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Nicola.
    ‘No they’re not,’ said Georgina. ‘The wolf is more important than the pigs.’
    ‘Who’s the wolf?’
    ‘I am.’
    Nicola felt a familiar crushing sense of disappointment come over her. It was to be the same here as it was everywhere. She looked down, nursing her bad hand, and remembered countless nativity plays, school concerts, speech days; endless conversations held over her head by people who thought she couldn’t understand: ‘ That little Fairweather girl – we’re going to have to put her at the back ’; ‘ Poor little thing, we’ll have to take her out of the dancing ’; ‘ She really can’t manage – can we find her something else to do? ’
    ‘But the most important of all’, continued Georgina, ‘is the man who sells the straw and the twigs and the bricks to the three little pigs.’
    ‘What?’ Nicola was confused. She didn’t even remember that there was a man. ‘Is he in the Ladybird book?’
    ‘I can’t remember,’ admitted Georgina. ‘But he must have been there. They didn’t just find the straw and things on the road, did they? And if they hadn’t bought such stupid stuff to build their houses with, the wolf wouldn’t have got them. Would he?’ She looked impressively at Nicola.
    ‘Except the bricks,’ said Nicola, who had a logical mind.
    ‘Except the bricks,’ agreed Georgina.
    Nicola was beginning to feel a faint ray of hope. But such rays were deceptive, she knew from experience. She put her head down again.
    ‘Aren’t you going to ask who’s the man who sells the straw and twigs to the little pigs?’ demanded Georgina.
    ‘Who’s the man who sells the straw?’ mumbled Nicola. There was a silence, and she cautiously looked up. Georgina was grinning at her.
    ‘You, stupid! It’s you, of course!’ Nicola started to smile, and instead broke into laughter; loud laughter, that emptied her lungs of breath and filled her face with colour. Instinctively, Georgina leaned over and gave her a hug. Martina, who had sat silently watching all of this, suddenly appeared overcome by emotion and looked away.
    ‘Look at her,’ said Georgina. ‘She’s crying. Soppy.’ She began to giggle, and Nicola, strung up, began to join in almost hysterically. Toby, who had wandered off, came back and started laughing companionably with them, whereupon Martina harrumphed crossly and got up.
    ‘You can’t go!’ said Georgina. ‘You’ve got to look after the twins.’
    ‘Perhaps she should be in the play,’ said Nicola reasonably. ‘She could be mother pig.’
    ‘All right,’ said Georgina. ‘Martina!’ she called. ‘Will you be a mother pig?’
    Martina glared at Georgina, muttered something in German, picked up the twins and stalked off towards the house.
    ‘I don’t think she understood,’ said Georgina, beginning to laugh. ‘I think she thought I was calling her a mother pig.’ The three children fell on their backs in the sun in fits of giggles.
    ‘Mother pig!’ gasped Nicola, fuelling fresh paroxysms of mirth.
    When she couldn’t laugh any more, she lay still, giving the odd gurgle, staring up at the sky and smelling the mixture of grass, earth, and the scent of Arabia on her clothes.
    ‘I’m really glad we’re staying the night,’ she said lazily. ‘I wish we lived here all the time.’ Then she wished she hadn’t said it. Georgina would think she was soppy. She stole a look at her. Georgina was lying flat on her back, staring straight up at the sky. Slowly she turned and looked at Nicola with fierce blue eyes.
    ‘So do I,’ she said.

Chapter Four
    Lunch was served on the terrace. Mrs Finch, Caroline’s daily, had appeared towards the end of the match and called uncompromisingly from the top of the path, ‘Mrs Chance, I’m here.’
    ‘Oh hello, Mrs Finch,’ shouted Caroline, turning towards her and causing Cressida to lose concentration and hit her first serve in the net. ‘Can you dole out the lunch? You know where it all is. And