Katy

  I looked at the cream fluff’s owner now. Yes, she looked rich. She had that lovely pink-and-white skin and beautiful long fair hair in two pigtails with green-and-gold striped ribbons. They looked freshly plaited, though it was late afternoon.

  I was suddenly conscious of my own wild hair, half-scraped back with an old elastic band, my fringe falling in my eyes. I looked down at my faded school dress, now far too short on me, showing much too much long leg. I saw my own scabby knees and grubby socks and scuffed shoes.

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said. ‘We’re like a silly video or something. Of owners that look just like their dogs. Tyler and I are all noisy and scruffy and untidy, and you and your little puppy look dead posh and immaculate.’

  ‘Katy!’ Clover hissed, puffing up beside us.

  ‘Well, they do,’ I said. ‘What kind of a puppy is that?’

  ‘She’s a little bichon frise.’ She pulled a face. ‘Silly name, isn’t it?’

  ‘What’s she called?’

  ‘Coco. What about your dog?’

  ‘He’s Tyler. He’s a rescue dog. We’re not sure what breed he is – some sort of terrier anyway. Tyler! Stop being such a pest. Coco doesn’t want to play with you,’ I said.

  ‘She’s a hopeless wuss but I love her to bits,’ said the girl. ‘I’m Imogen, by the way.’

  ‘I’m Katy.’

  ‘And I’m Clover, Katy’s sister,’ said Clover.

  ‘Whereabouts do you live? We’ve just lived here a couple of months, in Jessop Avenue. Do you know it?’ said Imogen.

  We knew it all right. Jessop Avenue was one of our favourite walks. All the houses were like palaces: huge Victorian villas with turrets and towers. Some had been turned into flats and several were grand nursing homes, but many were still proper family houses. Clover and I often spent ages deciding which house we liked best so we could buy it when we were grown up and rich and famous. One of our special favourites had been up for sale recently, a beautiful pink house with white shutters, and matching pink and white hydrangeas in the garden.

  ‘You don’t live in the pink house, do you?’ I asked eagerly.

  ‘Yes! How on earth did you know?’ said Imogen.

  ‘Oh, just a guess. It’s a lovely house,’ I said.

  ‘Do you or your brothers or sisters have the round bit on top for your bedroom?’ Clover asked.

  ‘I have it. I haven’t got any brothers or sisters, worse luck,’ said Imogen.

  ‘So there’s just three of you in that huge great house?’ I asked, amazed.

  ‘Katy!’ Clover hissed again.

  ‘It’s OK. Yep, just the three of us. And Rosa, she’s the housekeeper.’

  Clover and I exchanged glances. A housekeeper!

  ‘Well, there’s eight of us, without any housekeeper,’ I said.

  ‘Eight! Goodness!’ said Imogen.

  ‘It’s a bit complicated. There’s Dad and Izzie, she’s our stepmother. Our mum died when we were little. Then there’s Elsie, our stepsister. And Dorry and Jonnie and Phil, they’re halves. And Tyler.’

  ‘And Sally, our cat,’ said Clover.

  ‘You sound like a storybook family,’ said Imogen.

  ‘No, you’re like a storybook girl,’ I said.

  ‘How old are you, Katy? Thirteen? Fourteen?’

  ‘Eleven. I just seem older because I’m so tall,’ I said, pulling a face.

  ‘I’m eleven too!’

  ‘And I’m ten,’ said Clover.

  ‘Do you have a doctor here yet?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, though I’m not ill,’ said Imogen, looking puzzled. ‘I just had to go to Dr Carr to get some Ventolin as I have asthma sometimes.’

  ‘Dr Carr!’ Clover and I chorused.

  ‘Yes. Is he your doctor too? He’s ever so nice,’ said Imogen.

  We burst out laughing.

  ‘He’s our dad!’ I said. ‘And he is ever so nice. What does your dad do, Imogen?’

  ‘Oh, he’s in the music business. It’s a bit of a laugh … Ages ago he was in this boy band – Lightning Flash?’

  Clover and I looked suitably impressed, though we didn’t know much about boy bands and didn’t know if Lightning Flash were really famous or not. It didn’t really matter. Imogen’s dad still sounded impossibly cool and glamorous.

  ‘What about your mum?’

  ‘Oh, she used to be a model. She’s an actress now.’

  ‘Oh wow! You’ve got amazing parents,’ I said.

  ‘Is your mum in a play now?’ asked Clover.

  ‘No, she doesn’t work in the theatre. She’s in television, mostly. She had a part in Shopping Mall for a while.’

  We’d never heard of that either but we raised our eyebrows and nodded.

  ‘Does your stepmum work – or is she too busy looking after all of you?’ Imogen asked.

  ‘She makes these fancy handbags out of suede and leather. They’re very pretty, with little flowers,’ said Clover.

  ‘No, they’re not,’ I said. ‘And they’re not much use anyway. You can’t fit enough stuff into them.’

  Long ago Izzie had made Clover and me special school bags. Clover still had hers, but mine tore after only a few weeks. Izzie mended it, but it ripped all over again, just because I took out six books from the library and stuffed them in my bag, along with my history project and a large biscuit tin full of pennies because I was collecting for Battersea Dogs & Cats Home.

  ‘She made Tyler a bed too,’ said Clover.

  ‘Yes, and he doesn’t think much of it. He’s already chewed half of it to bits, haven’t you, little boy?’ I said. I picked him up and held him close to Coco. ‘Now, say hello properly, gently, very gently.’

  Tyler squirmed and Coco shrank from him, but they gave each other a little sniff. When we tried putting them on the grass Tyler kept his leaping-about in check and Coco had a little delicate sniff at him.

  ‘There! They’re friends!’ I cried.

  ‘I’m so pleased. Coco’s usually hopeless with other dogs. Yes, they really are friends,’ said Imogen, as the two puppies ran round in circles together.

  ‘You must bring her round to our house so they can have a proper play date,’ I said. ‘Come round Saturday morning. We’re 38 Roxburgh Road – it’s just down the way. You will come, won’t you?’

  ‘We’d both love to,’ said Imogen.

  ‘But we always go to the secret garden with Cecy on Saturdays,’ Clover said to me on the way home.

  ‘Yes, but not till after she’s finished her boring old dancing. Imogen can come round before. And if she stays we can always swear her to secrecy and take her to the secret garden too,’ I said.

  ‘Yes …’ said Clover, but she sounded worried. ‘What will Izzie say? You know she always goes on about you asking her first before inviting anyone round.’

  That was after a huge row because I’d invited this poor homeless guy round for a cup of tea and a sandwich because he looked so cold and hungry. And it was all Izzie’s fault that she’d left her purse practically sticking out of her bag.

  ‘Izzie won’t mind if it’s just another girl I’ve asked,’ I said. ‘And anyway, it’s not Izzie’s house, it’s Dad’s, and I’m sure he won’t mind. Look, we won’t say anything, just to be on the safe side. Izzie can’t turn Imogen away once she’s there on the doorstep.’

  ‘I think we’d better ask all the same,’ said Clover.

  ‘You ask, then. You’ll do it better than me,’ I said.

  So at supper Clover smiled sweetly at Izzie, told her the shepherd’s pie was extra yummy, and then added casually, ‘Oh Izzie, Katy and I met such a lovely girl at the park when we were walking Tyler. She’s new to the neighbourhood and I don’t think she’s got many friends yet. Could she possibly come round to ours one Saturday? Well, this Saturday?’

  Strangely, Izzie wasn’t fooled. She glared at me.

  ‘Katy! I’ve told you not to go round asking complete strangers to our house! And if you do it, have the grace to admit to it
yourself. Don’t try to let your sister take the blame,’ she said reprovingly.

  ‘Look, she’s Clover’s friend too. And she’s lovely, isn’t she, Clover?’

  ‘Yes, she’s friends with both of us, honestly,’ said Clover, ever loyal.

  ‘Well, she can’t come round, whether she’s friends with both of you or not. I’ve seen the sorts of girls who hang round that park,’ said Izzie.

  ‘We hang round the park,’ I said.

  ‘Well, I wish you wouldn’t. I wouldn’t let you if it were down to me. You’re far too young to be out on your own,’ said Izzie. She glanced at Dad, who was tucking into his own shepherd’s pie and feeding Phil his, pretending his spoon was a helicopter flying into Philly’s mouth. Phil was still wearing his bandage with pride and insisting he was badly wounded.

  ‘Don’t worry, darling. The girls are fine as long as they stick together – and the park’s only just down the road,’ Dad said mildly.

  I can’t stand the way he calls Izzie darling. I can’t ever remember him calling Mum that.

  Izzie droned on and on about girls at the park, girls who were just there because of the boys, girls who started smoking and drinking cider by the time they were twelve …

  ‘Well, Imogen would look a bit weird smoking and drinking in her St Winifred’s uniform, but I’m sure you’re right, as always, Izzie,’ I said sarcastically.

  Izzie stared at me. ‘This girl goes to St Winifred’s?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Are you sure? Did she say so?’

  ‘She was wearing the fancy hat and the blazer, so she didn’t really need to, did she?’ I said.

  ‘Less of the attitude, Katy,’ said Dad, making the helicopter hover above Phil’s head.

  ‘Well, why didn’t you say so, you silly girls. Yes, of course you can invite her round, if she’s a St Winifred’s girl. But what was she doing in that funny little park? It’s nowhere near her school,’ Izzie said.

  ‘She was walking her dog, just like us. She’s adorable, so cute and blonde –’

  ‘Imogen or her dog?’ asked Dad, landing the helicopter in Phil’s laughing mouth.

  ‘Both, actually. So it’s really OK? She can come? I said Saturday morning sometime,’ I said.

  ‘Oh Lord, then she might be expecting to stay for lunch, when you usually have your picnic. Perhaps I could do some sort of cold chicken dish, with different fancy salads?’ Izzie said, obviously mentally consulting her Ottolenghi recipe book.

  ‘No, we’ll have just the usual picnic, please. And we’ll eat it, er … at the end of the garden,’ I said.

  Dad and Izzie didn’t know we always squeezed through to Mrs Burton’s secret garden next door, and I certainly wasn’t going to tell them now. It wasn’t as if I was telling any fibs. I’d said garden, I just hadn’t specified whose garden.

  ‘Katy, if she’s a St Winifred’s girl she’ll be used to all sorts of gourmet food, not kid’s sandwiches,’ said Izzie.

  ‘If so, I think she’ll find a picnic a glorious change,’ said Dad. ‘I can’t wait to meet her. You always pick such distinctive friends.’

  ‘Are you laughing at me, Dad?’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ said Dad, smiling.

  So it was all wonderfully fixed. I hadn’t told Imogen what time to come on Saturday. I wondered if she might come early. We all usually had a bit of a lie-in on Saturdays. Well, the littlies always got up at the crack of dawn, but then they generally pottered around by themselves. I don’t know what Elsie did. Maybe she played one of her silly, girly dolly games by herself. Clover and I dozed or sleepily chatted, telling each other about our dreams or making wishes.

  But this Saturday I jumped out of bed early and grabbed Dad and Izzie’s bathroom while it was empty. (Our children’s bathroom is always a mess of damp towels and toy ducks and abandoned pyjamas.) Imogen was so pink and white and polished, and her hair was pristine, so I thought I’d better try to make an effort to tidy myself up a bit. I had a quick bath and then washed my hair.

  I hated it being such a boring mouse colour. I peered at Izzie’s expensive collection of hair products. She didn’t have any actual hair dye because she kept proudly proclaiming she was a natural blonde (though she always came back from her trips to the hairdresser’s looking suspiciously blonder). She had some special conditioning stuff though, so I ladled that on, rubbing it in furiously. I hoped it might suddenly lengthen and thicken my hair before my very eyes.

  It didn’t. It didn’t make my hair lighter either. In fact, it was considerably darker, and stuck together in clumps very unattractively. I hoped it might look better when it was dry.

  Then I went to get dressed. I stood peering in our wardrobe for a long time. Clover’s stuff wasn’t too bad, but of course wouldn’t fit me. My things were mostly shoved at the back and were all creased. Some had even fallen off their hangers and were in sad little heaps among our shoes. Most of my jeans were ripped or needed a good wash or only reached down to my ankles. My T-shirts weren’t much better. I was pretty sure Imogen would arrive looking immaculate.

  I decided I’d better put on the garment Izzie called my ‘halfway-decent’ dress. I wore it when meeting old family friends (always an ordeal because they’d declare, ‘Good Lord, Katy! You’ve grown even taller!’) or going to posh parties (given by the dreaded Eva Jenkins, and she only asked me because she’d asked every single member of our class). I would doubtless wear it to the terrifying school leavers’ disco looming horribly large in the near future.

  It was a blue dress, already way above my knees, and sleeveless, exposing all my long thin arms. I looked like a daddy longlegs in it, but at least it was a proper grown-up dress from Topshop. If I screwed my eyes up tight when I stared in the mirror I thought I didn’t look too bad.

  Clover leaned up on one elbow in her bed.

  ‘I think you look great, Katy,’ she said. ‘Well, if you’re wearing your best dress then I’ll wear mine.’ Clover’s dress was navy with pink butterflies. It was just a little-girly dress, with puff sleeves and a very full skirt, but she did look lovely in it. We swished our way downstairs, trying to do that rolling, mincing walk that fashion models affect.

  Elsie and Dorry and Jonnie and Phil were all in the kitchen, taking a handful of Rice Krispies in turn. Dorry seemed to be having twice as many turns as anyone else.

  ‘You’re wearing your best dresses! That’s not fair! Well, I’m going to wear mine!’ Elsie exclaimed.

  ‘I don’t have to wear my yucky best dress, do I?’ said Jonnie.

  ‘I’m wearing mine with the frills,’ said Dorry in a silly voice.

  He made Phil snort with laughter just as he was taking a large gulp of milk. This meant he snorted milk too, and then it spouted out of his nose in the most disgusting manner.

  ‘Oh wow, how do you do that? It looks wicked!’ said Jonnie admiringly.

  ‘Don’t you dare try!’ I said, though it had once been one of my favourite party tricks.

  ‘Mum, Mum! Can I wear my best dress?’ Elsie yelled up the stairs.

  ‘What? No, of course you can’t,’ said Izzie, emerging from the bathroom upstairs.

  She came down into the kitchen, tying her kimono tightly round her waist.

  ‘Who’s been in my bathroom this morning? You still can’t see for steam and there are soapsuds all over the bath. And goodness me, what have you two girls got on? Your best dresses! Take them off at once, you’ll get them spoilt!’

  ‘Mum, I’m wearing my rainbow dress if Katy and Clover are wearing their party dresses!’ said Elsie, tugging at Izzie.

  ‘We’re wearing our best dresses because Imogen is coming over. You surely don’t want us to look all scruffy when she’s so rich and she’s got famous parents and she goes to St Winifred’s,’ I said indignantly.

  ‘What’s all this?’ said Dad, joining us in the kitchen. He reeled back, pretending to be dazzled by Clover and me. ‘Who are these two beautiful strange girls decorating my kit
chen? My, what visions of beauty!’

  ‘You can’t eat breakfast in those dresses. You’re bound to spill it all down yourselves,’ said Izzie.

  ‘We’re not babies!’ I said.

  ‘And we never spill!’ said Clover.

  She wasn’t being quite accurate. She never spills. I don’t know why, but I seem to slurp stuff all down my front on a regular basis. Perhaps it’s because I chatter and gesture a little wildly all the time I’m eating.

  ‘We just want to look good for Imogen! I can’t believe this! You nag, whine, moan until blue smoke comes out of your ears because I’m so untidy and don’t give a stuff about my clothes and yet as soon as I make a big effort you start telling me off,’ I said furiously to Izzie.

  ‘It’s ridiculous wearing that dress when you’ll be playing in the garden with a friend,’ said Izzie. ‘You’ll rip it to ribbons in no time. You can wear clean shorts and one of your better T-shirts. And it doesn’t look as if you’ve made much of an effort. You might have been in my bathroom for hours but it obviously didn’t occur to you to wash your hair. Just look at it, all greasy clumps!’

  ‘I did so wash it! And I put conditioner on it to make it look shiny!’ I wailed. ‘Why do you always have to be so horrible to me?’

  ‘Hey, hey. Calm down, Katy,’ said Dad, pulling me close. ‘I think perhaps you’ve put a little too much conditioner on that noddle of yours. Better wash it off, sweetie.’

  ‘That’ll be my Molton Brown conditioner!’ said Izzie. ‘Of course you’re meant to rinse it off! And you’re only supposed to rub in a tiny amount. It looks as if you’ve used a whole bottle.’

  ‘Of course I haven’t,’ I said – though I had sploshed it on, handful after handful.

  ‘Well, go and wash it off at once. Not while you’re wearing your best dress. Then put your shorts and T-shirt on. You too, Clover,’ said Izzie.

  ‘Can I still wear my party frock, Mum? I haven’t done anything wrong and I’ll be ever so careful,’ said Elsie. ‘I want to look nice for Imogen too.’