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the frogs,’ he told them. ‘They look squashed though.’
    â€˜Never mind,’ said Madelaine. ‘Nobody’s going to really look at them, are they?’
    â€˜I guess not,’ said Paul.
    â€˜Kirsty’s been clearing out the mice,’ Madelaine told him.
    â€˜Could she have a go at the noticeboard? Lots of things are out of date,’ he said.
    â€˜I did it this morning,’ Kirsty pouted.
    â€˜Well, the hawk display was a month ago. And this sponsored walk’s long gone. And the Owl Talk. Could you put the Birdsong Seminar in the middle, with the Bank Holiday Bug Hunt?’ Madelaine added.
    â€˜Awright, Mad Elaine,’ Kirsty sighed, drawing out the syllables. She had wanted to do her work experience at Marwell Zoo, but they’d been full up. At least she wasn’t stuck in a rest home like her friend Nicky. That’s what they gave you if you didn’t put your form in on time, even if you were allergic to the sight of blood. This Paul Cloud was pretty gorgeous, with his long legs and crooked smile, and his sandy hair always messed up, like he’d just got out of bed; but it couldn’t stop her from getting bored. She’d already cleaned out all the tanks and hung up some stuff for the birds and fed the fish. This Mad Elaine was bossy too. And now she was going into a huddle with Paul. Kirsty tried to look unconcerned, and started to line up the magnetic badgers (45p each); but she could still hear old Mad Elaine telling Paul that she had handed in her notice and she was moving to Norfolk and a job at some duck place. Then she heard Paul say: ‘I’m sure working with wildfowl will really suit you.’ He didn’t even mean it as an insult! And then he gave Mad Elaine his really nice smile, and she hugged him.
    â€˜Who’s the boss if you’re not here?’ Kirsty asked later.
    â€˜Well, the Chair of the Committee, I suppose,’ Madelaine told her.
    â€˜Is that Paul Cloud?’ Kirsty asked. She wanted to test out saying his name.
    â€˜No. Paul’s just on the Committee. He’s a volunteer. At the moment.’

Chapter 12
    The young Lucy Brookes thought that she came from a Bohemian Background. Her mother Jane played the piano and gave lessons and had tablemats with scenes of Montmartre.
    When she was ten Lucy joined a group called ‘Young Stagers’. They put on productions of
Annie
and
Oliver!,
and gave afternoon shows to Old Folk and the Handicapped. Lucy longed for a career on the stage, but her talents went largely undiscovered, and she remained trapped as Third Urchin and Fifth Orphan, while other blonder, smaller children hogged the limelight. She had occasional turns in variety shows, but was more often left in the wings, and spent most of each performance peering through tears in the curtains at the audience nodding and dozing. After the curtain went down the Young Stagers were instructed to chat to the audience. Lucy would pass around sausage rolls and have nothing to say, so she’d ask old men what they’d done in the war. After tea the old people would sing songs.
    It was late November. The time for old folks’ Christmas parties. Were they held so early to get them over with, or to ensure that as many of the potential guests as possible made it to the party before they died? Didn’t it matter that the party was nowhere near actual Christmas? If your life was so empty that you were on the guest list, then would you be past caring anyway? Lucy was nearly twelve and beginning to wonderabout such things. A man was asleep beside his accordion. A woman without much hair nudged Lucy.
    â€˜Wake him up! He’ll want to sing “Paddy McGinty’s Goat”! He’ll want to sing “Paddy McGinty’s Goat”!’ she shouted. A chorus of others joined in. Lucy went over to the man.
    â€˜Sir,’ she said. ‘Sir.’ She tapped his hand. It wasn’t very