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  ‘Here is a p-l-a-a-a-t-e, cara mia!’ Dad sang, gesturing wildly.

  ‘T-h-a-a-a-n-k you, oh, my papa!’ I sang back, flapping my tea towel with a flourish.

  The chicken started to smell very good in the oven. Much better than pizza.

  ‘Let’s set the table properly. You shouldn’t eat a proper roast meal on a tray,’ said Dad.

  I laid out knives and forks and spoons on the kitchen table, like in a restaurant. I polished two glasses. We didn’t have any fancy napkins, but I carefully folded two pieces of kitchen towel to use instead.

  ‘They have flowers in restaurants,’ I said. ‘But we haven’t got any vases – or flowers either.’

  ‘We could use a jam jar,’ said Dad. ‘And if you run out into the front garden, you could pick some of our flowers.’

  ‘We haven’t got proper flowers in our garden,’ I said.

  ‘OK, OK, so I’m not a very diligent gardener. But you could cut some lavender off the bush, and then there’s all that purple creeping stuff – that would look quite pretty in a jar,’ said Dad.

  ‘Yes!’

  I got the scissors and ran down the hall and out of the door. We only had a very small garden at the front, and the back was mostly yard and my old trampoline. But Dad was right – the lavender and the little purple flowers looked good together, and I picked some of the taller daisies in the grass.

  When I straightened up, I saw that there was a lady watching me from the pavement. She had long black hair and very red lips and a big black dress and purple boots. I loved the way she looked. I didn’t know her but she looked strangely familiar.

  ‘Tills?’ she said.

  I dropped all the flowers I’d just picked. I nearly fell on the grass myself. It was Mum! But it couldn’t be Mum. Mum had dark-blonde hair and she didn’t wear red lipstick and she was very thin. This lady was very large underneath her dress.

  ‘Oh, Tills, don’t you recognize me?’ she said.

  It was Mum, but she looked so different that she seemed like a stranger. She was a stranger, yet she still had Mum’s voice. But when she held out her arms, I ran straight into them, and when I was pressed against her, I smelled her wonderful rosy perfume and knew it really was Mum.

  ‘That’s my girl,’ said Mum, sounding choked. When I looked up, she had tears in her eyes. ‘My Tilly,’ she said.

  ‘Are you my actual real mum?’ I asked.

  ‘How many other mothers have you got then, you soppy date?’

  ‘But you look so different!’ I said, craning my neck back to have another look at her.

  ‘Oh, my hair. Yes, I got fed up with all that mouse. I decided to dye it black. It looks more dramatic, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, it looks lovely,’ I said, though I didn’t really like it, not on her.

  ‘Maybe you’ll fancy dyeing your hair when you’re a bit older,’ said Mum, running her fingers through my mousy hair. ‘Still, it looked lovely at that wedding, all curly. Shame it’s gone straight already.’

  ‘You saw me? On the television?’

  ‘Yes, I did. I couldn’t believe it was you at first. You’ve got much bigger!’

  So had Mum, but I didn’t think it would be tactful to say so.

  ‘Then they said your name,’ Mum went on. ‘And I just burst into tears. My little girl, all grown up and a bridesmaid on the television.’

  ‘Did you like my bridesmaid’s dress?’

  ‘Well, I’m not that keen on pink, but you did look very pretty in it.’

  ‘It’s not ordinary pink – it’s raspberry pink,’ I said. ‘Oh, Mum, I just knew you’d see me on the television and come and find me.’

  ‘It took some doing. I drove to the old house and the people there said you’d moved nearly a year ago.’

  ‘We couldn’t tell you because we didn’t know where you lived. I thought you were abroad somewhere,’ I said.

  ‘Well, I was. For a bit. I’ve been all over the place. And I came back to see you, lots and lots of times – don’t you remember?’

  Three times. Was that lots? Didn’t she remember properly?

  ‘I was always thinking of you, Tills. Sometimes it practically drove me mad. You mean the world to me. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘And you mean the world to me too,’ I said, clinging to her. ‘Oh, Mum, you are real, aren’t you? I’m not just making you up? Sometimes I make you up so that it is almost real. And this is so exactly the way I’ve been imagining it would be. Oh, come and see Dad. He’ll be so happy to see you!’

  ‘Will he?’ said Mum. ‘But hasn’t he got a new lady now?’

  ‘Oh, Mum, as if! Come on!’ I grabbed her by the hand and pulled her up the path and through the front door. ‘Dad, Dad, Dad! We’ve got a surprise visitor! And look who it is!’

  ‘Sarah?’ called Dad from the kitchen.

  ‘Sarah!’ said Mum, raising her eyebrows. ‘Oh! So that’s her name.’

  ‘Mum, she’s just my teacher,’ I said quickly. I felt a bit queasy as I said it. Miss Hope was far more than just a teacher. But I didn’t want to explain about her to Mum, just in case it spoiled things. Not when all my dreams had come true at last. I still couldn’t believe it.

  I knew you were supposed to pinch yourself if you thought you were dreaming. As Mum followed me down the hallway, I nipped at my wrist where it was stick-thin, digging my nails in so that it really hurt. It wasn’t a dream. It was all really happening.

  ‘It’s Mum, Dad,’ I called, because I was worried he wouldn’t recognize her either.

  He came to the kitchen door. Then he stood totally still, staring at Mum. I waited for the bells to chime, the birds to start singing, the air to be thick with little cherubs with wings. But Mum and Dad didn’t embrace, didn’t kiss, didn’t even say anything. They just stood there, looking at each other.

  Dad swallowed so hard I could hear it. ‘So I assume you saw Tilly on the television?’ he said eventually.

  ‘Yes, quite by chance. I don’t even usually watch the London Local news. You should have told me,’ said Mum.

  ‘How, exactly, when I don’t have a clue where you’re living?’ said Dad. ‘So I take it you live in the London area now?’

  ‘North London. I’ve done quite a bit of driving around this morning, trying to find you both,’ said Mum. ‘But here I am now. And something smells good. Can I come to lunch?’

  ‘Oh, Mum, it’s like we knew! We never bother cooking on a Sunday, but today we’re doing a proper roast. I did the Yorkshire puddings and I’ve made a banoffee pie all by myself, look!’

  I ran to the fridge and pulled out the plate of pie. My hands were trembling. The plate was cold and I lost my grasp of it. In terrible slow-motion moment I saw it tilt in the air, and then my banoffee pie slid over the side and cascaded onto the floor like a clotted waterfall.

  ‘Oh, my pie!’ I cried, and burst into tears.

  ‘Oh, Tilly,’ said Dad, moving towards me – but Mum got there first.

  ‘Poor old Tills,’ she said, and she sat on a kitchen chair, pulling me up onto her lap. ‘There now, darling, it was only a silly old pudding. We can make another. Don’t cry so.’

  But I couldn’t stop crying now I’d started. I sobbed and sobbed, leaning against Mum’s soft bulk, while she patted me on the back and made little hushing noises. It brought back so many memories that I was stuck, unable to stop. I could hear Mum and Dad talking to each other, but their voices were muffled. All I could hear was my ugly gulping cries and the voice in my head going Mum-Mum-Mum.

  ‘Here, Tilly, drink this,’ said Dad, giving me a glass of cold water. He put my hot hands round the cool glass and made me drink.

  I hiccupped at first, and could barely swallow, but he made me keep on sipping until the sobs died away.

  ‘There now,’ said Mum. ‘That’s better. What was the pudding anyway?’ She peered at the horrible slop on the floor. ‘It smells of bananas. Well, that’s OK, because I can’t stand bananas.’