She stretched and yawned. ‘I’m so sorry! I’m exhausted. It must be time for bed.’

Imelda got up from the table and the sound of her chair scraping across the floor woke Mabel, who stirred sleepily in her bed.

‘Come on, young lady. Time for a final trot around the garden.’

Imelda and Billie stood just outside the back door watching Mabel search for a suitable spot to have a wee.

‘Your caravan is so beautiful. Will you show me inside sometime before I go home?’

Imelda put her arm through Billie’s. ‘Of course. It’s called a vardo. It was my mother’s. She refused to let it go when she gave up her travelling life to marry Papa and insisted that it be kept in their garden. She used to sleep in it sometimes. And then one year she gave it to me as a birthday present.’

‘It looks like something out of a fairy tale. Do you ever sleep in it?’

Imelda smiled. ‘Sometimes. But not tonight.’

Chapter 27

Chapter 27

1973

Treasure sat on a bench at the edge of the playground scoring lines through a single sentence amongst the prolific graffiti that had been scratched onto the wooden slats by countless childish vandals. He knew most of it by heart because this is where he had spent every lunchtime since the white paint episode. He imagined the bench as his life raft in shark-infested waters. It wasn’t much protection, but it was all he had, and today was the last day of term. He had managed to survive. The words he was trying to obliterate were a recent addition and revealed the light grain of the wood beneath the varnish.

‘Treasure is a . . . The final word was now illegible on the bench but still rang in his ears.’