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lie, and I knew it. “Good-bye now.”
    She closed the door before Maidy had even finished saying “Good-bye.”
    I knew then that I was trapped. Trapped in this house, praying and sitting still and being “good.” Trapped in my own body, never allowed to skip or run, or climb trees or laugh out loud, or say and do anything I pleased, ever again.
    They were going to keep me inside forever.
    A week passed. John smiled at me across the playground and came over a few times and tried to talk to me, but he kept getting called away. I didn’t mind that, because the fullness of our friendship wasn’t for other people to see. I was just glad that he didn’t hate me, especially after the way my parents had behaved.
    The following Saturday, early—just after breakfast and our single morning decade of the rosary—there was a knock on the door. My father had shaved and was getting dressed, so my mother took off her apron, settled her hair in the hallstand mirror and opened it nervously. Who could be calling at this time? I quickly took up my position at the drawing-room door.
    “Good morning, Mrs. Flaherty.” It was John. “These are for you.”
    He was holding an enormous bouquet of flowers, mostly roses and lilac. The Hogans had wild roses scrabbling abundantly up the side of their house, almost covering their doorway—and a huge lilac tree that smelt so sweet on a warm day, you could get giddy just standing next to it. He thrust the bouquet into my mother’s hand before she could object. I could smell summer off them.
    “And I’ve these for you as well,” he said, holding out a wooden box of duck eggs. I was sure I saw a smile strain on my mother’s lips. He had charmed her. It was working!
    “Thank you, John. Maidy must have sent you down . . .”
    “Oh no, Mrs. Flaherty. I came down myself to see if Ellie would like to—”
    “We have no need of flowers, thank you, John, nor eggs.” My father had leaned over my mother and was going to close the door.
    “But they are from the best of our laying ducks, Sir . . .”
    “No matter,” said my father, removing the box of eggs from the crook of my mother’s arm and handing them back to John. My mother clung to her flowers. “And I suggest you consult your guardians before purloining their goods to give away to the neighbors. Good day.” He shut the door in John’s face. John immediately banged on it again, and my father raised his eyes to heaven. “A tearaway—and small wonder, with no parents to guide him.”
    “The eggs were mine to give away, Sir,” shouted John through the door. His strong voice sounded distant, muffled by the thickness of the wood.
    I rushed out of the drawing room and faced my father. “The ducks are his—Paud gave them to him, and John reared them himself. The eggs are his to give away!” My father glared at me, but I didn’t care—I stood firm. “You can cane me if you like, Sir, but those eggs are John’s to give away.”
    His eyebrows rose and his mouth tightened. I suppose he was thinking that perhaps he would cane me, but then he seemed to think better of it and, looking out of the window, said only, “Whatever the case, he’s gone now.” He took the flowers from my mother. “I’ll give these to Miss Kennedy for the church. They’ll come to some use there.” Then he opened the door and left for the day, leaving us standing—my mother’s arms still crooked where the beautiful flowers should have been, and me friendless.

Chapter Five
    My plan was simple. I would not eat until my parents let me see John again, or until I died. Whichever came first.
    After John came round to the house that day, I realized that he had done his best, and his best had not been good enough for my parents. I had dreamed that he might climb up to my bedroom window and carry me off in the horse and cart to the Hogans’ to live happily ever after. But even if he did, I knew now that my parents would come and get me, and that was no good