Text 10

Her name was Mrs Pratchett. She was a small skinny old hag with a moustache on her upper lip and a mouth as sour as a green gooseberry. She never smiled.

Her apron was grey and greasy. Her blouse had bits of breakfast all over it, toast-crumbs and tea stains and splotches of dried egg-yolk. It was her hands, however, that disturbed us most. They were disgusting. They were black with dirt and grime.

And do not forget that it was these hands and fingers that she would plunge into the sweet-jars when we asked for a pennyworth of Treacle Toffee or Wine Gums or Nut Clusters or whatever. There were precious few health laws in those days, and nobody, least of all Mrs Pratchett, ever thought of using a little shovel for getting sweets out as they do today.

The other thing we hated Mrs Pratchett for was her meanness. Unless you spent a whole sixpence all in one go, she wouldn't give you a bag. Instead you got your sweets twisted up in a small piece of newspaper which she tore off a pile of old Daily Mirrors lying on the counter.

So you can well understand that we had it in for Mrs Pratchett in a big way, but we didn't quite know what to do about it. Many schemes were put forward, but none of them was any good. None of them, that is, until suddenly, one memorable afternoon, we found the dead mouse.

Text 11

Such ordinary things make me afraid. Sunshine. White roses. Children with red hair. And the name - Harry. Such an ordinary name!

Yet the first time Christine mentioned the name, I felt a premonition of fear. She was five years old, due to start school in three months' time. It was a beautiful, hot day and she was playing alone in the garden as she often did. The sun shone on her pale red hair. Her big blue eyes were wide with concentration. Suddenly she looked towards the bush of white roses and smiled.

"Yes, I'm Christine,' she said. She got up and walked towards the bush. "With my mummy and daddy,' she said clearly. Then, after a pause, 'Oh, but they are my mummy and daddy'

Uneasy, without quite knowing why, I called her: 'Chris, what are you doing? Come indoors now. It's too hot for you out there.'

She said, 'I must go in now. Goodbye,' then walked slowly towards the house.

'Chris, who were you talking to?'

'Harry,' she said.

'Who's Harry?'

'Harry'

I couldn't get anything else out of her. When Jim, my husband, came home I told him about the mysterious Harry. He laughed.

'It's not so unusual for only children to have an imaginary friend. Chris has never been keen on her dolls. She hasn't got any brothers and sisters, and she hasn't got any friends yet of her own age. So she imagines someone. Don't worry about it.'

'It's just that I feel extra responsible for her. More so than if I were her real mother.'

'I know. But it's all right. Chris is fine.'

I felt consoled. Until next morning. Christine was sitting on the grass, staring towards the rose bush, smiling.

'Hello,' she said. 'I hoped you'd come. I'm going to school soon. Do you go to school?'

She was silent for a while, nodding, listening, absorbed. I called her in, slightly earlier than usual, for her mid-morning milk.

'Who is Harry, darling?'

'Harry's my brother. He's got red hair. Redder than mine. He's fourteen but he's as tall as you, Mummy.'

'But Chris, you haven't got a brother.'

'Harry's my brother. He says so.'

Another week passed. It was Harry, Harry all the time. The day before she was to start school, Chris said, 'I won't go to school without Harry. I want to be with Harry.'

'Chris, stop this nonsense. Go to school, please.'

She began to weep, loudly and painfully. 'Harry will go away if I do.'

'You'll have other friends.'

Chris and I didn't speak as I took her to school. I felt a sense of loss at parting with her but I reassured myself that every mother must feel that on the first day of school.