‘Mira – three things: Dad, straw and the camel’s back! He’ll flip . . . don’t say I didn’t warn you!’ Krish laughs as he runs up the stairs.

I watch the whole leaving drama from the landing. Krish joking around, trying to lighten everyone’s mood. Mum fretting over one last ‘don’t forget’ item that Mira or Krish just might not survive without. And Dad giving his usual lecture: ‘You’ll have to leave some of this at home, Mira. This is a car not a Tardis! It’ll never all fit in.’

It’s always the same script. And then, in the end – miracle of miracles – everything does fit in. I think Dad likes to prove himself wrong with his excellent packing!

This scuffle, shuffle, huffing, moaning, forgetting stuff and going back for it is what I’ve always loved most about us going away together. This is how I remember the start of every one of our family holidays. Except this time it doesn’t feel like the beginning of an adventure, or even a holiday . . . not for me, anyway.

Mira staggers down the steps carrying her easel. What special thing will I take with me when I leave home? I don’t think I’ve got anything that means as much to me as that easel does to Mira. She told me once that the paintings she does on it are always her best. Like the easel has special powers, like there’s something of Nana Josie in it that inspires her. I definitely don’t have anything like that.

Mira rests the easel against the wall for a minute while she pauses on the stairs to get her breath back.

‘Give it here then – but don’t say I didn’t warn you!’ Krish takes the easel and carries it the rest of the way to the car.

‘No way – that’ll have to be for the next journey up!’ Dad’s definitely getting shoutier.

‘But, Dad, I can’t paint without it.’

Mira’s standing on the pavement hugging the easel, as if she’s about to go into battle and this is her only shield. Even I know there’s no point in Dad arguing – that easel is the last thing in the world Mira’s going to leave behind.

‘I could wedge it, I suppose, but it’s not exactly health and safety! Whoever’s sitting in the front will need to get in and out from the driver’s side.’

‘We won’t have to stop that often. Laila’s not going to be with us puking all the way!’

Thanks, Mira!

‘To be honest, this is an extra hassle I could do without,’ Dad complains.

Mira’s mouth is set in a pout.

‘I’ll sit in the front then,’ Krish says, jumping in.

‘Krish! Get out! I’m in the front!’ Mira shouts.

I walk down the stairs and sit on the bottom step to get a better view. This doesn’t feel right, watching Mira and Krish jostle for their place in the car. Until now I’ve always been the one right in the middle of all the family squabbles. You wouldn’t think that this packing-the-car chaos and the same old argument over who gets the front seat would be something that anyone could miss, but I will!

After ‘a quiet word’ from Mum, Dad scowls at the car boot for a while as if he’s struggling to work out a crossword puzzle. He sighs loud enough for everyone to hear him, opens the boot and, bag by bag, takes everything out again. He collapses the back seat and slides the easel right the way down the side of the car past Krish’s shoulder.

‘We’ll probably get pulled over,’ Dad complains. ‘What if we have an emergency stop? Its legs will be straight through the front window.’

‘I’ll hold on to it,’ Krish says.

‘Dad, tell Krish he needs to get out!’

I can’t believe that Mira’s still going on about sitting in the front.

‘I don’t see why I should be crammed into the back with all your junk,’ Krish argues. ‘You can sit in the front from Nana Kath’s to Glasgow.’

Each time Dad forces something else into the boot, the easel shunts closer towards the front windscreen. Dad gives it a hard shove and finally slams the boot shut.

‘Ow! That scraped my shoulder!’

‘Well, you shouldn’t have bogarted the front seat then!’ Mira wades in.

‘Oh, for goodness sake, you two, grow up!’ Dad snaps.

There’s someone coming down the street in a navy-blue business suit, wheeling a suitcase. Please don’t let it be . . . It’s Kez’s mum, probably on her way to the airport. Why did she have to choose this moment to walk by?

‘Is that Hannah?’ Mum whispers, and disappears back inside the house.

Kez’s mum inspects our bulging car like it’s an exhibit in that museum of weird and curious things she took me and Kez to once.

‘Have a comfortable journey!’ she says wryly.

‘Thanks, Hannah! Fancy trading places?’ Dad jokes.

‘On this occasion, I think I’ll decline!’ Kez’s mum flicks back our car’s wing mirror. ‘You’ll definitely be needing your mirrors . . .’ Then she spots me sitting on the steps. ‘Oh, hello, Laila. We haven’t seen you for ages. We were just saying the other day, when the coast’s clear –’ she nods towards our car – ‘you should come on over.’

‘Thanks.’

I’ve never witnessed a scene like this outside Kez’s, but I suppose she doesn’t have brothers and sisters to argue about everything, even though she wishes she did.

Kez’s mum pauses by the tree to read the sign that Ed’s posted up.

Corn Snake found

Call Ed: 0653351511

‘No more reptiles turned up in your house then, Sam?’ She laughs.

‘None that I know of!’ Dad shakes his head.

‘That’s a relief.’

Hannah peers into the car and taps on the window ‘Good luck, you two!’

When she’s gone Dad leans into the front seat and starts the engine. It’s his signal for the countdown. Just at the last moment Mira jumps back out of the car. I move aside on the step because I think she must have forgotten something else in her room, but instead she grabs me under my arms and pulls me up into a hug. I make my legs heavy and hold on to the banister so she can’t actually lift me off the ground. I know I’m light but I wish people would get out of the habit of whisking me up. I can feel the tears on Mira’s cheek as she squeezes me so tightly that my sides hurt. Then she turns around, runs back down the front steps, hugs Mum again and gets back in the car. Krish winds the window down as far as the easel will let him and peeps his head out as if he’s a prisoner or something. He sticks his hand through the window and mouths, ‘Help!’

Mum’s throat makes a strange sound somewhere between a laugh, a cry and a choke. She’s leaning her back against the garden wall as if she needs it to hold her up.

‘See you, Lai Lai – I’ll be back to annoy you for a weekend before Christmas!’ Krish shouts.

I stick my tongue out at him.

‘See you in a couple of days. I’ll call!’ Dad has to shout over the noise of the engine. It sounds a bit cranky.

I walk past Mum and head back up the stairs to my landing perch, picturing Krish laying odds on how long it will take before Dad has to turn back for some last forgotten thing.