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Lydia,'
I add. 'We can't leave Lydia out.'
    Lydia lifts her head, surprised.
Flustered, she manages another smile, while Hilary scowls.
          
    'COME
away in my dears,' says Hilary's mother. 'Come straight in.'
    It's what she says every time, but just
try putting it to the test. She's worried about our feet. Hilary's mother has
cream carpets running through her house, and lives in fear of what might be
brought through the door. Imagine her face then when Lydia, not realising that
some invitations aren't to be taken at their word, clumps straight into the
hall - and doesn't stop to take off her shoes .
    Mrs. Cross swallows once then twice, but
doesn't say a word. She can't. It's never been necessary before. It's up to me
to save the day.
    'Hey Lydia. Take your shoes off.'
    There, simple. Lydia turns, momentarily
surprised, then without another word, nods and shakes off her shoes. Mrs. Cross
throws me a glance of eternal gratitude. And that's good, isn't it. There's
nothing so useful as gratitude.
    Hilary takes us upstairs. She is proud
of her bedroom. She has flounces on her counterpane and window, and even more
of them round her dressing table. Pink carpet, pink cushions. It ruins it
really, having frogs everywhere, frogs in all shapes and sizes. Hilary will
tell you she collects them. But that's only because I give them to her, every birthday
and Christmas, making it official; Hilary collects frogs.
    She nods to Lydia to go and sit on her
dressing table stool. Meanwhile she and I collapse on the floor, yards away. No
doubt who is being left out.
    A moment later, her mother appears with
a tray of weak orange squash in unspillable cups. Tells us there are biscuits
if we want them, but we have to come to the kitchen table to eat them. The
carpet, you see. Always the carpet.
    None of us moves though, not even
Hilary. She waits till her mother disappears then turns to me, 'Well, go on.
Tell me all about it. Was it terrible? Did Miss Jamieson stand over you with a
whip? Have you got loads of work?' 
    I open my mouth as if to let it all
flood out, every precious detail that would bring her right into the picture.
Then close it again. And sigh.
    'I don't know, Hilary. I just don't know
if it's the sort of thing we ought to talk about it. What do you think, Lyd?'
    I've turned to look across at Lydia who
is sitting, clutching the sides of Hilary's stool as if in danger of falling
off. We've kept her at such a distance, I don't think she's heard a word we've
said. Now, though, her head shoots up. It was that Lyd again,
so...friendly.
    But not knowing what we're talking about
she can't think of anything to say, so it's up to me to carry on. 'You see,
Hilary, I think Greek is going to be sort of private. Something just between
the two of us - Lydia and me. I mean, we don't keep asking you about your piano
lessons, do we? Not that we'd want to, mind.' I give a little laugh to remind
us that we've all got a sense of humour, even Lydia, if she would only work at
it.
    Meanwhile Hilary just stares at me, then
goes bright red. She is seeing the way it's going to be from now on, and
there's no saying what the shock might do to her. To be honest, she looks as if
she might be about to have a fit.
    And that's just what her mother thinks
too. Because it is at this very moment that she walks into the room to collect
the cups. She takes one look at Hilary who appears to be having difficulty
breathing and almost faints with horror. Next thing we know, Hilary is in bed
and Lydia and I are being bundled out of the house.
    But really it doesn't matter. Beside the
pavement a familiar car is waiting, with the window wound right down. I never
said I was coming to Hilary's but he always seems to know where I am. It's like
having someone locked into your mind. Something no-one else has - least of all
Lydia, whose father doesn't care.
    He has noticed Lydia of course, and has
leaned his head out of the window with a view to having a chat. He hasn't