“When have I ever done that? I don’t even know how to gallivant, let alone like a . . . and what is a bumberskite?”

Ruby had really got into it now. She went on.

“Yes, he, that’s Cain, isn’t interested in a bumberskite like you. . . . Cain’s not interested in you because you’re like a sort of bum in a skirt.”

“Thank you, Ruby.”

“And, secondly, because you threw yourself at him.”

I started going red. This was so awful.

“Threw myself at him? Threw myself at him!!!”

I was getting redder than red. This was a nightmare come true. Then Mr. Barraclough shouted from The Blind Pig doorway. “Ay up, Ruby, it’s nearly dinnertime. Stop prattling with that big lad—next thing you know you’ll be wearing his clown shoes.”

Ruby started pulling on Matilda’s lead. “I’d better go before he sees his socks that Matilda ate.” Ruby and Matilda tore off towards The Blind Pig.

I looked at the note. I suppose it’s like a threatening letter. I’ve never had one of those before.

What does Beverley know?

She can’t know about the thing that even I have forgotten about.

Can she?

Anyway, I’m not going to be blackmailed by the Bottomlys.

I’ve got my own little gang. The Tree Sisters. Wait till I tell them about the note.

Except that I can’t tell them about the note because then I would have to tell them about the thing that I can’t remember.

And that even if I could remember I wouldn’t mention it to myself. I’ll keep the letter from Beverley as evidence, in case of an unexpected pie attack by the Bottomlys.

To cheer myself up after the horrid letter, I thought I’d get my Darkly Demanding Damson Diary from its secret hiding place and look at my ideas and notes from last term.

I calmed down a bit as I looked over all the notes I had made. Here are my poems and short stories. Ooooh, I’d forgotten about writing “The Daughter of Fang.”

And here are some sketches for my dance tribute to Withering Tights.

Oh, tee-hee, here’s a sketch of Dr. Lightowler. . . .

In the name of Baby Jesus’s nostrils, she has got ENORMOUS glasses on. Perched on the end of her beak. I don’t know why she’s taken against me so much. Ho hummity hum.

I’ll put the threatening letter in my secret hiding place right at the back.

Oooh—here’s the James Bond book that Dad gave me. He said, “Best you learn the real facts of life,” and I read it, and I reenacted a corker-holding scene1 and Cain saw me through my window and . . . but I won’t think about that.

Talking of corkers, Cousin Georgia said she could certainly see signs of life in my T-shirt when I ran for the bus. And in fact, as a celebration, she bought me a special packet of crisps that are actually called “Corkers.” It said on the packet, “Hand-cooked in sunflower oil, we’re sure you agree that Corkers are another great British tradition in the making.”