I had enough friends to pair off with in class or at games if I needed to – Marjorie Mantel and Celia Oakley were always available. Now I actually came to think about it I wasn’t sure who Olivia’s friends were. She seemed to keep people at a distance. But I was sure she had much bigger fish to fry than me. Shame one of them hadn’t been landed with the job of looking after her. I hoped her mother would be quick. No doubt she would be utterly ravishing and think to herself what an ugly lump I was while being sweetly polite to me.

I flung open the door of the little cell-like room so violently that the brass handle banged hard into the wall behind it. Olivia was sitting on one of the two upright chairs, feet in white ankle socks and black shoes, not touching the floor. On her lap was a white enamel bowl. Her eyes widened as I crashed into the room. She looked very small alone there in the murky light. I could see her eyes were full and her cheeks wet.

‘Oh, it’s you.’ Quickly she rubbed the backs of her hands across her eyes as I shut the door behind me. ‘I do feel rotten.’

I stood opposite her, hands on hips. ‘Miss Pardoe says I’ve got to look after you.’

Olivia looked up at me doubtfully. ‘You look very cross,’ she said. ‘Actually, you very often look cross.’

Did I? I wondered, intrigued by this observation. Against my will I felt sorry for her. ‘I’m not cross. I say, you do look awfully seedy. D’you still feel sick?’ It would be rather interesting to see Councillor Kemp’s daughter being sick in a bowl.

‘Not at the moment.’

We eyed each other warily. I sat down on the other chair, opposite her.

‘I suppose they’ve sent for my mother?’ Olivia looked across at me. She had tears in her eyes again.

‘I expect so,’ I replied gruffly. ‘Doesn’t she like you being ill? My mother says we make enough mess when we’re well.’

In fact I said this mostly to cheer her up, our times of illness being those when Mummy seemed to find us most tolerable.

Olivia giggled suddenly, a rippling, infectious sound, and surprisingly loud. ‘D’you like your parents?’ she asked.

I thought about it. My parents felt like shadows who hovered round the edges of my life. My father was forever working. ‘No, not all that much,’ I said.

Olivia looked perturbed for a second at my response, then she gave a strange smile, her teeth almost bared. ‘My parents are absolutely marvellous.’ Her expression changed to one of curiosity. ‘D’you always say what you think?’

‘Mostly.’ No one else at home did, so I felt I might as well.

Olivia considered this. ‘You can probably get away with it because you’re rather plain. If you’re pretty, everyone seems to expect such a lot of you.’

‘Thanks very much.’