so young , and tall and bright-eyed, with blazing red hair tumbling over her shoulders like lava spilling out of a volcano. She wore a bright shawl, embroidered with sparkling butterflies, and when she reached out to fold her arms tightly round Imogen, to hug her, Imogen practically vanished beneath the butterflies and the waterfall of hair.
âGood day, my precious?â
I donât know what I was expecting Imogen to say. Maybe if I had someone from school standing there listening, I wouldnât start by launching into a great long wail about what Tyke Sam made me write being so horrid I had to leave the classroom.
But still I wouldnât have answered, like she did, âIt was lovely, Mum. Really good.â And sounded as if she meant it. I didnât know if it was because of me that she said nothing, or if she was putting a brave face on her horrible day to hide from her mother the fact that sheâd cracked, and told her secret to someone outside the family.
But, whichever it was, her mother believed her. Her bright eyes twinkled happily. She tossed her hair back, and, releasing poor Imogen from her grasp, held her at armâs length like a toddler, peered in her eyes, and asked hopefully,
âAnd did anything âspecialâ happen?â
I stared. My mum asks, âAnything special happen?â But sheâs not really paying attention. If I answered, âYes, Mr Hooper fell off the roof and broke his neck,â sheâd stop clattering pans around long enough to listen. And if I said, âYes, everyone teased me till I cried,â sheâd be on the phone to Mrs Trent in a flash. But mostly, she asks casually. Sheâs only checking. If something really interesting or funny happened, she wants to hear about it. But thatâs all.
But this was different. Imogenâs motherâs âAnything âspecialâ happen?â was clearly code for their little shared secret. I waited for Imogen to tell her. But she just shook her head.
And Mrs Tate looked really disappointed.
âWell, never mind,â she said, in that exact same tone Miss Rorty uses when I donât make my best time in the pool. âNever mind.â She turned to me, and her face brightened. âA visitor! How lovely!â She clapped her hands like someone in a pantomime. âWe must have iced cakes and home-made lemonade!â
âI really ought to be pushing off home now,â I told her. âMy mum will beââ
But sheâd danced off. I mean it. She was literally dancing up the garden path, flapping her shawl like a giant great butterfly. I glanced across at Imogen, but she clearly hadnât even noticed I thought her mother was a little odd. And I can understand that. After all, if she came round to our house unexpectedly, and caught my mum all ratty and irritable because sheâs worried about money, or about Granny going back into hospital, sheâd probably think our house was strange, and I wouldnât notice.
But there was certainly nothing ratty about Mrs Tate. Having tea with her and Imogen was like stepping into one of those old books you sometimes find in charity shops, with thick spongy paper and coloured illustrations hidden under tissue. Everything was âthrillingâ, or âperfectly wonderfulâ, or âabsolutely scrumptiousâ, or âsuch, such fun!â
I couldnât wait to get away, back to my own mum.
She wasnât too pleased with me. âNext time youâre going to be an hour late, donât just leave a message to tell me. Ask me the day before .â
âIâm sorry,â I said, and rushed into some story about Imogen really needing someone to walk her home. But it was still a good half-hour before sheâd calmed down enough for me to get on with this homework I was planning.
âWhat would you do if you found I could see into books?â
âSee into books?â
âAnd