like the people fleeing horrible things now are. They were Hoa, Chinese people living in Vietnam, and they had to escape from Vietnam because the government was burning their houses.

  ‘Well, their ship sank,’ said Veronique. ‘Or something like that. I’m not too sure. Nanai was rescued. Her sister wasn’t.’

  Oh NO.

  I looked down at Nanai, that second time I met her, and felt like such an IDIOT. Talking about not having a sister! I couldn’t believe I’d done it.

  ‘Not your fault,’ said Veronique, guessing what I was thinking. ‘Come on.’

  She pulled me into the garden.

  ‘I should have told you,’ she said, ‘about Thu. It’s why Nanai hates being asked about being a refugee. She won’t talk about it.’

  ‘Blimey. And they were twins? Were they identical?’

  ‘No. Nanai was a tomboy, she says.’

  ‘You can tell that by the football.’

  ‘But Thu was quiet and arty. Musical. And really beautiful. Nanai says that’s where I …’

  ‘What?’

  Veronique blushed. ‘Doesn’t matter. Anyway, I wish I had a sister, don’t you?’

  I blinked at Veronique, not knowing how to answer. For some reason I thought about Stephan’s two little girls, who he brings over at the weekend sometimes. They’re okay and the little one’s cute, actually. She climbs on my knee and calls me Thimbeline. She draws pictures of me that are hilarious.

  But I just shrugged.

  I couldn’t get the image out of my head, of Nanai clutching that photo like it was a swimming float. Something to keep her safe.

  It made me feel close to her and for a second I didn’t know why. But then I did. You see, I’ve lost someone too. It happened when I was tiny, though, and I never knew them. I couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for Nanai to lose her twin the way she did.

  I shivered, and then Veronique’s dad called us in for supper. All through it I thought of that photo in Nanai’s hands, and how frail and tired she looked as she clung on to it.

  So when Mum drove me round after school and I saw the ambulance in the driveway I was really scared – for Nanai.

  And, sure enough, when Mum and I walked into their kitchen, Veronique’s dad told us that Nanai was ‘having a little trouble with her breathing’.

  I swallowed. ‘What kind of trouble?’

  ‘They’re not sure, Cymbeline,’ he said, trying too hard to sound cheerful. ‘They’re taking her into hospital. Just a precaution,’ he added, putting his hand on Veronique’s shoulder. ‘The medics are just having a little look at her before they go.’

  ‘Can I go down and see her?’

  Veronique’s dad said better not, which was a shame. He was going to go with her to the hospital and Veronique’s mum was away playing music concerts, so Veronique was coming home with us.

  ‘For a sleepover?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mum said. ‘And she’s very welcome, isn’t she, Cymbeline?’

  Welcome? A sleepover – ON A WEDNESDAY? And with Veronique, who I used to like so much I couldn’t even talk to her?

  ‘Suppose,’ I said.

  ‘Can I bring Kit-Kat?’

  ‘PLEASE!’ I bellowed, knowing I shouldn’t be too excited, because Nanai was ill. But I couldn’t help it.

  ‘Course,’ Mum said, ‘though I think we’ve got some Mars bars at home somewhere, so …’

  Mum didn’t get to finish because Veronique ran off up the stairs, while we went out to the car with the bag her dad had packed for her.

  Mum got in the car while I climbed in the back. Mum and Mr Chang chatted quietly through the window until Veronique came out. She was carrying a big plastic box, covered in a cloth, which she set on the seat between us. Mum was already getting the car started so she didn’t see it – not until we got back to our house. We parked opposite and Veronique lifted the box out.

  ‘Oh …’ Mum said, ‘Kit-Kat. Silly of me. I thought you meant … But what is that?’

  ‘He’s a—’

  ‘HAMSTER!’ I shouted, as we started to cross the road.

  ‘How sweet,’ Mum
said, and then spent five minutes hunting in her bag for the house keys.

  Now, what I’d just done is BAD, and I certainly don’t want you to think that fibbing to my mum is something I do very often. I was only trying to protect her, though, because Mum is afraid of EVERYTHING. Daddy-long-legs make her scream like that kid in Home Alone. If a wasp flies in the kitchen window, she makes me hide under the table with her until it’s gone. She asked Uncle Bill round for lunch last Sunday and I swear it was only because she’d seen a spider on the bathroom ceiling the night before. When he arrived, she shoved the sweeping brush in his hand and pushed him up the stairs.

  ‘And hurry up!’ she shouted. ‘I really need a wee!’

  So, I did fib, but fibbing about Kit-Kat’s true identity was not as bad as you might think. Because he is not, as I told Mum, a hamster.

  He’s a RAT.

  And he is epic.

  Kit-Kat can shake hands with you. He can fetch things. He loves the piano, climbing up on to Veronique’s shoulder whenever she practises. He’s a great tightrope walker, and can do the high jump, put a ring on your finger, recognise people, and even untie your shoelaces! He can’t tie them yet (but Lance can barely do that) and Veronique’s training him – and I know who I’d bet on to get there first. Veronique’s trained Kit-Kat a lot in fact, but he was like that even before, because Veronique’s dad’s a scientist and Kit-Kat came from his lab. He is in fact the Veronique of the rat world.

  I have another confession too. Kit-Kat being there made me forget about Mrs Martin. I’d planned on spending the whole night thinking about what had happened, but once we were in the house I pulled Veronique up the stairs.

  ‘Supper in an hour,’ Mum said. ‘What would you like to do, Veronique?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mum, we’re going to play Subbuteo.’

  Mum wondered whether that was something Veronique would really like to do, but I didn’t listen. I dragged Veronique up to my room and pulled the Subbuteo box out from under my bed.

  Now Subbuteo, which is a game with little plastic footballers that you flick at a ball, is excellent normally, and I knew Veronique would have enjoyed it – but teaching Kit-Kat to play was going to be even better! And, as expected, he was ACE. His dribbling was as good as Mo Salah’s and somehow he knew to stay on the pitch (though he trod on the players’ heads until I gave him a yellow card). Soon he was taking the ball round the players instead of over them and then slipping it past the keeper, all for the reward of a dried pea, which Veronique had brought and which he’s obsessed with. It was great, but at 5–0 to Kit-Kat I put the pitch away. Mum had been right: Veronique didn’t seem to be into it. I turned to her.