Molly sat there with her knees up to her chin and her chubby arms clasped around her shins to make herself as small as possible. She giggled to herself at having managed to squeeze into such a magnificent hiding place. Peter had yelled that he was coming ages ago, and he hadn’t even set foot in this particular room yet, let alone twiddled the knob of the old wardrobe in which Molly was secreted, covered by an old raincoat.
In the garden, Peter and David, cousins and rivals, batted a shuttlecock back and forth with gusto, laughing at their latest ruse to rid themselves of David’s little sister. As usual, the game degenerated into a series of squabbles over the imaginary boundaries of the court and whether the score was nine-six or nine-seven. Molly was forgotten.
Watching from the kitchen window, the two mums agreed that it would only be a matter of time before the boys would be hitting the shuttlecock at each other, then one or both would come in crying with accusations of racket-throwing.
‘Lemonade and crisps!’ shouted Karen, David’s mother, hoping to avert the usual tantrums. The boys dropped their rackets with the shuttlecock still aloft and raced for the back door.
‘Where’s Molly?’ asked Karen, puzzled.
Molly gasped, having held her breath for thirty or so seconds having heard footsteps in the corridor outside the bedroom. She imagined the greedy hands of seekers, prying in every recess, being directed towards her by some magnetic force; in fact it was just Gran padding slowly to the toilet.
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