Emily appeared again at the window. She leaned right through and propped her elbows against the painted-on flowers. The gingham curtains were like some in Mrs Crieff’s house, it occurred to me; her house at 25 Salisbury Crags Rise. I could never resist gawping at them on my way home in the afternoons.
‘What I have to say’, Emily said, ‘is: Mindy Moo is here today.’
‘Is she?’ I asked.
‘She just got here,’ Emily continued. ‘She just arrived. Her car broke down this morning, which is why she’s late.’
‘I see.’
Mindy Moo was Emily’s imaginary friend, and she was quite a character. She was a bit disaster-prone, which made me feel a bit better, somehow. Also, she had an imaginary getaway car – a little blue one – which she secretly parked right beside Mrs Crieff’s Rover in the staff car park. I would have liked a getaway car like that. Sometimes she drove to England in it to visit her grandmothers, and sometimes she went to Tesco’s and sometimes she just thought s od it and got a car ferry and headed off to Africa or America. She was quite a feisty girl. Usually, though, she just hung loyally around school with Emily. She would go for a wander, ending up in the school kitchens with the dinner ladies or upstairs in Mrs Crieff’s office. I have no idea why she was called Mindy Moo. When I imagined her, though, I thought of someone Betty Boop-ish – sassy, with big round eyes and perfectly styled, jet-black hair. Like me, on my good days. Not the sort of girl to screw things up.
‘So how’s Mindy Moo today?’ I asked; and Emily considered, gazing clear-eyed through the Portakabin window.
‘She was a bit wild today,’ she said. ‘She tied a knot in my shoelaces and I fell over. I said: “Mindy Moo, untie my shoelaces at once, or there’ll be no pudding and no stories.”’
‘Really?’
‘My dad says that sometimes, too.’
‘Does he?’ I said. ‘What – when he talks to Mindy Moo?’
‘No!’ Emily retorted, exasperated. ‘I mean, he says that about pudding and stories.’
‘Oh.’
‘He doesn’t know about Mindy Moo.’
‘Ah.’
But then I supposed he wouldn’t, Mr Ellis being far too uptight, as far as I could see, to believe in people like Mindy Moo. In invisible things, like spirits and spooks and fairies. He looked like the sort of person who would not clap his hands at a Peter Pan panto; who would just let Tinkerbell die.
‘My dad’s got a new mobile phone,’ Emily continued, apropos of nothing.
‘Has he?’ I said. But I wasn’t inclined to talk about Mr Ellis any more. He was just a man I didn’t like much. He had an important job and wore a pair of brogues with a spiral of dots on the toes, and that was all I really wanted to know about him.
*
The first hour of the day always went quite quickly. There was a pleasing kind of routine to it. We chanted the two times table at ten and read a story at half past, and by the time it was quarter to Mrs Baxter had already begun roaming around the room like a weary buffalo on a prairie, bellowing something about Tidy-Up Time. I looked at my watch. It was ten to eleven. Ten minutes until my meeting with Mrs Crieff.
John Singer had been sitting on the outside of the Home Corner for most of the morning. It was where he often sat: it was his place, and sometimes the sight of him there made me feel sorry. So before Tidy-Up Time began in earnest, while the girls in the Home Corner were finishing their waterless washing-up, I went over to him, to help him put together a jigsaw puzzle he was doing – a picture of a rocket with an insanely happy astronaut waving through the porthole.
‘Hi John,’ I said, kneeling down beside the little table.
John ignored me. He was concentrating hard, breathing through his mouth.
‘Hi there,’ I tried again.
‘Hello.’
‘How’s the puzzle going?’
‘Fine.’
He clicked a piece into place.
‘He looks very . . .’ – I couldn’t think how to describe
‘What I have to say’, Emily said, ‘is: Mindy Moo is here today.’
‘Is she?’ I asked.
‘She just got here,’ Emily continued. ‘She just arrived. Her car broke down this morning, which is why she’s late.’
‘I see.’
Mindy Moo was Emily’s imaginary friend, and she was quite a character. She was a bit disaster-prone, which made me feel a bit better, somehow. Also, she had an imaginary getaway car – a little blue one – which she secretly parked right beside Mrs Crieff’s Rover in the staff car park. I would have liked a getaway car like that. Sometimes she drove to England in it to visit her grandmothers, and sometimes she went to Tesco’s and sometimes she just thought s od it and got a car ferry and headed off to Africa or America. She was quite a feisty girl. Usually, though, she just hung loyally around school with Emily. She would go for a wander, ending up in the school kitchens with the dinner ladies or upstairs in Mrs Crieff’s office. I have no idea why she was called Mindy Moo. When I imagined her, though, I thought of someone Betty Boop-ish – sassy, with big round eyes and perfectly styled, jet-black hair. Like me, on my good days. Not the sort of girl to screw things up.
‘So how’s Mindy Moo today?’ I asked; and Emily considered, gazing clear-eyed through the Portakabin window.
‘She was a bit wild today,’ she said. ‘She tied a knot in my shoelaces and I fell over. I said: “Mindy Moo, untie my shoelaces at once, or there’ll be no pudding and no stories.”’
‘Really?’
‘My dad says that sometimes, too.’
‘Does he?’ I said. ‘What – when he talks to Mindy Moo?’
‘No!’ Emily retorted, exasperated. ‘I mean, he says that about pudding and stories.’
‘Oh.’
‘He doesn’t know about Mindy Moo.’
‘Ah.’
But then I supposed he wouldn’t, Mr Ellis being far too uptight, as far as I could see, to believe in people like Mindy Moo. In invisible things, like spirits and spooks and fairies. He looked like the sort of person who would not clap his hands at a Peter Pan panto; who would just let Tinkerbell die.
‘My dad’s got a new mobile phone,’ Emily continued, apropos of nothing.
‘Has he?’ I said. But I wasn’t inclined to talk about Mr Ellis any more. He was just a man I didn’t like much. He had an important job and wore a pair of brogues with a spiral of dots on the toes, and that was all I really wanted to know about him.
*
The first hour of the day always went quite quickly. There was a pleasing kind of routine to it. We chanted the two times table at ten and read a story at half past, and by the time it was quarter to Mrs Baxter had already begun roaming around the room like a weary buffalo on a prairie, bellowing something about Tidy-Up Time. I looked at my watch. It was ten to eleven. Ten minutes until my meeting with Mrs Crieff.
John Singer had been sitting on the outside of the Home Corner for most of the morning. It was where he often sat: it was his place, and sometimes the sight of him there made me feel sorry. So before Tidy-Up Time began in earnest, while the girls in the Home Corner were finishing their waterless washing-up, I went over to him, to help him put together a jigsaw puzzle he was doing – a picture of a rocket with an insanely happy astronaut waving through the porthole.
‘Hi John,’ I said, kneeling down beside the little table.
John ignored me. He was concentrating hard, breathing through his mouth.
‘Hi there,’ I tried again.
‘Hello.’
‘How’s the puzzle going?’
‘Fine.’
He clicked a piece into place.
‘He looks very . . .’ – I couldn’t think how to describe
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