The crying stopped abruptly. The little girl said nothing, but I could hear her ragged breathing.

‘Clarabelle? Are you OK? It’s Mirabelle. I live here with Mother …’

There was no response, only a loud sniff.

‘Clarabelle? Please speak to me,’ I pleaded.

Silence. Another sniff.

‘Please?’ I said.

A few more sniffs.

I turned to go.

‘My name’s not Clarabelle,’ she whispered. Then she started crying again.

A shiver criss-crossed my shoulder blades.

‘What do you mean?’ I said.

But the little girl would not answer. I repeated the question again and again to no avail.

Feeling strange, I said, ‘I’ll be your friend. You can trust me.’ I looked at the doorknob, thought about trying the door. If Mother caught me I’d be in so much trouble. She’d probably lock me in my bedroom for a day. Maybe longer.

‘I’ll be back soon,’ I promised, hoping another opportunity would come.

Mother was in the kitchen boiling eggs. The bubbly water made a hiccuppy, full sound. I stared at Mother’s back. She was humming to herself, her head bobbing along to her tune. It was a lively melody I’d not heard her hum before. She was already dressed in her blue bell-bottoms and orange and brown flower blouse. Her legs sprouted down from the blouse like spindly stems.

Sometimes I felt very glad she could not hear my thoughts.

I watched her for a moment longer, feeling like Harriet the Spy, noticing how light and springy she seemed. She seemed happy. Excited almost.

‘Good morning, Mother,’ I said.

She whirled around, her eyes widening with surprise. ‘Gosh, you scared me!’

‘Sorry.’

‘Let me just finish these eggs then I’ll get my purse. We can’t have you looking like something the cat’s dragged in, can we, Doll?’

I shook my head, noticing with a stab how she had not called me little doll.

We ate our eggs, buttered soldiers and salt in silence. I wanted to talk but sensed Mother would not take kindly to it, so I concentrated on my yummy yolk-dipped soldier and thought about how it wasn’t very respectful to call a piece of toast a soldier.

I was about to eat my last mouthful when Mother’s eyes focused on mine.

‘You look awful, Mirabelle.’

I looked down at my plate to hide my expression.

‘You look twice your age,’ she added scornfully.

I gulped back the lump in my throat. ‘I’m sorry, Mother.’

She tutted, finished the last of her toast and took my plate away before I could finish my last few bites.

‘Go to the dining room. I’ll be in in a minute.’

Trying not to cry, I left the room and hovered in the hallway. I was used to Mother’s comments about my appearance, but they seemed worse than usual today. Almost like she’d enjoyed saying those things and seeing my reaction.