Fire and Hemlock. Diana Wynne Jones

      “Because I told him to,” said Ivy. “I told him you had a right to have your own father take an interest in you.”

      “I wish you hadn’t,” Polly said. Not wanting to mention Nina, she explained, “He was bored. I saw him yawning.”

      “So was I bored!” Ivy retorted. “I didn’t see why I should be the only one. That play has not changed one word since you started at that school. And before that I was the Angel Gabriel in it myself. I could almost scream by now.”

      This was one of the queer things about divorce which Polly could not have described to Nina – the way Mum said this kind of thing to her that she would normally have said to Dad instead. And the way Dad was not really gone. He was not there, but he hovered in the background all the time. Polly wished he would go right away and get it over with.

      She went away with Mum for Christmas, to Aunty Maud. Aunty Maud’s house was full of tiny cousins, staggering or crawling or lying in cots and bawling. Since they all thought Polly was marvellous, Polly barely had time to notice that Mum was out most of the day. “Ivy needs to relax,” Aunty Maud told her. The only time Ivy was there during the day was Christmas morning, when they all opened their presents. Polly’s big present was a dolls’ house from Dad. He must have forgotten she had one already. Polly tried to be brave. She had wanted a fort, and some tanks and guns. She smiled.