maybe I left it there.” I rush up to the after-school leader, Ms. Buck, who is clearing tables, and try to look as apologetic as possible.
“I’m so sorry . . . first day . . . passenger alarm on the train . . . won’t happen again,” I splutter.
“Don’t worry,” she says, looking a little like it does matter. “Rae’s over there with Mrs. Ribwell in the painting area.”
Through a brick arch, I see Rae in an area decorated with children’s drawings. A teacher is kneeling down in front of her, talking to her intently.
“Hi, sweetheart,” I call.
Rae looks at me without smiling. In fact, she looks cross. My heart sinks.
Mrs. Ribwell turns round. I am so concerned about the look on Rae’s face it takes me a second to realize that I recognize her.
“Oh, hi. What are you doing here?”
“Oh—I work here.” She smiles.
“Do you? How funny,” I say. “Oh. Well, that’s great. Rae will be pleased. I hope she’s behaved herself?”
“Oh, yes. We’ve had a nice afternoon, haven’t we, Rae?”
Rae looks at the floor.
“Want to go,” she whines, and begins to walk away from me, toward the door.
“Sorry,” I say.
“Bye,” the woman calls. But Rae has already slipped out of the wooden door, so I wave in her place.
“So, how was it?” I say when I find her outside and we head out through the iron gates and along the side of Alexandra Palace.
“Hannah left early,” she says quietly. “She had a playdate at Grace’s house.”
My heart drops.
“Well, that will happen sometimes,” I say, trying to keep the sadness I feel for Rae out of my voice. “You’ll just have to play with someone else. That’s the fun bit of after-school club: you’ll meet lots of other children not in your class.”
I wouldn’t have been convinced when I was five years old, but it is the best I can do.
“When can I go to someone’s house?” she says quietly.
“Soon, darling, it’ll happen soon,” I say, putting an arm round her, hating the sound of my own lie. “Listen, what’s that lady’s name, you were talking to—it went right out of my head, I was so surprised to see her.”
“Mrs. Ribwell,” Rae says. “But she says when no one else is there I can call her Debs.”
* * *
I take her hand, and we make our way down the hill on the main road that leads to Churchill Road.
Cars flash by us. The traffic is heavy, I think. Of course, six o’clock is the busiest time on this road. Sometimes, when Rae and I have tried to cross the road from the park, we have had to wait here for three or four minutes.
Rain starts to fall heavily now, turning the road wet and slick. Traffic crashes by my ear, spitting and screeching.
And then, with no warning, Rae lets go of my hand.
“What are you doing?”
She starts to run. An image of the racehorses a family used to keep in one of Dad’s fields comes to mind. At the end of the day, I would watch them from my bedroom window as they were released from their bridles and let loose, jumping and kicking their heels high, daring anyone to try to catch them again till tomorrow.
“Rae?” I call. “What are you doing?”
She is not just doing her careful half trot. She is actually trying to run, her little sandals flying up in the air.
“Rae!” I raise my voice, speed up and grab the back of her coat. “I mean it.”
Cars skid past, ignoring the 30 mph sign, people as desperate as me to get home.
She staggers a little as she turns.
“That’s so naughty,” I say. “So dangerous. You know you could fall. And then what would happen?”
“It’s not fair!” she shouts, pulling her shoulder away from me. “I can’t NEVER do anything.”
Her face is angry and confused, her big eyes flashing. I put my hand on her shoulder and kneel in front of her.
“You’re right, darling, it’s not fair. But I don’t want you backin hospital, and I don’t think you want that, either, do you? So you always, always hold my hand on the
“I’m so sorry . . . first day . . . passenger alarm on the train . . . won’t happen again,” I splutter.
“Don’t worry,” she says, looking a little like it does matter. “Rae’s over there with Mrs. Ribwell in the painting area.”
Through a brick arch, I see Rae in an area decorated with children’s drawings. A teacher is kneeling down in front of her, talking to her intently.
“Hi, sweetheart,” I call.
Rae looks at me without smiling. In fact, she looks cross. My heart sinks.
Mrs. Ribwell turns round. I am so concerned about the look on Rae’s face it takes me a second to realize that I recognize her.
“Oh, hi. What are you doing here?”
“Oh—I work here.” She smiles.
“Do you? How funny,” I say. “Oh. Well, that’s great. Rae will be pleased. I hope she’s behaved herself?”
“Oh, yes. We’ve had a nice afternoon, haven’t we, Rae?”
Rae looks at the floor.
“Want to go,” she whines, and begins to walk away from me, toward the door.
“Sorry,” I say.
“Bye,” the woman calls. But Rae has already slipped out of the wooden door, so I wave in her place.
“So, how was it?” I say when I find her outside and we head out through the iron gates and along the side of Alexandra Palace.
“Hannah left early,” she says quietly. “She had a playdate at Grace’s house.”
My heart drops.
“Well, that will happen sometimes,” I say, trying to keep the sadness I feel for Rae out of my voice. “You’ll just have to play with someone else. That’s the fun bit of after-school club: you’ll meet lots of other children not in your class.”
I wouldn’t have been convinced when I was five years old, but it is the best I can do.
“When can I go to someone’s house?” she says quietly.
“Soon, darling, it’ll happen soon,” I say, putting an arm round her, hating the sound of my own lie. “Listen, what’s that lady’s name, you were talking to—it went right out of my head, I was so surprised to see her.”
“Mrs. Ribwell,” Rae says. “But she says when no one else is there I can call her Debs.”
* * *
I take her hand, and we make our way down the hill on the main road that leads to Churchill Road.
Cars flash by us. The traffic is heavy, I think. Of course, six o’clock is the busiest time on this road. Sometimes, when Rae and I have tried to cross the road from the park, we have had to wait here for three or four minutes.
Rain starts to fall heavily now, turning the road wet and slick. Traffic crashes by my ear, spitting and screeching.
And then, with no warning, Rae lets go of my hand.
“What are you doing?”
She starts to run. An image of the racehorses a family used to keep in one of Dad’s fields comes to mind. At the end of the day, I would watch them from my bedroom window as they were released from their bridles and let loose, jumping and kicking their heels high, daring anyone to try to catch them again till tomorrow.
“Rae?” I call. “What are you doing?”
She is not just doing her careful half trot. She is actually trying to run, her little sandals flying up in the air.
“Rae!” I raise my voice, speed up and grab the back of her coat. “I mean it.”
Cars skid past, ignoring the 30 mph sign, people as desperate as me to get home.
She staggers a little as she turns.
“That’s so naughty,” I say. “So dangerous. You know you could fall. And then what would happen?”
“It’s not fair!” she shouts, pulling her shoulder away from me. “I can’t NEVER do anything.”
Her face is angry and confused, her big eyes flashing. I put my hand on her shoulder and kneel in front of her.
“You’re right, darling, it’s not fair. But I don’t want you backin hospital, and I don’t think you want that, either, do you? So you always, always hold my hand on the
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