‘I’M home!’ Ruby slung her satchel on the kitchen table and fell into a chair. ‘It smells beautiful in here, Mrs T. What can I have to eat?’

Mrs Traill, the Quinlans’ cook and housekeeper, was at the stove, giving the ash-pit what she called ‘a good riddling’. She did this twice a day to help the fire burn up brightly. ‘There’s some fresh-baked rock cakes,’ she said over her shoulder, ‘or else there’s a bit of fruit pie left over from last night. Those fairy cakes on the dresser are for the party, so it’s paws off.’

‘I’ll have a rock cake, please. Have you done my birthday cake yet? And the ice-cream?’

‘I’ve made the sponge for the cake, Miss Impatience.’ Mrs Traill closed the grate and wiped her hands on her apron. ‘I haven’t made the ice-cream yet because we’re nearly out of ice. I’ll do it tomorrow morning, after the iceman has been.’

‘I don’t know why we can’t have a refrigerator instead of that awful old icebox,’ said Ruby. ‘My friend Marjorie has a refrigerator. It runs on kerosene, and she can have ice-cream whenever she wants.’

‘If you can have something whenever you want, it’s not special, is it? Refrigerators, indeed! Give me a good reliable icebox any day.’ Mrs Traill opened a round biscuit tin printed with a faded coronation portrait of the king, and passed it to Ruby. ‘Here’s your rock cake. Your cousin made these before your mum took her off to her dentist appointment in town: she wanted something to do, she said. A proper good little cook she is, too.’

A small cloud passed over Ruby’s happiness. She’d completely forgotten about her cousin. May Cameron had arrived that morning, while Ruby was at school, and she was staying till Sunday. Ruby and May were almost strangers, even though their mothers were sisters, and Ruby never knew quite what to do with her or what to say to her. As she bit into the rock cake, thinking, she heard the hurried click-click of claws on the linoleum floor, and Baxter launched himself into her lap.

‘Hello, darling Baxter. Have you been a good boy?’ She hugged his firm, smooth little body, and then broke off a piece of rock cake and gave it to him. ‘Has he been a good boy, Mrs T?’

Mrs Traill smiled. ‘As good as can be. He’s been keeping your cousin company. She’s been quite poorly this afternoon.’

‘I suppose I should go and see her.’

‘Indeed you should. She’s in the front room, with your mum.’

Ruby put Baxter down and went to the sitting room. It was her favourite room in the whole house: big and sunny, the walls panelled with English oak, the floor covered with Persian carpets. A bowl of roses from the garden sent a faint sweet scent into the air.

May was lying on the big chintz-covered sofa, propped up with cushions, and Ruby’s mother was sitting in a chair next to her, working on a piece of tapestry.

Ruby kissed her mother on the cheek, and sat down on the bit of sofa May wasn’t lying on.

‘Hello, May,’ she said.

May opened one eye. ‘Hello, Ruby,’ she mumbled. ‘How was school?’

‘School was boring. How was the dentist?’

‘I needed four fillings. Big ones. And I had a tooth pulled at the back, too.’

‘Ouch. It was Mr Turner, wasn’t it? I go to him too. Don’t you just hate it when he cranks up the drill? That grinding noise goes right through your head. And when the needle hits a nerve . . .’

May winced. ‘Don’t remind me. And don’t make me talk. It hurts to open my mouth. I shan’t be eating much at your party tomorrow.’

‘All the more for us,’ Ruby said cheerfully.

Ruby’s mother frowned. ‘You might show a little more sympathy, Ruby. May, you must be hungry. Shall I ask Mrs Traill to get you something nice and soft to eat? Some bread and milk?’

‘Nothing, thank you, Aunt Winifred.’ May closed her eyes again.

Ruby jiggled one foot, and then the other. ‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘I have thousands of balloons to blow up for my party. I don’t suppose you’ll be able to blow up any balloons, May? You don’t have to eat them. It wouldn’t hurt your teeth.’

May shook her head.

‘Never mind, then. Is Dad home, Mother? He promised to help me.’

‘He came home early today. He’s in his study.’

‘Good-oh.’ Ruby sprang up from the sofa and left the room. In the hallway she stood on the carpet runner and skidded on it down the polished floor till she reached her father’s door.

Ruby loved Dad’s study. It was cosy and smelt of pipe tobacco, and the walls were hung with framed black-and-white photos of country scenes. Dad was a keen photographer, and Ruby thought his work was good enough to be in a magazine.

Harry Quinlan was sitting at his roll-top desk, leafing through a pile of papers, but he raised his head and smiled as Ruby bounced into the room.

‘How’s my girl?’

‘Never better. I can’t wait for tomorrow!’

‘Tomorrow? What’s happening tomorrow?’

Ruby aimed a pretend smack at him. ‘It’s my party, of course! You said you’d help me blowup balloons, remember?’

‘Balloons?’

‘Dad, stop pretending you’ve forgotten my birthday!’

Her father looked astonished. ‘Is it your birthday, Ruby? Well, I never. How fast you are growing up! You must be – why, you must be six years old, at least. Or is it seven now?’

‘I’ll be twelve, as you know very well.’ She put her arms around his neck. ‘Isn’t it wonderful that I’m nearly twelve? And only three weeks after that, the school holidays start. I’d simply hate to be anybody but me!’