Part 2 (1/2)

*I remember hearing old Mr Jessop calling him in, last thing at night,' Pat said. * ”Puss - Puss - Pudding!” he'd call, like that. Nine o'clock on the dot, he'd open the back door - you could set your watch by him. Nine o'clock, on the dot, ”Puss - Puss - Pudding!” '

Grace made a phuh sound - somewhere between a scornful laugh and a snort of disgust - and got abruptly to her feet. She went indoors, leaving her magazine on the gra.s.s.

*You can go in too if you like,' Pat told Henry. *I knew it wouldn't be long before she was on the Internet. It's John's computer really, but we've had to put it in Grace's room, up in the attic - there's no s.p.a.ce for it otherwise. She spends more time on it than he does. Go on up. She won't mind.'

Henry shook his head. Grace would mind; it was obvious. If she'd been nicer, he might have asked if he could email Nabil; the computer at home wouldn't be connected to the Internet till a phone engineer came to put in a new socket. But Grace could hardly have signalled more clearly that she didn't want to be bothered with him.

He felt awkward and in the way. Was it too soon to go home or would that look rude? But Grace was far ruder and no one seemed to notice. He glanced at the magazine she'd left on the gra.s.s, expecting something girly about clothes and pop groups and make-up. Instead, to his surprise, it was Fighter Pilot, with a picture of a Eurofighter on the front. He wouldn't have minded borrowing that himself.

*That's what Gracie wants to be when she grows up.' Dottie saw him looking at it.

*What?'

*A fighter pilot,' said Pat. *Funny, she's had that idea in her head since she was about five. I wonder if she'll end up too tall, though, if she takes after her Dad.'

*But -'

*Girls can be fighter pilots, you know,' Dottie told him, with a touch of sternness. She seemed as good as Mum at guessing what he was thinking. And what Henry was thinking now was that Grace was the oddest girl he'd ever met.

*In her dreams,' he felt like saying; but Dottie picked up that thought, too.

*We all have our dreams, don't we?' she said. *Even at my age.' She laughed her infectious laugh that reminded Henry of someone else, and tapped the side of her head. *You wouldn't believe what silly old nonsense goes on in here!'

SIX.

STRAWBERRY.

To Henry's disappointment, Pudding - or the cat that resembled Pudding - was nowhere to be seen when he went back home, and did not return for the rest of the evening.

*Early to bed for you,' Mum told him, soon after the dishes had been cleared away from supper. Having spent all day shelving and sorting, she was now back into Work Routine, which meant that everything had to be organised and ready by bedtime: three packed lunches in Tupperware containers in the fridge, everyone's shoes s.h.i.+ned, her briefcase by the front door, ironed s.h.i.+rts on hangers and Henry's rucksack packed with everything he might need during the day, from sharpened pencils to clean PE kit. No wonder Dad called her his Personal Organiser.

In the morning it had turned cool. Henry put on his Strawberry Hill sweats.h.i.+rt over a plain white T-s.h.i.+rt, planning to take it off as soon as he could. Mum had to leave at 7:15 for her train and it was Dad who walked with Henry to the primary school. Henry felt himself shrinking beside Dad, growing even smaller as they approached the railings. They were so early that there was no one in the playground.

*You'll have a good day,' Dad told him. *Don't worry - just be yourself! People are sure to like you.'

But why should they? Henry wondered. They'll all have their own friends already. They won't want to bother with me.

*Ah, yes. Henry Stirling? Miss Murphy's expecting you,' said a secretary in the tiny office inside. She checked his name against a list. *She's in the cla.s.sroom on the left.'

Miss Murphy was standing on a desk, pinning paintings to the wall. She was younger than Henry had expected, and wore smart black trousers, a striped T-s.h.i.+rt and trainers. Her auburn hair was cut very short; she had a small pointy face and an easy smile. Henry felt better as they all introduced themselves.

Dad stayed chatting for a few moments, while Henry looked around the room. The back wall was a mosaic of artwork - collages, prints, drawings and paintings. There was a coloured drawing of a frog that Henry thought particularly good; looking closely, he read the pencilled name Simon Dobbs.

People started to come into the room - excited, jostling, looking curiously at Dad and at Henry. They all wore dark-green sweats.h.i.+rts with an oak leaf emblem. Among them Henry recognised the grinning boy and the ginger-headed one he'd seen playing football in the playground. Dad said his goodbyes and left. Before Henry had time to feel like an abandoned infant, Miss Murphy clapped her hands and told them it was time to go out to the coach.

*We'll be sitting in the front seats,' she told them, *so don't go diving for the back. Henry's joining us today - he's just moved to the village and he'll be starting Year Seven at Hartsfield High just like the rest of you, so I hope you'll help him feel at home. Henry, you can sit next to Simon on the coach. Simon, come and say h.e.l.lo.'

*Hi, Henry.' Henry looked into the friendly, freckled face of the ginger-haired boy. How had he guessed that this must be Simon?

*The boy Simon usually sits with - Tim - will be going to Stowmarket next year, not Hartsfield,' Miss Murphy explained, *so Simon's without a partner.'

*Great frog,' Henry said, gesturing towards the wall. To his surprise, Simon's face went red, and he mumbled, *Thanks. What team d'you support?'

*Chelsea,' Henry told him, adding, as Simon obviously wanted to be asked, *You?'

*Norwich. The Canaries. Where d'you live, then?'

*Just off the green. Three, Church Cottages.'

Simon nodded. *Near Grace.'

*Do you know her?'

*Everyone knows Grace,' Simon said, grinning.

As they followed Miss Murphy out into the playground and on to the street, Henry had the odd feeling that he'd talked to Simon before. Puzzling, he fell silent. Next moment he had a nasty surprise - there was Grace, waiting for the coach with a group of others in the grey uniform of Hartsfield High.

*Midget!' she called out. *What's that you're wearing?' She nodded towards Henry's scarlet sweats.h.i.+rt.

His cheeks burned; he'd forgotten to take it off. *It's my uniform. From my old school.' Everyone had worn red sweats.h.i.+rts at his old school, so no one thought there was anything hilariously funny about them. But he didn't want to stand out like an enormous over-ripe strawberry, not on his first day.

Grace giggled. *OK if you don't mind looking like a great squidgy dollop of strawberry jam. Or a walking advert for Pick-Your-Own.'

*So what?' Simon said. *Better than grungey grey, isn't it?'

Grace's chin jutted. *Who asked you, Gingernut?'

*Who asked you, Stringbean?'

*Now, now,' said Miss Murphy. *We'll have none of that on the bus, thank you very much.'

The coach pulled up and she made the older pupils stand back to let the Year Sixes on first. In London, coaches had only been for special outings; it would feel odd to travel to school in one every day. Seated next to Simon, Henry was about to pull his sweats.h.i.+rt over his head, when he realised that Grace would know he'd minded what she said. He decided to keep it on.

Hartsfield High, twenty minutes away, looked enormous. With its drive, vast playing fields and a bewildering number of buildings, it looked to Henry like a small town. Here, the Year Sixes were told to stay in their seats while the older children got off the coach first; and as Grace pa.s.sed Henry, she hissed *Strawberry Pip!' in his ear.

Fortunately, he didn't see her for the rest of the day - apart from glimpsing her once across the big canteen at lunchtime. The group from Crickford St. Thomas were to be divided among six different form groups, joining children from various other primary schools, but Henry was relieved to find that he and Simon were together, in 7JM.

First, there was an a.s.sembly with the Head Teacher; next, a tour of the whole school and a sort of treasure hunt with clues to follow; then sessions with various subject teachers, finis.h.i.+ng with a team construction game to see who could build the strongest bridge out of cardboard.

It felt like being in a small, vulnerable flock - shepherded from place to place, not allowed to stray, while older pupils looked at them with mild interest. What would it be like when they had to manage on their own? Some of the teenagers he saw around the place were huge - twice Henry's size at least. As for the sixth-formers: some of them were so grown-up, and some of the teachers so young, that it was hard to tell the difference, especially as the sixth form didn't wear uniform.

As they were led from the Main Hall to the Science Block, they pa.s.sed a big gang of teenagers cl.u.s.tered around one of the mobile cla.s.srooms. *Year Tens,' said Simon, who had an older cousin at the school. One of the girls went, *Aaah - sweet little things!' to her friend, looking mainly at Henry, with a soppy smile on her face. It reminded him uncomfortably of Leanne and her group. He was doomed to be Cute Little Henrykins wherever he went! His only hope was to hide himself in a cl.u.s.ter of others - or to put on a growing spurt over the summer holidays.