Seventy! Seventy-six?’ Nonie fires numbers at me, her voice trembling with anguish. ‘Stop panicking,’ I tell her, wishing she was in the passenger seat next to me and could see my face, knowing she’s wishing the same thing. Nonie is a victim of her own scrupulous fairness policy: when, she, Dinah and I are in the car together, she and Dinah must both sit in the back, even though they would both love to sit in the front. Dinah has suggested they take turns, but Nonie won’t allow it. Since none of us knows how many car journeys there will be in total, in the whole of our life together, we can’t be sure that it won’t be an odd number. Someone might end up having an extra turn. ‘I can’t do it! I don’t understand! Seventy-seven?’ ‘No. Sorry,’ I say. Are desperation and panting part of most people’s Maths homework routines? I try to catch Nonie’s eye in the rear-view mirror. I’ve always been able to soothe her with my eyes quicker than with words. ‘Seventy-five!’ I hate Wednesdays.
