Whenever I got really fed up, I tried to remember Madam Margarita’s words. Help people. Help people. It was like an echo rattling round inside my brain.Soon I was blue in the face from holding doors open for people, and from helping little old ladies across the street.But still nothing changed.Friday rolled around again and I was still a pupil in Woodpark School.I was still living in a horrible house.Dad still didn’t have a job or a car. I was still where I didn’t want to be.Victoria called over after school on Friday.To get upstairs, we had to climb over Dad, who was lying there repairing one of the broken steps.‘Sorry, girls,’ he said. ‘Just trying to patch the place up a bit.’I giggled. Now that Dad wasn’t working, he was totally bored, and he was driving Mum crazy. Every time she turned around he was whacking something with a hammer or attacking something with a screwdriver.
