‘That’s enough, Dorcas,’ said Dad. ‘Don’t speak to your brother like that.’ And Caleb turned so Dad couldn’t see him and poked out his tongue at me.

‘Dad, Caleb just poked out his tongue,’ I said. Caleb could just be so dumb sometimes I lost my patience. Besides, he was taking Dad’s attention away from Ruthy, and I was now on her side. If Dad agreed to her going to writing school at the university, then it was possible making a hutch for Sixpence was in the frame too, so her win might be my triumph. Dad was always pretty fair, and if he did something for one of us, he tried to balance it out with the others. It seemed to me making a guinea-pig hutch was a good equivalent for taking Ruthy on a bus every day for two weeks. I felt a bit of hope jump around in my heart.

Dad just looked at me. ‘How old are you, Dorcas?’ That was a thing he said when what he really meant was: ‘You are supposed to be a grown-up girl and a model to your siblings so act like it’. Given I had promised to be good until Christmas, it wasn’t in my favour to give Dad too many opportunities to ask me this. I backed away and sat next to Dad’s chair, waiting to see how Ruthy’s request played out. I sat up very straight and stayed quiet.

‘But, Dad,’ she said, her little pale oval face crumpling in a sad pouty expression. This often worked with Dad when it came to Ruthy. She had a pretty face with a tiny girly rosebud mouth, and soft pale white hair like a halo around her head. People were always stopping Mum in the street to tickle Ruthy under the chin and to remark on what a dear little angel she was. Given we had strict views on angels at our church, and they didn’t include looking like ten-year-old girls from Rostrevor Primary School, this sometimes made Mum pause for a moment to decide if this was a good time to spread the good news of the word of God, but usually she just gave in and thanked them and agreed Ruthy was as cute as a button. This pouty look at Dad would often make him all soft-hearted and sometimes she would get her way.

I had tried this a few times, but Ruthy said I looked like an angry Hush Puppy dog, and it didn’t really work for me. Besides, somehow Ruthy could look all forlorn and sad and still keep her eyes wide open and big as plates, whereas if I tried to look sad my eyes shut into squinty slits you could hardly see. If Mum saw it, she would tell me to stop it at once or I’d have deep wrinkles on my face before my years. I was not that worried about deep wrinkles, but Mum, being a hairdresser and therefore meant to always look fine, seemed sure it would stop me from having a husband. Telling her I didn’t think a Knight of the Round Table would care, particularly as I planned to go with him on expeditions in a suit of armour, and you could really only see eyes out of armour if you’re lucky, didn’t make much difference to her position.