Bad Dreams by Anne Fine Page A

label under the photograph on the wall behind. ‘That’s who we’re talking about – Councillor Leroy.’
    And that’s when I guessed what had happened. While we were leaning back against the wall to let the father with the pushchair pass, her head must have brushed against the photo. But if, from that, she knew he wouldn’t be the one to give me the Harries Cup, she must have known what was going to happen to him. And I like Mr Leroy. He was so kind the year that Toby beat me, managing to make me smile even though I was close to crying. And Mrs Trent says he even remembered to ask after me when I wasn’t there last year. I wouldn’t like to think of him as ill. Or worse .
    â€˜So why won’t he be there?’
    Imogen said uneasily, ‘Mel, I don’t know. Honestly .’
    I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone say the word ‘honestly’ more as if they were lying. But this was no time to start a quarrel. If I had raised my voice, it would have echoed up over the balcony, and Mum would have hurried down from the café to chew me out for being so rude to someone I’d invited.
    Scowling, I turned away. And then I thought: Well, fair’s fair. She might be hiding something, but there are things I don’t tell her. She didn’t know I liked her near me in the pool because the fact that she kept everyone away gave me more room to practise.
    Cheered, I lifted my bag of swimming things. ‘Come on,’ I said, grabbing her arm. ‘All this is wasting good swimming time. Let’s hurry up and get changed, and get in the water so I can get on with my tumble turns.’
    And, filled with relief at being let off the hook, she rushed after me through the swing doors.

CHAPTER TWELVE
    N ot that the great clear-a-space-around-us plan was working properly. It was so irritating. From the moment we stepped in the changing rooms, we were surrounded. First, Imogen got caught up in a game with the small children in the next cubicle.
    â€˜Knicker-snatcher! Knicker-snatcher!’
    I heard them giggling the whole time I was getting into my swimsuit. And even as Imogen and I went through the tunnel to the footbaths, their squeals were echoing off the tiles.
    But I was sure that, once we were in the water, everyone would drift away as usual. How wrong I was. Imogen splashed into the shallow end, gasping as she got used to the water, and suddenly she was being mobbed by excited children, all shrieking and calling to her, and it was obvious that if I was going to find room to practise, I’d do far better up the other end.

    â€˜See you in a bit.’
    I looked up after every tumble turn, thinking her usual magic would have worked, and there’d be space around her. But it got worse. Each minute that passed, more children gathered, desperate to join in the game she was inventing. ‘Can I play? Can I play?’ And, by the time I’d finished practising, she even had a group of parents floating lazily on their backs a few feet away from her, taking advantage of the fact that here in the pool today was the most brilliant unpaid nanny.
    â€˜Mel! Melly! Over here!’
    She’d seen I’d finished. Still, I took my time, watching her curiously as I stroked my way through the water towards her. She looked like a different Imogen suddenly, standing taller, and swinging the children round, bursting with energy.
    â€˜Mel! Come and help! I need you.’
    At her imperious command, I swam a little faster. But once I reached the circle, instead of joining it I arched up and plunged under to play the shark around the little forest of waving legs. Standing knee-deep in churning water shrieking with laughter is certainly not my idea of fun.
    But no-one can stay for ever under water. So, in the end, I had to surface to face this merry, bright-eyed person who’d been turning things into a glorious play-time.
    Just like her