The Girl, the Dog and the Writer in Rome

‘Well, I’m off now!’ shouted Clementine from the front door. ‘I’ll be back in two hours, tops! Toodle-pip!’ ‘I’m not deaf, you know!’ barked Mrs Thompson. But the shouted farewell was not for the babysitter. It was for Freja’s benefit, a reminder that Clementine would not be gone too long, a ‘toodle-pip’ to carry her love. Freja whispered, ‘Toodle-pip, Clementine,’ and waited. The next ten minutes were critical. Freja knew that a babysitter who left her alone for these first moments would usually keep away for the whole tour of duty, either through laziness or understanding. She didn’t really care which, as long as it happened. Pressing an eye to a small hole in the tablecloth, Freja waited and watched. Mrs Thompson was large and drab, with grey hair and blueish-white skin. An off-white petticoat hung beneath the hem of her skirt. Her shapeless legs ended in a pair of fluffy blue slippers. She sniffed, plonked a worn brown knitting bag on the floor, then shuffled around the living room. She read framed certificates and newspaper clippings, poked at photos, muttered at awards. She took the lid off a large jar containing a preserved owl chick and poked a pencil at the contents. She flicked carelessly through a stack of Clementine’s beautiful sketches of bugs and birds. Lighting upon a test tube of lemming poo, she tipped several pellets into her hand, stared at them, sniffed them and —

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