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their giblets no more than mysterious smudges. ‘Aren’t they foul?’ Bronwyn squealed. Her face had gone very pink. She giggled, bringing her hands up to her mouth like the paws of an outsize squirrel.
    I squeezed out a smile. ‘Foul,’ I agreed.
    â€˜Of course, I’ve never seen a real one. Have you?’
    â€˜No,’ I lied. I got up and looked at the dolls. They were all sizes, some as tiny as my thumb, the biggest the size of a real baby. Their eyes were all open, wide and staring, except for the biggest doll’s. One of its eyes was half closed as if frozen part-way through a wink.
    â€˜You’ve got no brothers then?’ Bronwyn said, disappointed.
    â€˜No.’ I started to pick one of the dolls up.
    â€˜Leave them be,’ she said sharply. ‘It took me ages to arrange them like that.’ She put the cards back into the box, and the box into her drawer. ‘Look at this,’ she said, pulling out a grey and shapeless lump.
    â€˜What is it?’
    â€˜It’s Puddy the Pig. I’ve had him years. He’s made of sugar, very hard sugar. He used to be pink with a bit of string for a tail. I just chew a bit off now and then. Want some?’
    I shook my head. Browyn’s teeth grated against the sugar.
    â€˜Can I come to your house tomorrow?’ she asked. ‘So that you can show me your things. Can I stay for tea? Mum would like that. She gets upset if I don’t have friends.’
    â€˜I don’t know. I’ll see. What shall we do? I’m freezing.’
    â€˜Dunno. Shall I tell you something …’ She leant forward again, assuming a confidential expression.
    â€˜All right.’
    â€˜My dad’s dead.’ She sat back, making room for my reaction.
    â€˜Really?’
    â€˜Yes, that’s why we’ve moved to this dump. That’s why I’ve started at your school. I used to go to Moncrieff.’
    â€˜The posh school!’ I looked at her with a new respect. I had never met a Moncrieff girl before. They wore brown felt hats with gold badges and I’d never thought they’d be so ordinary.
    â€˜When Daddy died we couldn’t afford it anymore. But I don’t mind,’ she added bravely.
    â€˜What did he die of?’ I asked.
    â€˜Murder,’ she said, opening her eyes so wide that the blue swam in the white. I shuddered and felt a cold finger sliding down my spine.
    â€˜Murder,’ I repeated.
    â€˜Yes.’
    I sat with my mouth open as Bronwyn got up and stretched. She looked at herself in her dressing table mirror. She picked up her brush and began to brush her hair. It crackled as the brush coursed through it and I almost expected sparks. Her hair was dark and massy but with reddish threads that held the light. She turned and smiled and with her hair glistening around her face, I saw that she was womanly. Probably enticing. ‘I’m sex mad,’ she said. ‘A nym-pho-man-iac.’
    â€˜What’s that?’
    â€˜Sex mad.’
    â€˜How do you know if you’ve never even seen a you know what?’
    â€˜I just know.’
    â€˜Oh.’ I looked away. ‘I’m not,’ I said.
    â€˜Tea’s ready!’ called Bronwyn’s mother.
    Bronwyn pushed her hair behind her ears. I followed her downstairs.
    â€˜Who murdered him?’ I asked.
    She turned. ‘Shut up,’ she hissed. ‘If you mention it you’ll upset Mum. You must never mention it, ever.’
    Before tea we folded our hands while Mrs Broom prayed. She thanked God not only for the food but for his goodness and mercy, and I watched her tired fervent face through the slits of my eyes and wondered how she could bring herself to thank Him considering what had happened.
    We had fish fingers and mashed potatoes once she’d finished, followed by treacle tart. Bronwyn ate heartily and her mother watched, her face clouded with love, as she picked at her own small