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see what her cousin had brought, the lids were so swollen that she could scarcely see from between them. Miranda, having only just recovered from the measles herself, could not help a pang of real pity arrowing through her. Poor Beth! When she felt better she would be given in abundance all the things that Miranda had longed for when she herself was recovering, but right now no one knew better than she how Beth was suffering. Accordingly she set the glass down on the lopsided little bedside table and poured out some of the delicious raspberry cordial. Beth heaved herself up in the bed and picked up the glass. She took a sip, then another, then stood the glass down again. ‘Thanks, Miranda,’ she whispered. ‘It’s the nicest drink in the world, but I can’t drink it! Oh, how I wish I were well again.’ She looked fretfully up at her young cousin. ‘Why does it taste so sticky and sweet? I so want to drink it, but if I do . . . if I do . . .’
    â€˜Poor old Beth. I felt just the same,’ Miranda assured her cousin. ‘Just you cuddle down, and try to sleep. When you wake up you’ll feel better, honest to God you will. Why, tomorrow morning you’ll be eating your breakfast porridge and drinking cups of tea and telling Aunt Vi that you fancy scouse for your dinner.’ She smiled withreal affection at the other girl. ‘You’ll be all right; I told you it’s only bad for the first three days.’
    Beth obeyed, snuggling down into the bed and giving Miranda a sleepy smile. ‘You’re all right, Miranda Lovage,’ she said drowsily. ‘I’m sorry I was horrid to you, but I’ve never felt this ill before. When you come up to bed I’ll try some lemonade; perhaps that’ll go down easier.’
    Miranda did not point out that she would not be coming up to bed for a good many hours, since it was only just eleven o’clock in the morning. In fact, seeing how her cousin tossed and turned, she had already decided to sleep on one of the kitchen chairs that night. After all, she had done so throughout her own attack of the measles, since Aunt Vi had turned her out of the brass bedstead at ten every night and told her not to return to it until breakfast time the next morning. She seemed to think that this might prevent herself and her daughter from catching the infection, but of course time had proved her wrong.
    Miranda trod softly downstairs and entered the kitchen, saw that her aunt was snoozing, and let herself out of the front door and back into the sunshine of Jamaica Close. The girls were still twirling the rope and the game was going on just as usual, so Miranda wondered whether to go over and ask to be put in, but decided against it. The measles, and her enforced diet of bread and milk, had made her lethargic, unwilling to exert herself. She had been aware of a great lassitude when she had climbed the stairs the second time, balancing the jug of raspberry cordial and the glass.
    Now she decided that since no one else cared whatbecame of her she would have to start looking after herself, so she strolled slowly along the length of the Close and for the first time it occurred to her that it was a very odd little street indeed. On her left were half a dozen terraced houses, each boasting three steps and a tiny garden plot. Most householders ignored the latter, but some had planted a solitary rose, a handful of marigolds, or a flowering shrub. However, the houses on her right were not terraced but semi-detached; bigger, more substantial. Rumour had it that whilst the even numbers two to ten had to use the common pump against the end wall of the Close, the odd numbers one to nine had piped water, though all the houses had outdoor privies in their back yards. Miranda frowned. She had never seriously considered the Close before, but now it seemed to her that it was downright odd to have such different sorts of houses in one very short street. And