Fifty came round at half-past eight in the morning, which was odd because it was half-term and all normal eleven-year-olds were in bed. I got the door because Mum had left for work with Flo (who was going to her new best friend’s house) and Amy was still asleep (and would be until lunchtime). I would have been asleep too but I forgot to draw my curtains so the sun lasered through my eyelids at six o’clock.
‘What’s up?’ I asked.
He grunted. That was odd as well – Fifty likes to talk. I got the biscuit tin out – sugar’s his favourite thing. He took a bourbon, ate it, took another.
He ate the second bourbon. ‘Nothing.’
There was no point trying to fool my I’ve-known-you-since-you-wore-Thomas-the-Tank-pyjamas lie detector. I gave him a look.
He sighed. ‘Probably Rose has gone to nursery.’ His little sister is actually just ‘Rose’ but they didn’t decide on her name for weeks so everyone went around saying ‘She’s probably Rose’ and it stuck.
‘So?’ I knew Fifty didn’t want his mum to send his little sister to nursery but I wasn’t sure why. I went to nursery. So did he. Copper Pie’s mum runs a nursery. So what?
‘She went yesterday for the morning and she didn’t like it.’ He stuck his bottom lip out.
‘How d’you know?’
‘She told me, of course.’
Yeah, right! Rose can say ‘yes’, ‘no’, ‘yoghurt’ and ‘star’ (which means lightbulb). That was it. I decided to change the subject. Fifty is far too obsessed with his sister. ‘Mum’s left us some stuff for a Tribe picnic. She said there’s loads, enough for two Tribes.’
Fifty grinned. ‘There’s only one Tribe.’
‘We could take it to the park. Meet everyone there,’ I said.
‘Same,’ said Fifty.
I looked at my watch. ‘At . . . ten o’clock?’
‘OK.’ He got out his phone. ‘I’ll text the Tribers.’
I got crisps, Marmite, bread and the packet of chocolate cakes out of the cupboard. And ham, cold sausages, pork pies and butter out of the fridge. While we made the sandwiches the texts came back: yes from Jonno, Bee and Copper Pie. The Tribe picnic was on. There were four days left of the holidays. It was sunny. Ace. I crammed the picnic and a rug in my rucksack.
‘What about drinks?’ said Fifty.
‘We can buy them from the ice-cream van.’
We were off. It’s not far to the park, but it seemed forever because Fifty stressed about his sister all the way. I adopted the usual strategy, which is to answer ‘Yes’ or ‘Umm’, or nod.
‘You know they just leave the babies in those bouncy seats.’
‘Yes.’
‘And don’t change their nappies.’
I nodded.
‘Kids get bitten at nursery.’
‘Umm.’
‘You got bitten by Annabel Ellis every day.’
That needed a proper response. ‘There won’t be an Annabel Ellis at her nursery,’ I said confidently.
‘Let’s hope not. Because if anyone upsets Probably Rose, they’ll have me to deal with,’ said Fifty. As he’s small (half the size of everyone else –‘Fifty’ percent, get it?) and cute-looking, it didn’t seem much of a threat. I would have completely forgotten about it, except that he said it again later, but not to me this time . . . to the police.