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said? Hands up." So I put my hand up.'
    'And what did you say?' I asked.
    'What Tobey told me. Goosey Loosey said, "Bloody hell! A talking chicken!" And that's when Mrs Hoyle sent me outside.'
    I sucked in my cheeks and bit the inside of my bottom lip. 'I see,' I said when I could trust myself to speak. 'Rose, "bloody hell" is swearing. And that's not the original ending to the Chicken Licken story.'
    'It isn't?'
    'No, love. Not even close.'
    'But that's what Tobey told me.'
    I sighed deeply at the mention of Tobey. Not only did he live next door to us, he also lived for the fun of winding up my daughter – and he almost always succeeded. I should've guessed that Tobey's version of 'Chicken Licken' wouldn't be the same one everyone else in the country knew and shared. Rose looked up at me, trepidation painting her expression.
    'Mummy, are you going to shout at me?'
    'Would you like me to?' I asked.
    Rose shook her head vehemently.
    'If I were you, Rose, I wouldn't be quite so quick to believe every word Tobey tells you,' I said.
    When Rose heard that, her eyes went all squinty and her cheeks filled with air. It was just as well Tobey wasn't standing in front of her.
    'Rose, you're puffing up like a balloon. Take a breath, dear.'
    She hissed out then inhaled sharply. 'So how does the real story end then?'
    'Chicken Licken and all her equally idiotic friends get eaten by Foxy Loxy for being so stupid,' I told her, all trace of humour fading.
    'Oh!' Rose blinked in surprise. 'I don't think much of that ending. The fox wasn't very nice.'
    'That's the way the world works, Rose,' I warned her. 'If you're naive – which means immature, inexperienced or a bit thick – you get eaten alive.'
    'Oh!'
    We carried on walking.
    ' "Chicken Licken" is not one of my favourite stories any more,' Rose told me unexpectedly.
    No, Rose. I didn't mean to upset you. And I didn't want to spoil one of your favourite stories. It's just that . . . I was just trying to . . .
    I opened my mouth to show Rosie the thoughts not waving but drowning in my head. But then as usual, as always, I closed my mouth and said nothing. And the words of comfort and reassurance that I was desperate to say floundered and got washed away.
    'Come on, Rose,' I sighed. 'We have to get a few things from the shops before we go home.'
    'Yes, Mummy,' said Rose, subdued.
    The local supermarket was about ten minutes out of our way, but I didn't want to go home and then have to come out again. We walked up and down the aisles, Rose lost in her own thoughts. I rehearsed in my head the different things I could say to make her feel better, but everything sounded wrong.
    We were just turning the corner of one aisle when I almost bumped into two Cross men who were chatting away, not looking where they were going.
    'Sorry,' I said, inanely. After all they'd almost walked into me, not the other way round. Both men looked me up and down, then looked at Rose. The taller one narrowed his eyes.
    'Slag!' he hissed at me. 'Blanker-lover.'
    And they carried on walking. Astounded, I turned to stare after them. To say that to me . . . they didn't know me from a hole in the ground, but one look at my daughter and I'd been assessed and judged. I glanced down at Rose but she was oblivious, still lost in her own world – thank goodness.
    And if she hadn't been with me . . . Both men were taller and stronger and younger than me, but I would've taken them on. I wanted to rip their tongues out.
    If Callie Rose hadn't been with me.

five. Rose is 7¼

    I don't particularly like swinging backwards and forwards. Everyone does that. I like to twist round and round and round. That's much more fun. I like to sit with my head tilted back so I can look up at the sky and play cloud busting. I like cloud busting. Just look at that cloud! It looks just like a giant long-eared dog, racing after something I can't see. Or maybe it's running away from something I can't see. I wonder which one is right? I do like to sit