Three abrupt knocks on my bedroom door, then I’m invaded by the sleep police.

“Ronnie? Ronnnnnnie? Are you under there?” my mother quacks, lifting up a corner of the duvet, letting cold air surge over my limbs.

She knows how much that annoys me.

“Ronnie! Helllllloooo?! Earth calling Veronica Ripperton? Wake up!”

“Gnnnngnn! Go away!” I groan, whipping the quilt back from her and wrapping myself up like a sausage roll.

“Ugh! What do you do in this room?” she says sniffily, flinging back the curtains so the morning sunlight scorches my face. “How can you make a room so messy!”

I lie very still, praying for her to leave.

“You’ll have rats in here before long,” continues Mum, picking up a half-eaten chocolate chip muffin discarded on my desk. “Rats, I tell you! With big tails and sharp teeth! Well, not that rats would put up with this mess,” she mutters under her breath.

“Uggghhh,” I groan, hiding my face in the pillow.

“Ronnie! Can you hear me? What’s this? What’s going on here?” Mum says.

I sit up in bed, rubbing my eyes. Mum’s peering at the front of my iMac like it’s an extraterrestrial. “The front of this thing is flashing! Is it on? You’ll start a fire in here! Why do you always leave things switched on?”

“Don’t touch it,” I mumble, watching Mum jabbing the power button, probably crashing the computer and corrupting all the files. “It’s in sleep mode.”

“Sleep mode! Pghhh!” she mutters. “You’re in sleep mode, you lazy lump! Get up!”

“Gnngnn . . . ,” I grumble, catching sight of myself in the mirror with pointy morning hair and a pillow crease down my face. “What is wrong with you? Are you a complete freak?”

I look at my bedside clock. It’s 7:58 A.M.

“Ha!” Mum snorts. “What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you, more like?! You lie in your pit all day, then gawp at TV and play bass guitar all night long. Your body clock’s upside down! You hardly see the sun. It’s like living with a bat!”

“Ugh!” I groan, hiding my face under the covers again. “Look, you insane old goat! My last GCSE exam was on Wednesday. Two days ago! And I studied really hard for them too! And I’m not back at school till September. I’ve nothing to get up for!”

“Oh, there’s plenty to get up for, young lady!” Mum hoots, clearly elated that I’m rising to her bait. “When I was sixteen years old, I’d be up with the lark on a glorious June morning like this. I’d be making breakfast and doing housework, really helping my mother out!”

“Oh, pur-lease,” I groan.

“And you can start by minding Seth for me while I go to the wholesaler’s. I’ll be gone two hours,” Mum twitters, poking me a bit. “Oh, c’mon, Ronnie, please? He’s dying for you to play with him. He’s been so miserable since he caught that tummy bug.”

“Is he still projectile pooing?” I frown.

“Mmm . . . no, that seems to have cleared up,” Mum sniggers. “But, y’know, best wear something wipeable, just to be safe.”

“Euuuh!” I grimace, swinging my legs out of bed.

Mother has won again. She always wins.

“Hey, and when I get home . . . ,” Mum says, “I’ll help you fill out that waitressing application form for the Wacky Warehouse.”

“Er, pardon?” I splutter. “I’m not working at a Wac . . .”

“It’ll teach you the value of money!” Mum snaps back. “You’re not freeloading off me and your dad until September.”

“Huh! I know the value of money, thank you!” I say, beginning to raise my voice. “Listen, Mother, I am not working in a Wacky Warehouse! I’m not mopping up the ice cream and vomit at children’s birthday parties! Cynthia Morris from Blackwell School had a Saturday job there, and they made her dress up in a squirrel costume and jump up and down on a mini trampoline playing the bongos for six hours a day. I’m not that wacky!”

Mum just rolls her eyes at me, then heads for the door. “Well, you better start feeling wacky soon, Lady Muck,” she snaps crossly. “Or you’re working downstairs with me as the Fantastic Voyage’s dishwasher. I’m not paying an extra body while you laze about up here!”

“What? Aaaagh!” I howl, imagining the prospect of nine weeks trapped in the basement of our family pub, unblocking hair from the waste disposal and gutting fish. “That is so unfair!”

“Veronica, life isn’t fair,” clips my mother. “Now, I want you up, dressed and in the den, frolicking with an incontinent toddler in ten minutes. Or else! Oh, and if you’re bored, I’ve left notes about other chores on the fridge.”

“I’m not going to be your slave for the summer!” I yell, getting angrier by the second. “And I won’t work at the Wacky Warehouse either! I’d rather die! In fact, I’m going to fling myself out of my bedroom window . . . straight after breakfast.”

“Mmm . . . don’t do that, sweetheart,” Mum says dryly, opening my bedroom door. “You’ll make a terrible mess.”

Mum trots out, smashing the door shut behind her. I’ve been awake less than forty-five seconds and we’ve already had our first bust-up. This is impressive, even by our standards.

“But this was meant to be . . . ,” I yell as she clomps away down the landing, “my summer break!”

I strip off my nightgown, pulling on a hoodie and some baggy jeans, dragging my long auburn hair into a pink bobble, pausing to look at a photograph on my noticeboard. It’s a picture of me, Fleur Swan and Claudette Cassiera, or Les Bambinos Dangereuses, as we’re universally known, taken last summer when we had a fabulous adventure at the Astlebury Music Festival. Spike Saunders and tons of other bands played. The whole thing totally rocked. In the photo, I’m grinning like a demented hobbit, my arms wrapped around my two friends’ shoulders. Fleur, as ever, looks fabulously, nauseatingly pretty. Blonde hair, perfect skin, big blue eyes, she’s doing her typical “rabbit ears” trick behind my head. Next to her, Claude’s goofing about, pulling one of her daftest faces. We look so happy.

I let out a long sigh. I really have got nothing to get up for today.

“Les Bambinos Dangereuses,” I mutter, reaching my fingers out and touching Claude’s ebony cheek, “what on earth has happened to us?”

radio ripperton

“Ah! You’re up!” Dad chuckles, looking at his watch for comic effect. “Good afternoon.”

It’s 9:15 A.M. and Lawrence “Loz” Ripperton is on the sofa upstairs at the Fantastic Voyage, having a quiet half hour before his bartending duties begin.

“Oh, don’t you start,” I groan, sitting on the sofa, grabbing the remote and flicking on MTV, which is showing a rerun of last year’s Big Beach Booty Quake party in Destiny Bay. On the TV, Big Doggy the rapper is performing on stage while hunks in trunks and a zillion perfect girls in thong bikinis quake their booties to a ragga beat.

I take a slurp of my coffee. Dad peers at the screen, which is full of undulating flesh, making a face that indicates he’d be outraged if he had the energy, before carrying on with his sports section.

“I’ve just been frog-marched out of bed by Attila the Mum,” I grumble.

“Ah yes,” smiles Dad, nodding toward the bedroom next door where Mum’s dressing. “She’s in fine form this morning, isn’t she?”

My father accepts my mother’s ruthless dictatorship with exceptional good grace. It’s almost as if he enjoys his day being spelled out for him in yellow Post-it notes. He stays here through choice! I’d be gone tomorrow if I had any other option.

“Wonnie! Wonnie . . . Beawblooooo!!” burbles Seth, my seventeen-month-old brother, crawling toward me with a grin. “Wonnie!” he gargles again, attempting to stand up, but somehow pirouetting and falling headfirst toward the coffee table.

“Whooooah there, little fella!” I gasp, leaping up to grab him. “God, Dad, can’t we get him a crash helmet or something?”

“Wonniebeawblue?” repeats Seth, wrapping his tiny arms around me.

I kiss the top of his little blond head, inhaling that great baby smell. “Beawblue?” I repeat, finding it impossible to stay cross.

“Ahhh,” says Dad, who’s a pro at translating baby babble. “He means the Bear in the Big Blue House DVD. Don’t you, Sunny Jim?”

“Beablah!” Seth gurgles.

“Er, the one with the colors and shapes and stuff?” I ask. “Does he understand that?”

“I don’t know,” Dad announces solemnly. “But he’s silent when it’s on, Veronica. That’s enough for me.”

“Good point,” I say as Seth wriggles around in his powder-blue baby suit, desperate to be put down on the floor.

“Beaw-tance!” Seth says rather forcefully. “Tance!”

“Oh, yeah,” Dad adds. “He only likes the first six minutes, when the big hairy fella dances. He gets grouchy after that and wants it rewound.”

“Tance!” Seth squeals excitedly.

A stripe of brown goo is beginning to ooze from the back of his suit. Dad spots this, quickly rustling his newspaper in front of his face.

“That’s chocolate sauce . . . right?” I groan.

“Yeah, right,” Dad says dryly.

Right that instant, my mobile phone starts squeaking and shuddering on the coffee table, playing a polyphonic version of Carmella Dupris’s latest hit “KrazyGirl.” That’s the ring tone I’ve assigned to Fleur! Hurray!

The screen fills with a jpeg of a beautiful blond girl wearing a stripey T-shirt and a powder-pink beret, marred somewhat by the chopstick jammed firmly up each nostril.

“Oh, yeah, that reminds me,” Dad says distractedly. “Your phone’s been ringing for the last two hours. Me and Mum tried to open it. But we couldn’t find the bit to talk into. It’s all Star Trek to us, those things.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?” I fume.

“Ronnie, you’re not a morning person,” Dad says, chuckling. “I leave the wake-up calls to your mother. She’s braver than me.”

I wrinkle my nose at him, then press “answer.”

“Fleur!” I say. “All right, babe? What are you doing?”

“Hey, Ronnie!” Fleur giggles. “Guess where I am?”

“Dunno,” I say.

“Give you a clue,” Fleur says, sounding excited. “I’ve just bought that fabulous cerise polka-dot bikini. This month’s ‘hot buy’ in June’s Elle Girl magazine!”

“Er, you’re on High Street?” I guess. “Or the Westland Park Shopping Mall?”

Fleur giggles a bit more. “I’m at Emerald Green Shopping City! I’m in It’s a Girl’s World at Emerald Green Shopping City!”

“Emerald . . . Green! Emerald Green Shopping City!” I say, feeling rather rattled. “Fleur, that’s, like, two hundred miles away.”

“I know,” she laughs.

“Who are you with?” I say suspiciously.

“I’m, er . . . all alone,” Fleur says, sounding a little less jubilant now. “Dad was driving down really early for the Motor Show at the Exhibition Center nearby. I only found out last night, so I nabbed a lift.”

“Oh,” I say. “That’s . . . er, cool.”

“Yeah, sort of,” says Fleur. “On the downside, Paddy’s bent my ear for two hundred miles about getting a summer job. Apparently I need ‘direction in my life.’ ”

“Gnnnngnn . . . don’t even go there,” I groan.

There’s a small awkward silence.

Why didn’t she ask me to go?

Emerald Green Shopping City, aside from being literally a “city of shopping,” is home to Britain’s flagship It’s a Girl’s World store. IGW totally rocks! It’s the LBD’s own personal mecca, to which we’re always planning a pilgrimage. As well as six whole floors of amazing clothes and accessories, the store runs daily catwalk shows and features its own TV station broadcasting on huge banks of plasma TVs. You can book personal shoppers who’ll make you look like a pop star, plus there’s a sweets shop, a nail bar, hair boutique and a floor devoted to sunglasses, hair clips and hats. There’s also an entire basement of customized antique and retro designer clothes. (It’s Claude’s favorite floor. Last Christmas she found an amazing black sixties Mod dress for £20!)

“Hey, Ronnie,” Fleur says, sounding slightly lonely. “I’m standing at the bottom of the ground floor escalator.”

“Where the Million Dollar Models scouts always are?” I say, grabbing the DVD remote control and pressing “play.” Seth’s eyes light up as the dancing bear fills the screen.

“Yeah,” Fleur says. “This is where they found Devan Davies, the Joop girl. No luck for me today, though.”

“It’ll happen one day,” I tell her.

“Hope so,” Fleur sighs.

There’s that sad, awkward silence again.

I know the LBD have been having some major problems recently, but this has got way out of hand now. Fleur going to Emerald Park without us just seems so final.

The LBD always go to Emerald Park together! Ever since Year 7, when we got our first proper allowances.

“Are you okay?” Fleur asks sheepishly.

I’m trying to swallow my feelings, but the words just flood out. “No . . . I’m not really, Fleur!” I say. “Why didn’t you call me to go with you? I’ve got Girl’s World vouchers to spend!”

“I called you this morning,” Fleur argues. “Three times! Your folks kept picking the phone up, but they couldn’t work out what bit to speak into.”

“Oh God,” I groan, clutching my head.

“And then they couldn’t hang it up,” Fleur says. “I could hear them chatting to each other for ages.”

“What about?” I gasp.

“Errr . . . nothing really,” Fleur says. “But, er, did you know your mum’s nipples are almost back to normal after breast-feeding?”

“Shut. Up,” I grimace. “You’re kidding me?”

“Er, no,” Fleur says. “You might want to go through your phone’s memory and check out who else Radio Ripperton has been broadcasting to.”

“I’m going to kill them,” I say quite seriously. My parents will not be satisfied until I literally die of shame. I’d happily divorce them.

“Well, whatever, Fleur,” I continue huffily. “You didn’t try that hard to reach me. Did you? You could have rung me last night.”

“Pgggh . . . well maybe I didn’t feel like ringing you last night, okay?” Fleur snaps back. “I thought that you’d be round at . . . ,” Fleur begins to say something, then stops herself. “I thought you’d be too busy.”

She means Claude. She won’t even say her name.

“I was playing bass guitar in my bedroom like a right Billy-No-Mates all last night, Fleur!” I yell. “I reckon Claude was on her own too.”

“Doubt it,” Fleur hisses. “She’ll be with her new best friend!”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” I say. “This is soooo stupid! We could have all gone to Emerald Park together today. We could be in the food court slurping milk shakes and checking out the passing hotties right now!”

“I’ve slurped my last milk shake with Claudette Cassiera,” Fleur scoffs. “Claude and I are over, Ronnie. She’s out of my life now. I feel much better for it too!”

“Don’t be daft, Fleur,” I say. “Look, let’s have an LBD meeting tonight at my place. Let’s talk about this.”

“What?!” Fleur says. “After her behavior?! I’d rather kiss the cat’s bum.”

“This isn’t all Claude’s fault, y’know,” I begin to argue.

“Oh, go on, stick up for her. Like you always do!” Fleur says, sounding like she’s almost blubbering. “Look, why don’t you all just be friends together this summer? I’ll find something else to do.”

“Like what?!”

“Like . . . like whatever I want,” she says firmly. “See ya, Ronnie.”

And then the phone goes dead.

I slump back on the sofa.

What on earth do I do now? Tell Claude? Call Fleur back? I feel sick.

Dad puts down his newspaper gently. “What’s going on there?” he says.

“Nothing,” I say, chucking my phone and folding my arms.

“Oh, right,” Dad says. “Doesn’t sound like nothing.”

I stare ahead at the TV.

“You girls had a bust-up?” Dad says.

“No, we’re fine,” I say, clearly fibbing my head off.

“What’s it about?” he says. “Lads?”

I scowl at him.

“Knew it,” Dad says. “It’s always lads.”

“It’s not lads,” I grump.

“That’s all you ladies ever row about,” Dad says, trying to cheer me up. “Cuh, I’ve had a few young chickadees cat-fighting over me in my time, I’ll tell you that for nothing,” he says, miming straightening his invisible tie.

Who’s he kidding? His face looks like it was knitted by his mum.

“It’s not about lads,” I say.

“Well, it’s something . . . I saw Claude yesterday night walking up Lacy Road. She looked like a wet weekend.”

“You saw Claude?” I say, my eyes widening. “Which way was she going? At what time?”

“Er . . . back to her mum’s, I s’pose,” Dad says. “Six-ish?”

“Hmmmph,” I say. Claude hasn’t returned my calls for days.

“I can always count on little Claude for a smile and wave,” continues Dad, “but she didn’t even see me. Had her head down. She looked really miserable.”

A tear forms in the corner of my eye. I bat it away. Dad sticks his big arm around me.

“Awww, come on, Ronnie! Give us a clue, eh?” he says. “I’m not as useless as I look. I bet I can help.”

“You can’t, Dad,” I say quietly. “No one can. It’s all a big mess.”

“But what . . . I mean, where . . . ?” Dad begins. “Isn’t there . . . ?”

My lips simply become tighter. Dad knows from long experience that there’s no point in questioning me further.

As tears dribble down my face, my mind is racing. Claude, Fleur and I have hung out together since, like, Day 1 of Blackwell School. Ever since the gangly blonde chick and the little prim black girl with her hair in bunches sat down beside me in Year 7 French. We’re like sisters. We’re a team. We live our lives together! If they’re sad, I’m sad. If I’m sad, well, they try to sort things out for me. And, sure, we’ve had bust-ups before, but that’s just because sometimes we can all be extra-specially infuriatingly annoying! Like when Fleur falls in love with a different aftershave-drenched drongo every ten minutes. Or when Claude gets all swell-headed about her straight-A grades. Or when I forget birthdays or turn up late for stuff. Or, say, when Claude and Fleur post pictures of me all over the Internet, taken at a sleepover, asleep with my mouth open, wearing Blu-Tack devil horns. Oh, how I laughed.

But we always make friends in the end. Don’t we?

“C’mon, precious,” Dad says. “Dry your eyes. Look, are you sure you can’t give me a clue what’s up?”

“Maybe later, eh?” I sniff, wiping tears down my hoodie sleeve.

“Okay,” Dad whispers. “Leave you to it. For now.”

not an octopus

Suddenly, Mum appears in the doorway, freshly painted lipstick denoting her imminent exit.

“Ah, good girl. You’re up!” she smiles, picking up her car keys. “Huh, Loz, I’m going to make that wholesaler’s life hell this morning! Eight items missing on the last order. Eight! I’m not leaving his office until I get at least forty percent off next week’s invoice.”

“Good luck, my little tinderbox,” Dad nods. “Go easy on him, won’t you?”

“Not likely,” says Mum, making a googly face at Seth, then turning to me.

“You can cope with him, can’t you, darling?”

“Mmm,” I say. I’ve had enough flipping practice.

“Word of advice, though, Ronnie,” Mum says, blotting her lipstick on a beer invoice. “You need to watch him every single second these days. He’s smarter than he looks. He found a staple gun at your aunty Susan’s yesterday and tried to pierce her cat’s ears.”

Seth smiles at us all and waves his hands. He’s the epitome of cute.

“She’s not wrong, Ron,” nods Dad sagely. “I like to think of him as the face of evil.”

“Uh-huh,” I sigh.

Mum peers at me awhile longer, eyeing me up and down.

“You’re, erm . . . ,” she says, pointing at my baggy hoodie and jeans, “not going out dressed like that, are you?”

Oh God.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I tut. “I’m looking after your son.”

“Oooh, that time already? Must fly,” Dad announces. He’s such a chicken. Last month, after one of me and Mum’s screaming bust-ups, I found him two hours later, sitting in the beer cellar, wearing his Discman and reading the Sporting Post.

“Loz! I need you—don’t go anywhere,” Mum commands, turning again to me. “It’s just those shapeless jeans, Ronnie. They do nothing for your figure! And that hooded top makes you look like a painter and decorator.”

“Oh, leave me alone,” I moan. “What do you know about what people my age wear?”

This is a foolish thing to say. My mother is an authority on absolutely everything.

“Well, I saw Nicole Jones, your aunty Susan’s goddaughter, in Asda yesterday and she looked absolutely gorgeous!”

“Oh, for God’s sake . . .”

“She was wearing a peach cardigan, and a fresh white tailored blouse and fitted black trousers. She looked immaculate! Her mother must be so proud of her.”

“Nicole Jones is a complete buttmunch, Mother,” I fume, glaring at my mother. “She competes with her brother in Scottish country dancing competitions! She eats school lunch with an imaginary friend! She collects thimbles!”

“Well, at least she makes the best of herself,” Mum drones, “not like you and your bunch.”

“Oh, here we go,” I say. I am not in the mood to discuss the LBD.

“There’s you, off to paint the Forth Road Bridge, there’s Claude, who looks like a little old granny most of the time in those old moth-eaten dresses . . . oooh, and as for that Fleur Swan, well, she had jeans on so tight the other day, I could see the outline of her . . . well, I won’t say! Poor Paddy Swan, he must be absolutely driven to despair with her!”

“Whatever,” I sigh.

“C’mon, play nice now, ladies,” Dad says, trying to move past Mum. Mum frowns at us both, picking up her cardigan and throwing it around her shoulders. She walks across and stares out the living room window for a few seconds, letting out a long sigh. Then she turns to me again. She looks pretty anxious about something.

“What’s up now?” I tut.

“Oh, nothing. It’s just your nan,” Mum says. “She called last night. She’s not sounding too good.”

“Really?” I say, feeling guilty because I’ve not visited for almost two months. “What’s up with her?”

“Well, she just sounds confused, y’know?” Mum says quietly, sounding more angry at life now. “She was wittering on about police chases and drug raids near her house.” Mum rolls her eyes, biting her lip slightly. “She’s getting herself worked up again.”

“Oh, dear,” I say. I think Nan’s going a bit bonkers.

“I called the local police to double-check,” says Mum, “but they said that there hasn’t been a disturbance in her post code for more than four months. They don’t know what she’s talking about.”

Mum’s eyes go a little glassy.

“Maybe she’s getting mixed up with something on TV,” I say. “You know she loves cop dramas.”

“Well, either way, it’s not good, is it?” Mum says. “Everyone forgets she has a heart condition. She’s eighty-two, you know?”

“Mmm,” I say.

“If you were any sort of granddaughter,” Mum says, switching on the moan again, “you’d go and see her. It’s only an hour away on the train. She’d love to see you . . .”

As my mother drones on and on, I switch to “white noise” in my head and block her out. But now that I think about it, I’d love to see my nan. She never gives me a hard time. In fact, the dafter I dress, the more she likes it. And she bakes her own cakes too.

She might even know what to do about the LBD. She’s pretty sussed for an old lady.

“Okay,” I interrupt. “I’ll go this afternoon.”

“ ‘Where’s Ronnie?’ That’s what she always asks,” Mum twitters, oblivious. “But oh no, you can’t spare the time for an old woman, can you? Unless it’s your birthday and she’s got her hand in her purse—”

“Mother! I’ll go this afternoon!” I yell. “I’ll get the two-thirty train and I’ll be in her kitchen eating scones and reminiscing about Princess Diana’s lovely wedding dress by four. Is that okay?!”

Mum stares at me, slightly dumbfounded.

Dad gives me a “nice one” wink.

“Today?” she repeats.

“Today!” I say, flaring my nostrils. “Try and stop me.”

“Well . . . okay then!” Mum says, turning on her heel and heading for the door. “All I need is a bit of help!” she shouts as she stomps down the stairs. “I’ve only got one pair of hands to do everything! I’m not an octopus, y’know. I’m not a flipping octopus!”

In the living room, Dad and I are left staring at each other in utter bemusement.

“She’s not an octopus, y’know?” says Dad mock seriously. “I’m glad we got that one cleared up.”

“Hmmm,” I say.

“How long before school starts again?” asks Dad, wincing as Seth toddles over smelling distinctly like an explosion in a bum factory.

“Nine weeks,” I say, holding my nose.

thunder and lightning

Because pheasants are on the track just outside Chipping Tanbury, the 2:30 Mainline Clipper service to Little Chipping is delayed by approximately forty-eight minutes. Actually, this might have been “peasants on the track”—the Mainline Trains announcer had a dreadful mucus problem.

Whatever, the delay allots me a nice lengthy space of dead time to sit on a cold metallic bench beside a railway track and think about my future without the LBD. I’ve got a specific iPod play list of angry songs for when life is beginning to make me commit murder, so I cue up “Another Homicide” by Psycho Killa, a blistering 3:20 rap ditty involving plenty of bad language and mild glorification of violence, then sit staring at the tracks, brooding about my own personal misfortune.

I am utterly bereft.

The train pulls into the station and I jump off. I wander miserably down Little Chipping’s sleepy main street, past the post office and the dressmaker’s boutique, past the Village Hall where Nan has her Tuesday Club meetings, past the kids’ swing park, turning right into Dewers Drive, where Nan lives at number eleven. The white paintwork on Nan’s terraced house seems a touch tatty now that Granddad’s not around to climb ladders with a paintbrush every other day, although Nan’s rosebushes, dotted all over her small front garden, look typically fabulous. As the tiny gate snaps closed behind me, I ring Nan’s bell.

Bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!

I pause for a minute. Total silence.

Mum promised me Nan would be in.

Bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!

Inside I hear the tapping of a walking stick. “Helloooo!” a little voice shouts. “Who is it?!”

“It’s me, Nan!” I smile. “It’s Ronnie!”

“I’m very content with my gas supplier!” Nan shouts. “None today, thanking you kindly!”

“It’s Ronnie,” I repeat, giggling. “Your granddaughter!”

Total silence. Has she gone?

“Nan! It’s Ronnie. Let me in!” I say, ringing the bell again.

More silence.

“Ronnie?! Oooh, Veronica! It’s you!” Nan shouts eventually, chuckling wildly. “Hang on!”

A multitude of keys are jangled, locks turned and bolts undone before the door flies open, revealing Leticia Warton, aka Nan, in her full Nan glory. Mischievous smile, large brown reading spectacles that make her eyes ginormous, snow-white tightly permed hair, wearing her trademark blue-and-lavender floral shift dress with a gold brooch, slightly hidden by a pink house-coat, a brown walking stick firmly in one hand. Every time I see Nan, the fairies appear to have stolen a little more of her away. She’s simply not the huge stout woman I think I’m going to visit.

“Good afternoon to you! Come inside!” Nan says excitedly as I kiss her powdery cheek. “They’ve almost got him! Come on!”

“What?” I say as Nan vanishes down the hallway, moving surprisingly speedily for a woman supposedly crippled with rheumatoid arthritis.

“The man they’re chasing!” shouts Nan, beckoning me into the kitchen. “The man with the gun! He’s a drug dealer, you know?”

Oh, no. Please God, not today, I think. Trust her to choose the day I’m here alone to go totally crazy. What do I do now? What would Claude do?

“Nan,” I say, moving gingerly into the kitchen behind her, “there isn’t a man with a gun. Let’s just sit down, shall we? I’ll put the kettle on.”

“Shh,” Nan says, walking over to a mysterious black radio on the kitchen table and fiddling with the dials. “I’m listening.”

“All points are on full alert, Sarge,” a voice says anxiously on the radio. “We have one IC1 male. Armed. Repeat, armed! Approaching Harpingdon. Do you read me?”

“Nan . . . what’s that!?” I say, staring at the hissing contraption.

“One second,” Nan says, putting a finger to her lips.

“Nan, is that a police scanner?” I say in disbelief. “Are you listening to police broadcasts?”

“Go on! Get him!” Nan shouts at the scanner. “Block him off at Junction Fourteen. If he gets past the Harpingdon bypass, you’ve lost him!”

“Nan, where did you get that thing?” I shout over the racket.

“Tango Delta 435, are you receiving? He’s out of the car and on foot! We’ve got him covered, Sarge,” says a voice on the box. “Unit 234 is closing on him . . . he’s making the arrest.”

“Hurray!” shouts Nan, clapping her hands. “They’re so much faster than those numskulls on The Shield.”

“Nan, where did you get that scanner?” I repeat firmly.

“What, this thing?” Nan says, turning off the machine. “Miriam from church’s son Tony gave me it.”

“Tony Crossgate?” I moan. “Nan! He’s totally shady.”

“Nonsense!” laughs Nan. “He’s a lovely young man. He’s just so madly keen on electronics—his bedroom’s full of them. He keeps all his extra stuff in Miriam’s garden shed.”

“Extra stolen stuff,” I mutter.

“You see,” Nan says, “I was at Miriam’s last Tuesday having my hair set and Tony said that seeing as I was one of his favorite old ladies, I could have a police scanner or one of those DNA whatchamacallits.”

“DVD players,” I say, trying not to laugh.

“That’s the fellows!” laughs Nan, putting two tea bags into the teapot. “Why, what’s up? Am I in trouble again?”

“No,” I say, smiling. “Not really . . . I’m relieved. Mum thought you were going cra . . .”

I stop myself. Nan rolls her eyes.

“Yes, yes, I’m aware everyone thinks I’m losing my marbles,” she smirks. “Nobody listens to me properly! I told Magda about Tony’s scanner. She just kept telling me to calm down. She’s always been the same, that girl. Bossy. Never listens.”

“Hmmm,” I say.

“Veronica,” Nan continues, pouring boiling water into the pot, “I’m not ready for the funny farm yet.”

“Sorry, Nan,” I mutter, blushing.

“Anyhow, petal, take a seat,” she says, pouring the tea. “I want to hear all your news. Exams . . . they’re over?”

“Yeah,” I sigh.

“Well, that’ll be a relief, then?” Nan twinkles. “A-levels next, eh? Then, off to university? How exciting!”

“Mmm, s’pose,” I say. I’ve never actually agreed that I’m going to university. Mum might have. I certainly haven’t.

“So, what’s the plan for the summer?” she says. “I bet you and those pals of yours, Claudette and Fleur, have got some high jinks in order to celebrate, haven’t you?”

“Mmm, not really,” I mumble, feeling a little choked.

“Oh?” Nan says, looking surprised. “No summer adventure? You went off to that pop music festival last year, didn’t you?”

“Astlebury,” I sigh.

Nan pushes some strong brown tea in front of me. “Well, then, what about that . . . Jimi Steele?” she asks. “That good-looking fellow of yours? How’s he doing?”

“We split up,” I say firmly. “For good this time. It’s all got a bit, er, messy. He’s, erm, with someone else now.”

“Crikey!” says Nan. “Well . . . good riddance to him! Never liked him anyhow. Or his silly skateboard.”

I try to smile, but there’s a lump in my throat.

Nan looks at me anxiously. “Dewdrop,” she says, passing me the sugar, “you’re really far too young to be wearing a sad expression like that. Whatever is the matter?”

I really want to tell Nan, but it’s complicated. “I don’t know where to begin,” I mutter.

Nan looks concerned. She stands up and hobbles over to her pantry cupboard. “Well, I have an idea,” she says. “You start right at the beginning. I’m going to make some fruit scones. You talk, I’ll bake. Then if I can’t solve your problem, at least we’ll have lovely scones to eat.”

I look at her, with a small smile growing on my face. “Mmm . . . but have you got any black treacle?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. Nan bakes the most amazing light, fluffy fruit scones, which she always serves fresh from the oven with clotted cream and black treacle, or Thunder and Lightning, as she calls it. They’re the most delicious things on the entire planet.

“A whole tin of it,” winks Nan. “Do we have a deal?”

“Okay,” I say, taking a deep breath to begin.