Millie plays with Simon through the long lazy days of summer, going off after lunch each day, taking the old school satchel with an apple in; bringing it back full of treasures—a milk-white pebble, a twig to make a catapult, a silky indigo feather from a crow. She’s thin—both girls are far too thin—but her skin has a flushed, healthy look. She has permanent scabs on her knees, and grass stains on her dresses, and a cocoa-powder spill of freckles on her nose. There’s a day when she doesn’t come back when she should. Tea is ready on the table, and the shadow of my pear tree reaches out over the yard, fingering the wall of the house. I go to the gate, peer anxiously through the orchard and into the wood—fearful that Simon may have led her into some new mischief. But at last she comes rushing in, waving to Simon who is running off up the lane. ‘Millie, you’re late. I was really worried.’ I’m cross, because she frightened me. ‘Next time, you’re to come back earlier.
