I interrupt her. ‘Mum, please get off the plane.’

‘I can’t. It’s moving. I’ve already sorted it out with work. Just take Elsa back to Grandad’s and ask him to look after her. You go too. I’ll be back in two weeks, that’s all.’

With rising panic, I try to imagine us going to live at Grandad’s. He’s got experiments going in every room, hamsters, chickens, junk piled up in every corner … ‘We can’t go to Grandad’s,’ I say. ‘There’s no room for us.’

But it’s like I haven’t spoken. ‘Meg, promise me something. Except for Grandad, don’t tell anyone that I’ve gone. Elsa will be fine, but the nursery might not like it. They could tell social services or something.’

‘No, Mum, wait …’ I try to find the words that will make her change her mind. ‘Grandad can’t look after Elsa. He can hardly look after himself and I’ve got so much schoolwork to do –’

‘You worry too much, Meg. Just take some stuff to Grandad’s and hang out round there. He’ll understand why I’ve gone.’ There’s this little hint of criticism in her voice, as if I’m selfish to even say these things to her. ‘Tell him I’ll be in touch, but that I probably won’t be able to ring because we’re going to a remote area. Oh … I’ve got to give Sara her phone back. We’re taking off. I love you, Meg. Thank you for doing this, wonderful girl!’

After she’s blown me a series of kisses, the line goes dead.

I take a deep breath, then another, the phone still pushed against my ear. Did Mum really just ring me from a plane? Did she actually say Myanmar? My heart pounds as Elsa’s screams drill into my head. Maybe I could ring the airport and get them to stop the plane? I desperately want to speak to Mum and explain why she can’t go, that it’s nothing to do with being selfish, just that we need her here. I start to dial directory enquires, but then I let the phone fall in my lap. Mum said the plane was taking off. By the time I get through, they won’t be able to do anything – the plane will be in the air … And even if it isn’t, they’d never stop a plane just because some girl’s rung up. I’m being illogical. I’m not thinking straight.

Now Elsa’s started coughing as well as screaming. All I want to do is go into my room, curl up on my bed and pretend this isn’t happening. But I can’t do that. Pongo whines and pushes his nose against my hand. ‘I know … I can hear her.’ I get up, walk down the corridor and open Mum’s bedroom door.

Elsa’s standing up in her cot, arms stretched out, her face red and slippery with tears. Pongo trots over and sticks his nose through the bars, but this just makes her cry even louder. I go and pick her up and after a moment of resistance, she flops against me, all hot and heavy. She doesn’t stop crying, but she does say, ‘Mamama’, in between sobs.