“I’ve got to go home to practise my cello … but if you want you can come and listen to me.”

I almost said that I was a musician too, but I held back. I was curious to see her cello. Dad would be worried. Then I’d be worried about him being worried, and it was a pain when we were both worrying about each other. But I followed Marie anyway. We walked through the big garden on a gravel path that weaved between a great many trees of all different varieties. At one point she whispered to me, “By the way, thank you for putting the loo paper back in the girls’ toilets.”

I thought it all over later that evening. I had a splitting headache and Dad didn’t think I looked too good. I just about had the energy to take my temperature and head off to bed. When Dad asked what had got me into such a state I simply replied, “I was given too much to digest in one go.”

Since this didn’t mean much to him, I added, “I got the best mark in the class.”

He knew that anyway, because he’d bumped into Lucky Luke out training on his bike and they’d discussed my case together, agreeing that all was not lost.

In any event, he seemed to find it odd that I was torturing myself about a good mark; but there were things he needed to do with the Panhard, so he stomped off, saying that I was never satisfied and that complicating everything wouldn’t bring me happiness. But then I hadn’t given him the full story.

I thought again about the time I’d spent at Marie’s house. I’d got lumbered with an hour and a half of cello with Vivaldi, Bach and a composer called Marin something, who I’d never heard of.

At last she’d put down her bow and asked, “Do you like music too?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Classical or baroque?”

“Baraque? What’s baraque?”

“Baroque. Not baraque.”

I blushed bright red because of my old enemy, ignorance. I didn’t know the difference, but baroque meant absolutely nothing to me and I even wondered whether it was some kind of a trap. Classical seemed to me to be more … classical.

“Classical. Because the other one, well…”

“Who’s your favourite composer?”

My brain started whizzing. It wasn’t the moment to try and be clever. I don’t know why, but I thought about the food we used to give to my rabbit that died last year. It was called “Mozart Mix”.

“Mozart. My favourite’s Mozart.”

I smiled broadly with relief. I could look him up later.

“Any particular piece?”

“Oh … pretty much all of them. I’m a big fan.”

She went back to rubbing her bow with some weird stuff that looked like wax.

“What’s that?” I asked, trying to show some interest.