Willy put his good arm around her shoulders. ‘Then, May, we are kindred spirits. And now we should walk back, so that Alicky can deliver my letter to Ella.’

As they rose to their feet, Alicky said, ‘What is a “kindred spirit”, Cousin Willy?’

‘A kindred spirit is someone with whom you share an experience that no one else shares with you, or truly understands and feels about as you do.’

‘Then I’m a kindred spirit, too.’

‘And why is that?’

‘Because even though Ella, Irène, Vicky and Ernie miss Mama dreadfully, they don’t feel about her dying the way I do. That’s because I sometimes see her, and even though I was a baby when my little brother Frittie died, I sometimes used to see him, too. When I said so, everyone apart from Mama said I was weird.’

From the expression on Willy’s face, May could see that Willie also thought seeing dead people was weird.

‘And that is why I’m not like anyone else in the family,’ Alicky continued, ‘and if I’m not, then I’m a kindred spirit with you and Cousin May.’

Afraid that Willy was about to disillusion Alicky, May said swiftly, ‘Of course you are.’

‘Then if the three of us are kindred spirits, we should make a pact so that we never ever forget it.’

Willy, who loved anything theatrical, said, ‘And how would we do that, little Alicky?’

‘I’ll show you, if you let me hold the medal you are wearing.’

Intrigued, Willy obligingly unpinned a beribboned gilt eagle from his jacket and handed it to her.

With her pale face set in concentration, Alicky drew the medal’s brooch-pin so hard against the side of her wrist that drops of blood appeared.

Then she handed the medal to a horrified May.

‘Now you have to do the same, May, and so does Cousin Willy. Then we rub our wrists together to make the blood mix, and that makes a solemn pact of kindred-spiritness that can never be broken, not ever.’

‘No, Alicky. Absolutely not.’ Filled with revulsion, May tried to hand the medal back to her and, when Alicky refused to take it, she turned to Willy for help.

Instead of backing her up and telling Alicky she was behaving very badly, he was staring at the blood in riveted fascination.

‘I think,’ he said slowly, ‘I think a blood-pact is a very good idea, but as I am one-handed I will need help.’ Taking the medal from Alicky, he handed it to May. ‘If you please, May.’

He was eight years older than her and an adult. Wanting to refuse and yet not seeing how she could, without destroying the closeness that had been forged between the three of them, May unhappily – and feeling a little sick − drew the medal’s pin across the side of his wrist.

‘And now you, May,’ Alicky said. ‘You have to do it as well.’