Untitled Adam Baron 2. Adam Baron

could afford a car now, and she’d started going out to the cinema on Friday nights with this new friend of hers called Stephan.

      ‘You mean even happier?’ I asked.

      ‘Maybe.’

      ‘Like in The Sound of Music?’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘We’d better hope Charlton beat Wigan, then. Though no singing in front of my friends. Why are you asking?’

      Mum went red. ‘Something happened today.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Just … something I need to think about.’

      ‘But it’s a good thing?’

      ‘I hope so. But I have to think first. Actually, forget I said anything, okay?’

      Mum put the key in and I shrugged, happy to forget it because I wanted to go back to the subject of Mrs Martin. Even now, my favourite teacher could be asking herself what she’d done to turn me against her. When I got back to telling Mum, though, she got distracted again. I was just getting to the bit where we came down from the heath, when Mum’s phone rang.

      ‘Hello?’ she said, sounding a little surprised by who was calling. I tried to carry on talking, but Mum put her hand up. Her face went serious and she said, ‘Of course,’ and ‘Right away,’ before hanging up. She started the car, did a three-point turn, and thirty seconds later we were shooting across the little roundabout as I asked her what was going on.

      ‘Is it Mrs Martin?’ I said, my voice a bit wobbly. ‘Does she want to see you?’

      The answer was no, because Mrs Martin lives in Westcombe Park, and three minutes later we were pulling up outside a house on the other side of Blackheath Village.

      Veronique’s house.

      And in the driveway was an ambulance.

      

      The first time I met Veronique’s granny she was asleep in her chair. Veronique took me down to her little wooden house. We’d brought her tea, but instead of watching her drink it I looked at all the photos on the wall showing her with Veronique when Veronique was little, and even older ones when she herself had been a child, standing with her mum, dad and sister with some boats behind them.

      I would have liked to ask her about that time, and just talk to her generally, because I don’t have any grandparents, and people say they’re fun. Apparently they give you sweets and pound coins AND they fall asleep when you’re watching telly (which means you don’t have to stop). Veronique’s granny didn’t do any of these things that first time I saw her because she didn’t wake up, making me wonder what the point of her was.

      But the next time was different.

      ‘So,’ she said, squinting at me through these MASSIVE glasses. ‘You’re the famous Cymbeline. What sort of a name is that, might I ask?’

      ‘Nanai!’ Veronique said.

      ‘I don’t mind. It’s Shakespeare, Veronique’s granny.’

      ‘I know that! I’m not completely gaga, you know. And call me Nanai. But Shakespeare used normal names as well, didn’t he? Duncan, Richard, Henry …’

      ‘But I could have been called Hamlet,’ I said. ‘Or Romeo.’

      ‘Well, let’s agree that it could have been worse, then.’ Nanai crossed her feet over on this little footstool she had. ‘But what have you got to say for yourself, young man?’

      It was a surprising question and I didn’t know how to answer it at first. But I talked about Saturday football, which we do on the heath, and then Charlton, and how I hoped they’d be up in the Premier League by the time I started playing for them.

      ‘You want to be a footballer, then?’

      ‘Of course. Jacky Chapman’s even got his own helicopter! He’s got a pilot’s licence and he flies himself around.’

      ‘Jacky …?’

      ‘Chapman. He’s the captain. I’m doing my Person Project on him.’

      ‘Your …?’

      ‘You have to find out about someone amazing,’ interrupted Veronique. (She does that. I mean, a lot.) ‘And do a presentation. I’m doing a scientist.’

      ‘Einstein?’

      ‘No. Niels Bohr.’

      ‘Niels Boring,’ I said. ‘Jacky Chapman’s going to fly me to a match and he’s going to fly me home.’

      ‘Is he?’

      ‘Well, I’ve written to him. I asked if he’d fly his helicopter to school and pick me up. Haven’t heard back yet.’

      ‘Seems you really like football, Cymbeline.’

      ‘Course. Did you ever play?’

      Nanai said no, and when I told her how Daisy and Vi, and Vi’s sister Frieda, were all really good, she pushed herself up from her chair. I fetched the ball I’d given Veronique for Christmas (which looked suspiciously clean) and we played in their garden. Nanai hopped about like crazy. Defensively she was very strong (her walking stick helped). As an attacking midfielder she was also impressive. She might not have got round Jacky Chapman, but she nutmegged Veronique no bother and scored a goal between two flowerpots. She was tired then, so I only added two minutes on for stoppages. We helped her back to her chair and she beamed at both of us. Veronique especially.

      Veronique sat on the edge of her chair and Nanai took her hand before doing something a bit weird. She pushed Veronique’s index finger into a triangle and gave it a little nibble! Veronique rolled her eyes.

      ‘She says it’s because I’m so delicious,’ she explained. ‘When I was a baby she wanted to eat me.’

      Nanai giggled, and Veronique rolled her eyes again (though I could tell she secretly loved it). And then Veronique brought Nanai up to date on her French and Chinese classes, fencing competitions, violin, clarinet, ukulele and piano lessons, and how she’d recently got into Tolstoy.

      ‘At your age! Do you like Tolstoy, Cymbeline?’

      ‘I like Toy Story. Lance has got a Buzz Lightyear.’

      ‘Your brother, is he, this Lance?’

      ‘Friend. I don’t have a brother – or a sister,’ I added, which seemed to be a mistake because Nanai stared at me before getting a little panicked, until she turned to the photos on the table by her chair. There was one of a big ship, another of people who looked like they were probably her parents. She grabbed the third one, though – just her as a young woman with another young woman who looked just like her.

      Nanai clung to the picture, tight, mumbling to herself as she drifted off to sleep.

      Veronique reached forward and pulled Nanai’s rug up over her knees. ‘She holds on to it all night,’ she said, meaning the photograph.

      ‘What? Why?’

      ‘It’s a photo of her and Thu,’ said Veronique.

      ‘Thu?’

      ‘Her twin sister. You know I told you Nanai was a refugee?’

      I did know. It was one of the things that made Veronique and her family SO interesting. Nanai had been one of what British people called