Imelda had almost forgotten about the girl she had cursed at school until her father had brought it up last night. But once disturbed, the memories came flooding back, surprisingly sharp in detail. The curse itself hadn’t been real – just some made-up gibberish garnished with the only swear words that her eight-year-old self knew, although Imelda had been pretty pleased with it at the time. But the hurt and anger that had triggered her reaction had been genuine enough. Once her classmates had discovered Shunty-Mae’s profession, the name-calling had become a popular pastime that had tailed her relentlessly in the playground. The chants of ‘pikey’ and ‘gyppo’ had become a daily occurrence, rarely challenged by any teacher and actively encouraged by a small minority of ignorant parents. Imelda had never admitted the full extent of the bullying she had encountered. Even as a small child she had been confident but self-contained. The approval or even acceptance of her peers was something she had neither sought nor required. But she was fiercely protective of her parents, and the pain she felt on her mother’s behalf had been fierce and raw. She knew that Shunty-Mae was different somehow, but in her eyes that made her special. Imelda hadn’t revealed, then or since, that on the day of the curse and the maggot, her classmate had directed her insult not at Imelda but at Shunty-Mae, calling her a gyppo bitch. The following morning, her mother had taken her to school. Even now, Imelda couldn’t really explain or understand exactly what had happened next. In the middle of the crowded playground, hand in hand with Imelda, Shunty-Mae had stopped. Her silence and stillness were unnerving and had gradually crept outwards like a freezing force field from her icy epicentre until everyone else was motionless and staring open-mouthed at them. Not one word was spoken, but back then Imelda had believed that her mother had truly cursed them as she stood strong and defiant, daring anyone to challenge or insult her. That night, her mother had given her a pack of tarot cards – her first – and began teaching her to read them. Imelda still had them, tattered and torn but treasured, nonetheless. She had taken them to school with her every day after that. They became her playmates and her protection.

Grisha rolled over onto his back and into the middle of the bed, his long front legs flopped over at the knees, and wriggled, almost nudging Imelda onto the floor. Of course, there was one more birthday memory that Imelda hadn’t yet replayed. That kiss. But she wasn’t going to think about that yet. She was going to keep it until later in the day for a treat, like saving the favourite chocolate in the box until last. She felt hot just thinking about thinking about it!

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