two sound like James Wilkes,” Iggy said.
“Who’s that?” Dad asked.
“An expert on babies,” I told him.
Iggy glared at all of us.
“Iggy we are not having another baby,” Mum and Dad told her, at the same time. “Absolutely not.”
The next week after school, we were having milk and biscuits, and Mum said, “I saw Mrs Wilkes on the high street today.”
Iggy had been jabbering away like normal, swinging her legs and talking at a hundred miles an hour about crayons and guinea pigs and skipping, but suddenly she went a bit quiet.
“Did you?” I said.
“Yes,” Mum said. “And we had a nice chat.”
Iggy slipped down lower in her chair and her legs stopped swinging.
“What about?” I asked Mum.
“Oh, this and that.”
I took a big gulp of milk. Iggy was holding her breath. I could hear her not breathing.
“We talked about babies,” Mum said.
“That’s nice,” I said.
“Mrs Wilkes wanted to know where my baby was.”
Iggy’s eyes were perfect round circles and her mouth was a silent straight line.
“What baby?” I asked Mum.
“That’s what I said.”
Iggy made a little groaning noise. It just squeezed out of her. Her cheeks went very pink and she stared very hard at her biscuit.
“Mrs Wilkes was talking about the baby I had last week,” Mum said, looking straight at Iggy. “A baby girl called Clover. She was very keen to meet her.”
It was ever so quiet at the table after that. It was too quiet for me to crunch my biscuit. I had to suck it.
“Iggy,” Mum said in the end. “Did you make up a baby?”
Iggy shook her head. She kept her lips tight shut.
Mum said, “Think very hard before you answer me, young lady.”
Iggy thought very hard. We could see her thinking.
“One lie is bad enough,” Mum told her. “Another one won’t make it any better.”
Iggy’s eyebrows went pink, like they always do when she is about to cry. Her chin started to tremble.
“No tears,” Mum said. “Tears won’t get you out of trouble either.”
“I didn’t mean to say it.” Iggy still wasn’t looking at Mum.
“But you did,” Mum told her.
“I couldn’t help it,” Iggy said.
“Yes you could,” Mum said.
“I just pretended,” said Iggy. “I just told James Wilkes.”
“When?” I asked.
“At playtime,” Iggy said.
“And James Wilkes told his mum,” Mum said. “And she told me.”
Iggy looked at the floor.
“No more pretend babies, Iggy,” Mum said.
“OK.”
“Just you and Flo and me and Dad.”
“OK,” Iggy said.
“Sorry?” Mum said.
“Sorry.” Iggy nodded.
And nobody said another word about it.
Except when Dad kissed us good night and turned out the lights, he said, “Good night, Flo. Sleep tight, Iggy.” And then I heard him whisper, “Good night, Clover.”
Iggy’s teacher was leaving at the end of term and Iggy was extremely upset about it. Rwaida had always been her teacher, since the very first day Iggy started school.
Iggy was really going to miss her.
“I love her,” she sobbed, after her last day in Rwaida’s class. “I love her and I know where everything is.”
“Why does she have to go?” Iggy said. “Why? Why?” and she scrunched her hands together into one little fist.
Mum said, “You know Rwaida isn’t leaving forever. She’s just taking some time off for a happy reason. She will most probably come back.”
“Well, when will she be back?”
“When she has adopted her baby,” said Mum.
“She told us that,” Iggy said, “but I don’t know what it means.”
“Sometimes there are more children than there are families and everybody has to share,” I said.
Iggy frowned at me for a minute. She asked Mum, “Is that right?”
“Sort of. Some children don’t have families and some families have room for more children.”
I said, “Adopting is looking after a baby that you didn’t make.”
“You don’t have to grow it in your tummy?” asked Iggy.
“No,” said Mum. “And it’s not only babies that can be adopted. Children of all ages need families to take care of them.”
“This family has got room for more children,” said Iggy, spreading her arms as wide as they would go and turning round in a circle. “Can we adopt some?”
Mum shook her head. “I doubt it.”
“It wouldn’t have to be a baby,” Iggy said. “Just
