thought things couldn’t get any worse, they did.
‘My name is Carl Williamson. I’m from the Tarwich Mercury .’ A short but stout man with slicked-back black hair, pointy teeth like a shark and a smile like a cobra grinned from the front step.
Lydia came out into the hall as her mum placed herself firmly in the doorway between the reporter and her family.
‘Can I help you?’ Lydia’s mum asked coldly.
‘I understand your daughter can tell me about the accident her classmate Frances Weldon had. The accident which led to Frances being rushed to hospital.’ Carl Williamson was still smiling – an oily, malicious smile.
‘Is she all right? D’you know?’ Lydia asked from behind her mother.
‘Lydia, go back into the living room,’ her mum said urgently.
‘Lydia? Are you sorry your friend was knocked unconscious?’ Carl was already making notes in his spiral-bound notepad.
Lydia nodded. Of course she was sorry – what kind of question was that?
‘Then why did you push Frances in front of the car?’ asked the reporter.
Lydia gasped. She stared at him, unable to speak. Something warm and wet ran down her face and over her mouth. Salty tears trickled across her tongue.
‘That’s enough,’ Mum said furiously.
‘I . . .’ Lydia began.
‘You didn’t mean to hurt her, did you?’ the reporter asked Lydia sympathetically.
Lydia shook her head. She hadn’t hurt Frankie. It had been an accident. The reporter quickly scribbled in his notepad. He frowned up at the sky as drops of rain began to fall on his pad, smudging the ink.
Someone else was on the path now. Lydia couldn’t see their face. The person – a woman – was too busy taking photo after photo. Snap! Flash! Snap! Flash!
‘Lydia, will you be visiting Frances in hospital . . . ? Have her family told you to stay away? Lydia . . . ?’
Question after question. They didn’t stop. Carl Williamson pushed himself forward. The only thing stopping him from pouncing was Lydia’s mum. She moved to block the doorway, trying to stop both the reporter and the photographer.
‘That’s enough!’ Lydia had never seen her mum so angry. ‘Move your foot!’
The reporter’s foot remained on the doormat, effectively stopping Mum from closing the door.
‘Right! I warned you.’
Click! Flash! Snap! Flash!
‘Oww!’ The reporter yelped and jumped back as the heel of Lydia’s mum’s shoe found his instep. She slammed the door shut so hard that the glass in the door rattled violently.
‘He’s lucky your dad wasn’t at home,’ said Mum after a lot of muttering under her breath.
‘Mum, will Lydia’s picture be in the papers?’ Danny’s voice was scared.
‘Of course not!’ Mum snapped. ‘As soon as Frankie comes round, she’ll tell everyone it was an accident and that will be that.’
‘What happens if she doesn’t come round?’ Lydia whispered.
Mum didn’t reply. Lydia ran to the window in the front room. She watched the reporter and the photographer – a slight woman with short cropped hair – walk slowly away from the house. The photographer took a few more photos of the house before shaking her head and saying something inaudible to the reporter. Lydia continued to watch them as they got into their car and drove away.
Lydia went back out into the hall. ‘Mum, I know you only tried half an hour ago but . . .’
‘I was just about to,’ Mum smiled. She went over to the phone and started dialling. ‘Hello? . . . Yes, I’m phoning about a girl called Frances Weldon. She was knocked down and taken to your hospital? . . . Yes, that’s right. I just wondered how she was doing?’ There was a long pause. Lydia hardly dared to breathe. ‘No, I’m not family,’ Mum admitted reluctantly. ‘But my daughter . . . Oh, I see. Well, could you just tell me if Frances has regained consciousness yet . . . ? Right . . . OK. Thank you. ’Bye.’
‘Mum?’ Lydia whispered.
‘Frances is still
‘My name is Carl Williamson. I’m from the Tarwich Mercury .’ A short but stout man with slicked-back black hair, pointy teeth like a shark and a smile like a cobra grinned from the front step.
Lydia came out into the hall as her mum placed herself firmly in the doorway between the reporter and her family.
‘Can I help you?’ Lydia’s mum asked coldly.
‘I understand your daughter can tell me about the accident her classmate Frances Weldon had. The accident which led to Frances being rushed to hospital.’ Carl Williamson was still smiling – an oily, malicious smile.
‘Is she all right? D’you know?’ Lydia asked from behind her mother.
‘Lydia, go back into the living room,’ her mum said urgently.
‘Lydia? Are you sorry your friend was knocked unconscious?’ Carl was already making notes in his spiral-bound notepad.
Lydia nodded. Of course she was sorry – what kind of question was that?
‘Then why did you push Frances in front of the car?’ asked the reporter.
Lydia gasped. She stared at him, unable to speak. Something warm and wet ran down her face and over her mouth. Salty tears trickled across her tongue.
‘That’s enough,’ Mum said furiously.
‘I . . .’ Lydia began.
‘You didn’t mean to hurt her, did you?’ the reporter asked Lydia sympathetically.
Lydia shook her head. She hadn’t hurt Frankie. It had been an accident. The reporter quickly scribbled in his notepad. He frowned up at the sky as drops of rain began to fall on his pad, smudging the ink.
Someone else was on the path now. Lydia couldn’t see their face. The person – a woman – was too busy taking photo after photo. Snap! Flash! Snap! Flash!
‘Lydia, will you be visiting Frances in hospital . . . ? Have her family told you to stay away? Lydia . . . ?’
Question after question. They didn’t stop. Carl Williamson pushed himself forward. The only thing stopping him from pouncing was Lydia’s mum. She moved to block the doorway, trying to stop both the reporter and the photographer.
‘That’s enough!’ Lydia had never seen her mum so angry. ‘Move your foot!’
The reporter’s foot remained on the doormat, effectively stopping Mum from closing the door.
‘Right! I warned you.’
Click! Flash! Snap! Flash!
‘Oww!’ The reporter yelped and jumped back as the heel of Lydia’s mum’s shoe found his instep. She slammed the door shut so hard that the glass in the door rattled violently.
‘He’s lucky your dad wasn’t at home,’ said Mum after a lot of muttering under her breath.
‘Mum, will Lydia’s picture be in the papers?’ Danny’s voice was scared.
‘Of course not!’ Mum snapped. ‘As soon as Frankie comes round, she’ll tell everyone it was an accident and that will be that.’
‘What happens if she doesn’t come round?’ Lydia whispered.
Mum didn’t reply. Lydia ran to the window in the front room. She watched the reporter and the photographer – a slight woman with short cropped hair – walk slowly away from the house. The photographer took a few more photos of the house before shaking her head and saying something inaudible to the reporter. Lydia continued to watch them as they got into their car and drove away.
Lydia went back out into the hall. ‘Mum, I know you only tried half an hour ago but . . .’
‘I was just about to,’ Mum smiled. She went over to the phone and started dialling. ‘Hello? . . . Yes, I’m phoning about a girl called Frances Weldon. She was knocked down and taken to your hospital? . . . Yes, that’s right. I just wondered how she was doing?’ There was a long pause. Lydia hardly dared to breathe. ‘No, I’m not family,’ Mum admitted reluctantly. ‘But my daughter . . . Oh, I see. Well, could you just tell me if Frances has regained consciousness yet . . . ? Right . . . OK. Thank you. ’Bye.’
‘Mum?’ Lydia whispered.
‘Frances is still
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