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Christmas, definitely .’
    Eloise had forgotten about Christmas. How far away was that?
    ‘Fingers crossed, eh,’ Dad was saying. ‘Just wanted to say hi, touch base, you know. Is your grandmother there?’
    Eloise held the phone out to Mo, who took it gingerly, as though it might bite, and listened for a minute.
    ‘No, she’s all right.’ She looked at Eloise as she spoke. ‘Keeping herself amused . . . No, she hasn’t. Not to me, anyway . . . I hardly think that’s my responsibility, Stephen . . . If you couldn’t succeed, I hardly think I will . . . No, I will not go cap in hand to the neighbours, begging for psychiatric services . . . For pity’s sake, isn’t it obvious? Makes no difference to me. All right, goodbye.’
    Mo crashed the phone back on its holder and scowled. ‘Sends his love,’ she said, and stomped off back to the study.
    Every evening, Mo emptied the buckets of grey washing water onto her garden. That night, for the first time, Eloise helped too. She staggered with the sloshing bucket into the backyard and tipped it where Mo pointed. A beautiful smell rose up from the wet earth: a fresh, clean, clear smell. Eloise closed her eyes and breathed it in.
    ‘Good evening, Mrs Mo,’ came a polite voice from behind them. ‘Good evening, Eloise.’
    Eloise spun round and saw the head of Tommy from next door pop up over the fence that divided their backyards. He rested his arms on the fence and gazed down at them.
    Mo put her hand on her chest. ‘Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?’ she growled. ‘Nearly gave me a flaming heart attack.’
    Tommy grinned, and his rather solemn face lit up. ‘I’m sorry. I heard your buckets; I knew you must be in the garden.’
    ‘Still could have knocked,’ said Mo severely.
    ‘What do you want?’
    ‘My parents would like to invite you and Eloise—’ ‘To dinner?’ finished Mo. She lowered her bucket and wiped her hands on her trousers. Suddenly she looked very tired. ‘That’s kind of them. It’s not that I don’t appreciate it. But I’m afraid I can’t accept.’
    ‘Okay,’ said Tommy amiably, and his head vanished as abruptly as it had appeared.
    Mo wrapped her arms around herself, though it was still very warm outside. ‘Come on, Eloise,’ she said crossly. ‘Come inside.’ And she scuttled back into the house, hunched over like a beetle.
    They’d no sooner stacked the buckets in the laundry than the doorbell rang. Mo swore loudly. ‘Now what?’ She peered out through the spyhole.
    ‘Peculiar,’ she said. ‘Nobody there.’ She opened the door a crack and there on the mat at her feet lay a foil-covered casserole dish. Mo took a deep breath. ‘Interfering bossy know-it-all neighbours,’ she said, but her voice was mild. She lifted the foil and sniffed. ‘Smells all right. Suppose we’d better not waste it, eh, Eloise?’
    It was curry, and it tasted delicious.
    The next morning Eloise was eating breakfast when the front doorbell rang again. She nearly choked on her cornflakes, but she didn’t have time to run away before Mo led Tommy into the kitchen.
    ‘Hold on, I’ll make a list,’ she was saying. ‘And here’s your dish. Compliments to the chef. Your father, was it, this time?’
    Tommy smiled. ‘How did you know?’
    ‘Heavy hand with the cardamon, your father.’
    ‘Mum’s so busy at the hospital, or at the surgery,’ said Tommy. ‘Dad’s had to learn to cook a lot of things.’
    Mo clucked. ‘Make sure your mother gets enough rest, won’t you. We can’t afford to lose her . . . Bread, eggs, sugar, apples. Might get some bacon this time. Like bacon, Eloise?’
    Eloise, who’d been trying to make herself invisible, gave a fractional nod.
    ‘Bacon then. And more of those chocolate biscuits, we seem to be getting through those.’ Mo rummaged in the cupboards and scribbled on her list while Tommy reminded her of things she might have forgotten: soap, tissues, detergent.
    It dawned on Eloise that Tommy