I wondered who was there with him. He hasn’t got any family. He’s never mentioned a girlfriend. Perhaps a colleague from work, I thought—perhaps Mr. Straitley, or even Scoones. I know they’re friends. I don’t know why. They don’t have a thing in common. Then the kitchen door opened, and two people came into the living room. One was Harry. The other was skinny, and curly-haired—

Oh, Mousey. It was Poodle.

For a moment I could hardly breathe. Poodle? What was he doing there? It wasn’t that I was jealous—not then—but simply astonished.

Poodle?

Poodle isn’t special, I thought. Poodle isn’t supposed to be here. And yet he was, in a V-necked sweater with a snowflake on the front, talking to Harry as if he had every right in the world. And then he turned toward the light from the starry Christmas tree, and there was a great big smile on his face, a smile I’d never seen before. It was like Harry had given him the best Christmas present of his life. And then he kissed him, Mousey. That little queer kissed Harry.

When I was still at Netherton Green, there was a book: The Pied Piper. It was the story of a man with a magical gift for making people follow him. After saving the town of Hamelin from rats, when the greedy Mayor wouldn’t pay him his wage, he started to play a tune on his pipes and all the children followed him. They followed him right out of the town, and into the side of a mountain, where they vanished forever—except for one little lame boy, who couldn’t keep up and was left behind. Well, that’s what I felt like, Mousey; like the one that was left behind. And though I was angry at Poodle—oh, angry enough to do anything—I also felt angry with Mr. Clarke, who had played me his music, and led me a dance, for whom I’d made such sacrifices—but who, in the end, had left me behind, because I wasn’t special enough.

I watched for another few minutes or so. I wasn’t going to knock at the door. I guess I thought Harry would push him away, maybe simply throw him out. But Harry didn’t do that. Instead he let Poodle hold him, but keeping his own arms by his sides, and then, very gently, he stepped away, and poured them both a cup of tea from the brown pot by the fire.

Mousey, I didn’t know what to do. Wasn’t Poodle meant to be ill? Had he been avoiding me? And what had he said to Harry? Had he mentioned the rabbits? The rats? The games down at the clay pits?