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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.

    â€˜Good day, my precious?’
    I don’t know what I was expecting Imogen to say. Maybe if I had someone from school standing there listening, I wouldn’t 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 wouldn’t have answered, like she did, ‘It was lovely, Mum. Really good.’ And sounded as if she meant it. I didn’t 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 she’d 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 arm’s length like a toddler, peered in her eyes, and asked hopefully,
    â€˜And did anything “special” happen?’
    I stared. My mum asks, ‘Anything special happen?’ But she’s not really paying attention. If I answered, ‘Yes, Mr Hooper fell off the roof and broke his neck,’ she’d stop clattering pans around long enough to listen. And if I said, ‘Yes, everyone teased me till I cried,’ she’d be on the phone to Mrs Trent in a flash. But mostly, she asks casually. She’s only checking. If something really interesting or funny happened, she wants to hear about it. But that’s all.
    But this was different. Imogen’s mother’s ‘Anything “special” happen?’ 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.
    â€˜Well, never mind,’ she said, in that exact same tone Miss Rorty uses when I don’t make my best time in the pool. ‘Never mind.’ She turned to me, and her face brightened. ‘A visitor! How lovely!’ She clapped her hands like someone in a pantomime. ‘We must have iced cakes and home-made lemonade!’
    â€˜I really ought to be pushing off home now,’ I told her. ‘My mum will be—’
    But she’d 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 hadn’t 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 she’s worried about money, or about Granny going back into hospital, she’d probably think our house was strange, and I wouldn’t 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 ‘thrilling’, or ‘perfectly wonderful’, or ‘absolutely scrumptious’, or ‘such, such fun!’
    I couldn’t wait to get away, back to my own mum.
    She wasn’t too pleased with me. ‘Next time you’re going to be an hour late, don’t just leave a message to tell me. Ask me the day before .’
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ 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 she’d calmed down enough for me to get on with this homework I was planning.
    â€˜What would you do if you found I could see into books?’
    â€˜See into books?’
    â€˜And