Violet Ink

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Mellow Yellow

I am a hundred per cent determined to win. Never, in living memory, has Alex lost a game of Snap, but tonight history is about to be rewritten. In fact, it’s my New Year’s resolution. I have decided that this year is going to be the Year of Yellow and that means the Year of Happiness because yellow is a very happy colour. Winning this game against Alex is definitely going to make me happy. I crack my knuckles and wiggle my fingers – best to be flexible and ready for ninja-like moves.

‘OK,’ says Mum, shuffling the cards. Our deck is ancient, all dog-eared and crumpled. ‘Are we all agreed on the rules?’

‘Bring it on,’ says Alex, sounding confident. I just nod, not taking my eyes off the cards that Mum is dealing out on to the kitchen table. When all the cards have been shared out between the three of us, we each pick up our pile, keeping the cards face down so that they can’t be seen.

‘Your turn to go first,’ Mum says to me.

I put down the first card, turning it over as it reaches the table. Alex slams a card on top and the game has begun.

Jack, Two, Queen, Ace. I am totally focused, looking at nothing but the cards mounting up in front of me. My mouth is half open, the ‘s’ ready on my lips. I WILL beat her this time – there’s no way she can win again.

Three, Ten, Jack, King, King.

‘Sn–’ I start, but unbelievably my noisy, annoying big sister gets there before me.

‘Cheese sandwiches!’ she yells, nearly deafening me, and whacking her hand down on top of the stack of cards, just in case we’re in any doubt about who has won. ‘I win! Again!’

I cannot actually believe that this is happening. She’s going to be utterly unbearable now. I really thought I’d win this time. I’d just like to win ONCE – is that too much to ask? I think I’d be a pretty good winner too and not do what Alex is doing now, making ‘loser’ signs at us and dancing round the kitchen bragging. I’d just smile generously and say, ‘Good game.’ Well, I think I would. It’s hard to know what I’d do when I never actually get to win. Ever.

Mum is laughing and Alex sinks back into her chair, looking across at me with a huge grin on her face.

‘How, how –?’ I splutter, but I can’t even get the words out properly. ‘It’s not right, Alex. You’ve GOT to be cheating. We made you say “cheese sandwiches” – there was no way you could win.’

‘What can I say?’ says Alex, flicking her hair behind her shoulder and shrugging. I’m sure she’ll think of something though; she’s never usually short of a word or two. ‘Natural talent, I guess. If there was an A level in playing Snap then I’d get an A star, that’s for sure!’

‘Well, it’s totally unfair,’ I tell her, feeling cross. ‘We have to play again and this time you’ve got to say “cheese and mayonnaise sandwiches”. And NO cheating.’

I grab the cards and start to reshuffle the deck, but Mum stops me.

‘Not tonight, Izzy. Alex has got studying to do and, sadly for her, Snap is not one of her A level subjects, so she needs to put a bit of effort into doing some work.’

Alex groans dramatically. Alex does everything dramatically actually, like her entire life is really a show and she’s the star. It means that she’s noisy and bossy and very opinionated, but it also makes her a pretty exciting person to live with. You never quite know what she’s going to do next – the only thing you do know is that it won’t be boring. In the whole seventeen years that Alex has been alive I don’t think she’s ever done anything average. Not like me. My name could be the definition of average.

‘Do you have to remind me? We haven’t even gone back to school yet. I was just starting to relax.’ She scowls at Mum. ‘It’s very important that I have rest sessions in between all the hard work, you know – all my teachers say so. Stress can be very damaging at this stage of my life.’

Mum stands up and starts to clear away our leftover dinner plates. ‘Stress can be very damaging at my time of life too, I’ll have you know. And I think you’ll find the most important part of what you just said was the bit about resting in between working. WORKING! And, as I’ve seen precious little evidence of you doing any actual work over the Christmas holidays, I think you’ll survive with a shorter “relaxation” session tonight!’

She is smiling at Alex, but in that way that means ‘do what I say or I’ll stop pretending that you have a choice’. Alex pushes back her chair and gets up, pulling a face when Mum has turned towards the sink.

‘Sorry, Izzy. I’ll have to thrash you at Snap another night.’

‘No rush,’ I mutter. ‘I’m probably going to be really busy with violin practice for the next few weeks.’

‘Oh joy. More screeching and wailing to set my teeth on edge.’ Alex grimaces at me as she leaves the room, her pile of school books still on the table and her jumper and scarf hanging over the back of her chair. She’ll be back down in ten minutes, once she’s spent a while making her room right for studying. That doesn’t mean that she’ll tidy it up. No. Alex says that the ambience has to be right so she’ll drape a silk scarf over her lamp and light some incense sticks, and then flit around lighting candles all over the place.

It drives Mum crazy – she’s terrified that Alex is going to burn the house down – but Alex says it’s her room and she’s virtually an adult so Mum should trust her for a change. Mum lets her, but what Alex doesn’t know is that, when she’s asleep, Mum always creeps into her bedroom and checks everything is safe. I know this because I check on her too, and one night I opened my bedroom door just as Mum was going into Alex’s room. I saw her tiptoe round the room, turning off the lamp and making sure that the candles were out. When she came out, I pretended that I was going to the bathroom. Mum gave me a hug and put her finger to her lips and I knew that she didn’t want Alex to know that Mum still looks after her.

I’m glad that Alex has got me AND Mum to keep her safe because sometimes her head is so busy with exciting things she forgets to do the things that she really should be doing. We’re like her protectors so that she can get on with being Alex.

Red Card

I have certain expectations when it comes to PE lessons at school. I expect them to be excruciatingly awful and, in all fairness, I’m not often proved wrong. That’s why today’s lesson is coming as such a shock. I’ve been dreading it for ages. We spent absolutely weeks and weeks working on our ball ‘skills’ last term and today, as a grand finale, Miss Lane has planned a huge basketball tournament. It was supposed to happen at the end of term, but it got cancelled because of the Christmas music assembly. I thought we’d escaped it, but sadly not.

Virtually all of Year 7 have been crammed into the hall and put into teams. Our sports hall is quite small so there can only be one game going on at a time, which means that everybody else is either squashed on to benches along the sides of the hall, rammed up against sweaty armpits (the uncool kids, i.e. me) or hanging over the upstairs balcony and yelling words of support and encouragement (a.k.a. abuse). Only the popular, sporty kids ever get to watch from the balcony. I tried to go up there once, but I couldn’t get any further than halfway up the stairs – I’m just not cool enough.

We’ve been here for what feels like hours and unfortunately it’s now my turn to play. My desperate pleadings in my head, to whichever god it is that looks out for kids who can’t do sport, have failed miserably. The sports hall has not been engulfed by a massive tidal wave, nor has my leg miraculously fallen off. There’s nothing for it except to reluctantly put on the bright yellow bib that is being handed to me and take my place on the court.

The game starts out as I expected. I loiter somewhere near the end of the court, trying to make it look like I’ve got a tactic. The ball heads in my direction a few times and I trot towards it slowly, doing a little shrug of impatience when someone else races in to get it before me. Really, I should be graded for drama in this lesson: I truly think I manage to look convincingly disappointed when Simon Turner cuts in front of me and snatches the ball as someone foolishly throws it towards me. I even make a little ‘tut’ sound – which actually represents my terror at the near proximity of an airborne missile that could easily break my nose if mishandled, but which to everyone else might sound like a sigh of regret.

Halfway through we swap ends. I slope down the court, smiling sympathetically at Hannah as we pass in the middle. Hard to believe, but she’s even more hopeless at sport than I am. I wouldn’t say that’s why we’re best friends, but it helps that we understand the trauma of PE lessons.

The whistle blows and we’re off again. I start perfecting a little dance routine, taking three steps forward, then one to the side and then reversing the entire movement, taking little bouncing steps on my toes. A glance at the clock on the wall and I can see that our ten minutes of torture are nearly up. I’m congratulating myself on a job well done when disaster strikes. I look up just in time to see the ball winging its way through the air, at extremely high velocity, right towards my face. Without even thinking, I put my hands up to protect myself and feel the ball smack into my palms. My fingers tighten instinctively and I, Izzy Stone, am actually holding the basketball.

I freeze. It feels like the whole world has stopped turning. I know that I need to act fast, that I need to get rid of this thing before it explodes or something, but my brain is struggling to tell my body what it should do. I’m not sure how long I stand there, but gradually I start to hear sounds. I guess that makes sense. I remember someone telling us in science that your hearing is the last sense to stop working when you die. I feel like I might have actually died of fright, but I can hear yelling and when I focus on the voices I can hear that they’re all shouting the same thing. My name.

‘Izzy!’

‘Come on, Izzy!’

I shake my head and drag my attention back to the sports hall, the adrenalin pumping through my body making me feel like I can do anything. I’ve got the ball. And everyone is cheering my name. I can DO THIS!

Tentatively I try bouncing the ball on the ground. It springs back up to my waiting hand and I bounce it back down again, this time taking a step. Yes! I am moving and bouncing and thinking and breathing all at the same time. Go me, Miss Multitasker! Going slowly at first and then gaining speed, I start to head down the court.

‘Izzy!’

The shouts have suddenly got louder and I can hear Hannah screaming my name as if she’s half hysterical. The yells from the spectators seem to have died down – they’re probably all in shock that I’m actually doing OK. I’m running now and I can see from the corners of my eyes that nobody is trying to tackle me; in fact, everybody seems to be standing still, which is weird, but there’s no time to think about that. I dare to take my eyes off the ball for a second and adjust my direction slightly so that I’m sprinting straight towards the basketball hoop. It’s too much to hope that I can actually get the ball in, but I can try. Everyone loves a trier after all.

Time seems to be in slow motion now and I’ve got plenty of time to think about what’s happening. Maybe I’m not completely rubbish at physical activities. Maybe I just needed to find MY sport. Maybe I’ll be invited to join the basketball team and will get to hang out with the cool kids.

I can still hear Hannah screeching my name. Her throat is going to really hurt if she keeps that up much longer. I’ve reached the end of the court and, without a second’s hesitation, I throw the ball up, up, up. The hall goes completely silent as every single person follows the ball’s journey towards the hoop. I hold my breath – and it goes in. IT GOES IN!

Turning to face Year 7, I punch my fist in the air. I’ve never actually done that move before, but it feels right. I’m jubilant! I know now why footballers celebrate their goals and it’s all I can do not to pull my PE shirt over my head and run round the hall, whooping.

‘Yes!’ I cry, jogging towards the centre of the court, where Hannah is walking quickly towards me. The hall is still silent and I wonder briefly when the cheering will start. And then Hannah is next to me, holding on to my arm.

‘Did you see?’ I ask her, starting to laugh. ‘Did you see what I did?’

‘I saw, Izzy,’ she says.

‘Wasn’t it amazing?’ I say, still unable to stop laughing. I actually don’t think I’ll ever forget this moment.

‘It really was,’ Hannah tells me. ‘It was also the wrong hoop.’

I can’t actually make sense of what she’s saying for a moment, but, as the sound of the rest of my team making horrid muttering noises reaches my ears, I stop laughing and feel my stomach start to turn over. Howls of surprised laughter start to flood across the court from every side, threatening to drown me. They’re loudest of all from the balcony and I keep my eyes low so that I can’t see what’s going on up there. I don’t think I’d like it.

‘What?’ I ask her, hoping I’ve misunderstood.

Hannah starts leading me off the court as Miss Lane yells at everyone to calm down and get changed.

‘We swapped sides at half-time, didn’t we?’ Hannah whispers, pulling me over to the bench where we’ve left our bags. She’s totally mortified on my behalf, which is small consolation when all I can hear is the hysterical laughter of the rest of Year 7.

I close my eyes and replay the last minute in my head. The silence. The fact that nobody ran after me. They were all in shock that anybody could be so utterly, ridiculously stupid as to run the WRONG WAY.

‘Nice one, Izzy,’ someone hisses as they walk past me and I wonder for a second if I keep my eyes closed for the rest of the day then maybe nobody will actually notice me. It used to work when I was little and Alex and I would play hide-and-seek. I used to hide by standing in the middle of the room with my eyes closed – Mum told me that I was convinced that if I couldn’t see Alex then she couldn’t see me. Sadly, I’m no longer two years old and, as I feel someone shoulder-barge me, I quickly decide that being able to see could be crucial to my survival.

I open my eyes and look at Hannah. She grimaces at me, a look filled with pity and embarrassment, and picks up her bag.

‘Everyone will have forgotten all about it by lunchtime,’ she says unconvincingly. I nod and together we head through the sports hall doors, my face bright red and my head hanging down in total shame.

I’m eating my sandwiches in the hall and trying to ignore the looks that are being directed my way by the rest of the school. I suppose it’s good that most people think it’s funny – well, everyone except the other people who were on my team. They spent most of maths letting me know just how unfunny they found the entire incident. Apparently, we were only one goal away from winning. Actually, I don’t think it’s called a goal in basketball. Maybe you score a try if the ball goes in. Or is it a hoop? I have no idea and, as I have no intention of ever setting foot on a basketball court again, I have no reason to find out. Whatever it is, we could have won if only I hadn’t taken it upon myself to randomly run the wrong way and give the point to the other team. I’ve heard every theory going about why I must have done it.

I must fancy a boy on the other team.
I must hate the people on my own team.
I am rubbish at PE and therefore enjoy sabotaging PE lessons.
I am stupid and probably wet the bed at night.
I was momentarily possessed by aliens who made me run the wrong way.

OK, so I made the last one up. It just seems strange that nobody has suggested the real reason, which is:

I made a mistake. For which I am now paying. And the price is total humiliation.

Anyway, most people seem to have heard about it by now and, contrary to Hannah’s theory, it’s not old news. So far this lunchtime I’ve sat through a hilarious re-enactment of me sprinting down the court, complete with sports commentary; several requests from the sportier students to NEVER try out for the basketball team; and an invitation to share my shame with the entire student population by agreeing to be interviewed for the school paper. I ignore the first, reassure them on the second that nothing could be further from my mind and politely decline the third, stating homework as my mitigating circumstance. It’ll be all over Facebook by tonight anyway, so there’s no need for a formal interview. I’m just keeping my fingers crossed that nobody snuck a mobile phone into the lesson – if video evidence of my shame ends up on YouTube then I might as well stop coming to school altogether.

I finish my sandwich and take a deep breath. I’m not a naturally brave person and all this attention is very unwelcome. I stand up and walk out of the hall as quickly as I can, focusing on not doing anything else that will cause everyone to look at me, for example falling over. As I get to the door, I’m gripped by the terror that my school skirt is tucked in my knickers and I end up scurrying out, one hand reaching behind me, smoothing down my skirt and hoping that I don’t look too weird.

Once out in the corridor, I breathe a sigh of relief. Most people are in the canteen or tucked away in common rooms and the corridors are pretty empty. Hannah is on duty in the school library so I head to my locker to stash my bag. My locker is on the second floor in C Block so it takes me a few minutes to get there. I only pass a couple of people on the way and they ignore me, so I’m feeling a bit more positive by the time I’ve climbed the stairs. Reaching inside my bag, I grab my key and unlock my locker and a piece of folded-up paper falls out.

Our lockers have all got slits in the front, like air vents. I have absolutely no idea why they’re there – it’s not like anyone’s going to put an animal inside there (although I did hear that this really small boy in Year 8 got rammed into someone’s locker at the end of term last year, so I suppose he was quite grateful for the opportunity to have a fresh supply of air to keep him going). Anyway, the slits mean that people can post notes inside the lockers and, as I bend down, I brace myself for something nasty. A hate letter maybe.

But I don’t need to worry. As soon as I unfold the paper, I see a familiar colour. It’s from Alex, written with her signature violet ink fountain pen. That’s what she calls it: her ‘signature’ ink. She says that it helps make her words stand out from the crowd, that everyone else uses blue or black ink, but that she refuses to conform to other people’s rules. She says that it makes her distinctive, unique – it shows that she’s a true individual. I think that’s quite a lot to ask from an ink cartridge, but Alex refuses to use any other colour.

And actually the colour violet really suits Alex. I know quite a lot about colours and what they mean – and people don’t seem to realize that you can tell loads about a person by the colours they choose. Violet represents being brave and one of a kind; it means being someone who is good at creating things and has a brilliant imagination. Violet people are independent: they don’t need anybody else. All of those things describe Alex completely, so it’s good that she writes in violet ink. It’s just that Alex thinks it’s the colour that makes her BE those things and that’s wrong. It’s Alex who IS all of those things – the colour just matches her personality.

I look down at the note. Alex’s handwriting is always changing; she’s constantly attempting new styles and trying to figure out what each style says about her. This message is short, but written with very flouncy, flowery letters. She won’t keep this one up for long – there’s no way she could write a 2,000-word essay like this.

Izzy,

My advice? Laugh it off. And pull a sickie next time you have a PE lesson …

Love you forever.

Alex xxxxxxx

I fold the note up and slip it into my pocket. Alex is right – I just have to grit my teeth and smile this one out. I have a quick practice, but it turns out that smiling through gritted teeth makes you feel like a lunatic so I stop and just hope that I can manage to look calm and serene for the rest of the day. I will use my best ‘there’s nothing to see here so please move on’ face. I wish that Alex hadn’t heard about my mess-up, but it feels good to know that she’s thinking about me.

I head towards the sanctuary of Hannah and the library, feeling a little bit more confident about my ability to make it to the end of the school day without dying of mortification. Maybe I’ll write about it later in my notebook – that usually makes me feel a bit better. I might not be able to control the things that happen to me in my real, actual life, but I CAN choose the words that I use to write about everything.

Alex and I have got words in common – we both like writing things down. Where we are different is why we write. Alex writes letters: she writes letters to Mum and me and leaves them around the house; she writes to her friends all the time; she writes to Granny and Grandpa even though they only live just down the road. And she writes because she wants people to know what she’s doing and what she’s thinking. Alex chooses to write letters because letters are sent – someone always reads them.

I don’t write letters because I don’t want anyone to read what I’ve written. It’s private – just for me. I write words down without worrying what anyone else will think. I just let them pour out of my head and on to the page. I don’t write stories – I suppose you could call it free verse – it’s kind of like poetry although it doesn’t rhyme. Nobody knows that I write. I sometimes wonder what it would feel like to show Mum or Alex my words, to read them aloud the way they should be spoken. I think it might feel quite amazing, but I’m not like Alex so it’ll never happen. I’m not brave enough to share my thoughts like that.

Rose-coloured Glasses

It’s been a long, tiring day so after supper I have a bath and then write in my notebook for a bit. The notebook I’m writing in at the moment is gorgeous – it’s got a deep blue cover with swirls of yellow on the front and ‘notebook’ written in flowing writing.

When I was younger and learning to read, I used to sound out the word ‘notebook’ and I read it as ‘not-e-book’, which I thought meant it was called a ‘NOT a book’. I always think of a notebook as a ‘not a book’ now because it doesn’t come with any words in it, so it isn’t actually a proper book. And because proper books are written for people to read and I would never want my writing to be seen by anyone else.

After I’ve written a few verses, I turn my light out and lie down. I must be totally exhausted because the sound of the phone ringing pulls me rudely out of a deep sleep and I sit up with my heart pounding. I look at the clock – 10 p.m. Nobody ever phones us this late.

I lie back down and try to snuggle under the covers, but I know I won’t get back to sleep for ages now. It’s dark in my room, but I can still make out the cuddly toys neatly lined up on the end of my bed. Behind them is a weird shape and for a second I panic, but then I realize that it’s just my violin case leaning against my wall, the shadows making it seem bigger than it really is.

I yawn. I’ve got a geography quiz at school tomorrow and I really do need to get some sleep. My understanding of cliff erosion is definitely NOT going to be improved by being tired. I close my eyes and then open them abruptly as I hear footsteps pounding up the stairs and then my bedroom door being flung open.

‘Izzy – quick! You’ve got to get dressed!’ Mum dashes back out and runs across the landing to Alex’s room.

‘What’s going on?’ I hear Alex moan.

‘It’s Grandpa. He’s gone walkabout again. That was Granny on the phone – she needs us.’ Mum runs back into my room and turns on the light. I wince as the brightness hits my tired eyes, but I’ve already swung my legs out of bed and am racing over to my chest of drawers to grab a pair of jeans.

I hear Alex swear under her breath and then she slams her bedroom door closed and hurries into my room where Mum is rummaging through my wardrobe, trying to find me a warm jumper.

‘Where does Granny think he’s gone this time?’ she asks Mum.

‘She’s not sure,’ says Mum, thrusting a hideous yellow and pink woollen monstrosity at me. I never wear this jumper because the neck is really tight – putting it on gives me a headache and taking it off virtually removes both of my ears, plus, the colours really clash with each other – but I don’t think now is the time to be arguing about fashion. ‘Apparently, he was talking a lot today about the car factory that he used to work at, but that’s miles away from here. She’s wondering if he might have gone to visit Great-grandma – he’s done that before.’

I shudder. The cemetery at night is not my favourite destination – it’s bad enough when we have to take Granny and Grandpa there in the daytime, to leave flowers on Great-grandma’s grave once a year.

‘Right, girls, quick as you can. Get a coat each – it’s colder than it looks out there.’ Mum heads off down the stairs and we follow her.

We drive the short distance to Granny and Grandpa’s house. We’ve always lived near them and I’m kind of used to having them nearby and seeing them all the time. Apparently, they once had dreams of moving nearer to the sea, but that was years ago before Grandpa got poorly. They’ve lived in their house ever since they got married, and Mum was born there.

I don’t remember Grandpa before he was like this, but Alex says she does. She says she remembers him playing tennis with her and taking her out to the park, and she says it was Grandpa who started teaching her the piano. I’m not sure that I believe her. I think she just wants to sound like she knows him better than I do. And anyway she doesn’t even play the piano any more; she gave up when she was twelve because she said it was a stupid instrument and nobody cool ever played the piano. I play my violin for Grandpa all the time and he loves it. He sits and listens and sometimes he claps. He doesn’t always wait until I’ve finished before he starts clapping, but I think that’s just because he likes my music so much.

We pull up outside their house and Granny is standing on the doorstep, looking worried. Mum turns off the engine and calls to Granny as she opens the car door.

‘Any sign of him?’

Granny shakes her head and Mum rushes up the garden path and gives her a big hug.

‘I wanted to go and look for him, but I was scared that he might come back while I was out and then he wouldn’t know what to do,’ says Granny, sounding like she’s about to burst into tears.

‘I know, Mum, it’s OK,’ Mum tells her. ‘We’re here now. You sit tight and put the kettle on. You know how much he likes a hot cup of tea when he’s been off on an adventure!’

I’m quite surprised by how Mum is talking to Granny – it sounds like Granny is the child and Mum is the parent. But, instead of getting cross, Granny wipes her eyes and smiles gratefully at Mum.

‘Right, I’m going to get back in the car and drive out towards the car factory,’ Mum says to Alex and me. ‘I want you two to walk from here to the little shopping precinct. Phone me if you find him. And STICK TOGETHER!’ She aims the last bit at Alex who raises her eyebrows but nods.

‘Don’t worry, Mum,’ she says. ‘We’ll find him.’ Then she takes my hand and we walk back down the path. I turn at the gate and wave to Granny, who suddenly looks very small standing in the open doorway and looking out into the dark.

We turn right and start heading down the street. There’s no sign of Grandpa on this road, but when we turn the corner the houses get grander and the gardens in front of them are bigger and darker. Alex starts peering into each driveway that we pass and I copy her, calling ‘Grandpa’ every now again, as quietly as possible, but loud enough that he might hear me.

As we get further away from their house, Alex gets more and more on edge, letting go of my hand to check her phone every few seconds just in case Mum has phoned to say that she’s found him.

‘Come on, Grandpa – where are you?’ she mutters.

‘What are we going to do if we can’t find him?’ I ask her.

‘Don’t say that!’ Alex says, sounding cross with me.

I walk in silence for a minute and then she picks up my hand again and gives it a squeeze. ‘I’m sorry, Izzy, I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m just really worried about Grandpa.’

‘Why does he do this?’ I ask her. ‘I mean, I know he forgets stuff all the time, but I don’t get why he just wanders off.’

Alex thinks for a minute. ‘It’s part of the forgetting, I think. He suddenly decides he wants to do something and forgets that he’s seventy-four years old. He thinks he’s still a young man or a boy even.’

‘Do you mean he doesn’t know who he is?’ I ask her. ‘That’s horrible – imagine not knowing who you actually are.’

‘No, I think he knows who he is – he just sometimes gets a bit unsure about where he is in his life. So something that happened fifty years ago might seem like it only happened yesterday. Mum told me that it can make him confused and it can be a bit frightening.’

We walk further down the road and I think about what Alex has said.

‘Poor Grandpa,’ I say quietly and Alex holds my hand a bit tighter.

‘Yes, poor Grandpa,’ she repeats and I’m glad she’s here with me.

We cross the road and head towards the shopping precinct. There are no houses now, just an empty road. Ahead of us is a bus stop and, as we get nearer, I can see that there’s a figure sitting on the bench, hunched up against the wind.

‘Alex! Look!’ I whisper, pointing towards the bench. She follows my gaze and suddenly lets go of my hand and starts sprinting.

‘Grandpa!’ I hear her exclaim as she gets nearer and I run as fast as I can, getting to the bus stop just behind her.

Grandpa looks up, but doesn’t seem the least bit surprised to see us standing there.

‘Hello, girls!’ he says, smiling in his lovely, kind Grandpa way that makes me want to snuggle up to him on the bench. I sit down next to him and put my hand on his arm, wanting him to know I’m here.

‘I’ve been waiting for a bus for hours now, but there’s been nothing. I don’t know how I’m going to get home in time for my tea – Mother is going to be furious!’ He chuckles to himself and looks up at the bus timetable on the wall. ‘There should be a bus along any minute though – don’t you worry.’

I look at Alex for help, but she’s moved away slightly and is murmuring into her mobile phone. When she hangs up, she walks over to where we’re sitting.

‘Budge up then,’ she tells Grandpa, who chuckles a bit more and then moves across so that she can squeeze on to the bench beside him.

‘Look at me: a thorn between two roses,’ he laughs.

‘Grandpa, where were you going?’ I ask him. He turns to me and this time he does look surprised.

‘Home, of course! I’m going home! Mother will be waiting for me and I’m sure she said it was ham for tea tonight so this bus had better get a move on.’

‘Granny’s waiting for you, Grandpa,’ says Alex gently. ‘She’s worried about you – she wants you back at home with her.’

But we can both see that he doesn’t know what Alex is talking about. I start trying to explain, but Alex shakes her head at me and so we sit, the three of us, huddled together in the cold bus stop until Mum pulls up in the car and leaps out with cries of, ‘Oh, Dad!’

Then we help get Grandpa into the back seat and Mum drives us to Granny’s. And when we get there Mum gently helps him up the path and inside, and she settles him into his favourite armchair while Granny fusses round him, tucking a blanket over his legs and preparing a tray with tea and cake. And the whole time Grandpa doesn’t say a word. He smiles and nods, but he isn’t looking at anyone properly. It’s like his body is here with us, but his head is somewhere else – maybe sixty years ago when he was a boy going home to his mum and looking forward to some ham for his tea.

When it’s time to leave, Mum takes Granny into the kitchen for a hushed conversation. I give Grandpa a hug and, when I straighten up, Alex is there, right beside me. And I don’t need to say anything – she can see it in my eyes – and she puts her arms round me and holds me while I cry. And I know that, no matter how hard things get, Alex will always be there to make it better. She will always understand.

PUFFIN BOOKS

Contents

THE BEGINNING

Izzy

Mellow Yellow

Red Card

Rose-coloured Glasses