The Girl, the Dog and the Writer in Rome

Freja pulled and pulled, and the sleeve of the cardigan unravelled further and further up Mrs Thompson’s arm — almost vanishing to her elbow by the time the length of yarn came free. Freja stared at the tangle of wool in her hands. She gaped at Mrs Thompson’s sleeve, or what was left of it. Quickly, she scrunched the wool into a clump, shoved it into Mrs Thompson’s pocket and dived beneath the table, where she read her book to the wooden seal. One and a half hours later, Clementine returned. ‘Freja,’ she gasped. ‘What on earth has happened to Mrs Thompson?’ Creeping out of her den, Freja explained, ‘She stuffed herself with lemming poo and chocolate and Melting Moments and cups of tea, then fell asleep.’ Clementine sighed. ‘I mean this .’ She waved a bony hand towards Mrs Thompson’s vanishing sleeve. Freja blushed. ‘An accident,’ she whispered. ‘A loose thread. I was just trying to help.’ Clementine dropped to her knees and stared into Freja’s earnest blue eyes. ‘That’s very kind, my darling. I’m sure you meant well, but —’ ‘Oh, you’re home,’ mumbled Mrs Thompson. Her sleepy eyes drifted past Clementine and fell, for the first time, on Freja. ‘Urgh!’ she grunted, her mouth turning down at the sides. Her eyes narrowed as they travelled

14