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  Only one person from Somaliland, though.

  She could still remember the man in the school-uniform shop commenting on her colour. He was trying to be nice, saying how the pale green of the school blouse went very well with her “black skin.” Her skin wasn’t black, though, it was brown. Brown like cinnamon toast, or hazelnuts. And the other people in Cawber weren’t really white, they were the colour of uncooked pork sausages, except for the Indians and Pakistanis, who were more like fudge.

  Dhikilo liked food.

  In fact, Dhikilo loved food. Not just eating it, but making it. She cooked as often as Ruth would allow her, and she made different things each time, which meant that sometimes it didn’t work out and Ruth would sigh as if to say, “Good parents are tolerant when their children try foolish things and fail,” and the leftovers would go into a plastic container at the back of the fridge and grow mould.

  But on other occasions, she would make a delicious meal—maybe a lamb stew with ginger and basil, and cubes of potato all yellowy-orange from the tomato—and Malcolm’s eyes would widen with pleasure when he ate his first mouthful and he’d say, “Well, this makes a lovely change, doesn’t it?” and Ruth would look at him strangely and Dhikilo would be proud of making the flavours all work together.

  Frying onions was just about the best fun ever. If you fried them slow and used plenty of oil they would go soft and golden and caramelly, and if you fried them fast they would go crispy and brown with burnt black curly bits that were actually the tastiest part. And if you had a mushroom you could make fried onions and mushroom on toast, which was as delicious as anything you’d get in a restaurant.

  “You should be a chef when you grow up,” Ruth told her, while carefully picking out any bits of onion that were even slightly burnt, or while eating a totally different thing from the thing Dhikilo had prepared. Maybe she was just doing her grown-up best to give a clueless kid happy fantasies of something that was never really going to happen, like being an astronaut.

  But Dhikilo truly did fancy being a chef when she grew up. Or maybe a waitress. If you were a waitress, you could see the happy expressions on the customers’ faces as they got their meals, whereas if you were a chef you’d be stuck inside the kitchen. Maybe she could be a new kind of chef who also brought the food out. She could have a different apron that was specially for that part, a clean colourful apron that didn’t have kitchen stains all over it, maybe in yellow or gold with swirly embroidery.

  It could work, she was sure. The restaurant just needed to let her try it. Or maybe she’d even be the owner of the restaurant and not have to ask anyone’s permission.

  Don’t limit your dreams, that’s what the school Careers Adviser said. Within reason.

  So, Let Me Try to Help You

  I’ve told you about some of the people who appear in this book, including two of Dhikilo’s three friends. The third friend was Molly, whose mother was a teacher at the school, and whose mother’s godfather was also a teacher at the school when Dhikilo first arrived there, although he’d since retired. He was a professor and his name was Charles Dodderfield.

  I understand that you are not very far into this story yet, and there have already been a lot of names, some of them quite difficult to remember. Also, relationships can be confusing. Dhikilo’s friend’s mother’s godfather, for instance: you almost need a diagram to figure that out! (And what exactly is a godfather anyway?)

  So, let me try to help you. Professor Dodderfield is important. Very important. We won’t meet him for a while, so maybe I should’ve waited longer before mentioning him, but on the other hand, he will be dead by the time we first encounter him so it’s probably best to flag him up now.

  You can relax about Kim the bully. She is irrelevant to the rest of this story. She will grow up to be one of those women who stand around at the Duty-Free perfume shop at Gatwick Airport asking if she can squirt passers-by with special fragrances and she will not be nasty any more, just a bit dull.

  You can also forget about Molly’s mother, because the only significant thing about her is that she used to work with Professor Dodderfield, who, as I said, is definitely important.

  Ruth and Malcolm Bentley are moderately significant because they are Dhikilo’s English mum and dad, and if it wasn’t for them, she wouldn’t have anywhere to live. They are good people and care about Dhikilo a lot, even though they’re too shy to hug or kiss her much. Ruth and Malcolm don’t even hug each other, and once when Malcolm’s father came to visit, Malcolm shook the old man’s hand and patted him awkwardly on the sleeve of his coat, even though they hadn’t seen each other for ages. But Malcolm knows a lot about politics, he makes excellent breakfasts (his poached eggs are always soft but never slimy), he replaces light bulbs when they pop, and the bathroom always has warm dry towels hanging in it. Ruth irons Dhikilo’s school uniform, and makes sure that the duvet with the princesses on it is always clean. You would probably like her if you got to know her, but getting to know a very shy person like Ruth would take you a long time and we don’t have a long time in this story.

  Dhikilo’s friends Mariette, Fiona and Molly are nice enough people but if you forget their names it’s OK, because they won’t be going on the adventure that you and Dhikilo will be going on.

  At Dhikilo’s school, there are various teachers who will float into the story for a moment or two but then float straight out again, so don’t worry about them.

  As for Dhikilo Saxardiid Samawada Bentley, she’s the heroine, obviously, but you don’t have to remember every bit of her name if it’s too much of a strain; just don’t call her “Dick” and preferably not even “Dicky.”

  Respect never hurts.

  To Begin With, Again

  The previous beginning was just the preamble: this is the real start.

  It was a Monday morning after a perfectly standard Sunday, and Dhikilo woke up to the usual wrongness of the light and the usual sense that the duvet was a little thicker than she truly needed. She got up and had a shower. She put on her school uniform and went down to breakfast.

  Her mum and dad were there as normal. Malcolm brought her a plate with a poached egg and some bacon on it. There was toast in a metal rack on the kitchen table. Ruth was drinking coffee and reading the local newspaper, which came out once a week. She liked to read bits of it aloud to Malcolm as he was fussing around.

  “Not much going on this week,” she said, flipping through the pages.

  “What’s the healine?” asked Malcolm.

  Ruth flipped back to the front page and held it up:

  GOOBYE CARS, HELLO SKATEBOARS

  “The council has ecie to emolish the Leisure Centre car park to make way for a skateboaring rink,” Ruth recited.

  “Goo iea,” said Malcolm, putting a glass of fresh milk in front of Dhikilo. “I’m all for it.”

  Dhikilo paused, with a bit of toast raised halfway to her mouth.

  “Demolish?” she ventured.

  “Emolish,” her mum confirmed. “What I on’t unerstan is, where will all those cars go instea?”

  “People shouln’t be riving cars to a leisure centre,” said Malcolm. “It efeats the purpose.”

  Dhikilo looked at Malcolm’s face and then at Ruth’s and back again. Everything about the way they were talking was 100 per cent normal and relaxed, and pronounced just as it should be, apart from the missing Ds.

  Ruth continued reading from the article. “It says here that some Cawber resients have raise concerns that a skateboar rink will lower the tone of the whole area an attract hooligans an juvenile eliquents.”

  Malcolm sat down with his cup of tea. “Better to have them skateboaring, surely, than taking rugs. There’s a rather spleni skateboar rink at the South Bank in Lonon; you pass it on your way to the National Film Theatre. It’s quite a tourist attraction. Something out of the orinary.”

  Dhikilo
took a big swig of milk. She wasn’t imagining this and it wasn’t going away. A most peculiar change had come over her mum and dad since she’d gone to bed last night.

  “Erm... Have I seen that skateboard park in London, Dad?” she asked, carefully enunciating the Ds, as if to feed her parents a helpful reminder of where to insert them.

  “I on’t think so,” said Malcolm. “Tell you what: next time I go to the South Bank, I’ll take you along. If it oesn’t interfere with school, of course.”

  “Woul you like some more breakfast, arling?” asked Ruth. “Something else to rink?”

  “No thanks, Mum.”

  “i you finish that homework you ha yesteray?”

  “Almost.”

  Ruth put on the vague frown she always wore when she was about to say something sternly parental. “You’ve really got to learn not to be istracte by...erm...istractions.” But then she reached out and stroked Dhikilo on the shoulder, half tenderly and half as if she was brushing off some dust, which was her way of saying, “You’re a good kid. Have a nice day at school and work hard.”

  * * *

  Dhikilo always walked to school, unless it was snowing. Sometimes even when it was snowing. One and a half miles there, and one and a half miles back. It was quite a long way and most girls took the bus. But it was good to give the body some exercise before the brain got stuffed with information. And anyway, walking was one of her hobbies. Most of the other girls in the school had hobbies like sport and shopping and gadgets and boyfriends. Dhikilo liked to ambulate.

  On the morning when the letter D disappeared from her parents’ conversation, Dhikilo set off for school on foot as usual. And soon discovered that things were not as usual at all.

  A street sign said:

  STRANLOPER AVENUE

  which was strange because it had always been called STRANDLOPER. Dhikilo walked right up to the sign, squatted down to have a careful look. The D just wasn’t there. It hadn’t been painted out, or scratched off. There wasn’t even room for a D in the spacing of the letters.

  So...did that mean that council workers had been running around during the night, replacing the street signs? She didn’t think council workers would do things like that. At least, not unless they got paid a lot extra for working when they should be in bed asleep.

  She straightened up, and a bird launched itself from a branch overhead, sending some loose leaves scattering down. They landed gently on the window of a parked car. The car was a fancy one, well used and a little rusty, but expensive: a Mercees-Benz, according to its badge. Dhikilo walked on, checking the names of the cars. She didn’t know much about cars—Malcolm disapproved of pollution and liked to tell people that his family used public transport or the legs God gave them (although Ruth did fetch home the supermarket shopping in her little hatchback, which had a roof-rack for bicycles). Anyway, Dhikilo recognized some of the names of the Japanese vehicles and they were fine. She was pretty sure, however, that “Aewoo” had not been the name of a car yesterday, and there was definitely something wrong with “Lan Rover.” She was surprised to discover that there was a car called a Bentley.

  A tottery old lady whose name Dhikilo didn’t know, but who she often met at this time of morning walking her Dalmatian, called out to her as they passed on opposite sides of the street.

  “Nice ay so far!” warbled the old lady, and the dog waved its tail.

  Dhikilo almost called back, “What sort of dog is that?” just to check whether the old lady would say “Almatian,” but she stopped herself. Everyone knew what a Dalmatian was, so it would sound like a really dopey question.

  About halfway to school, she stopped off, as she often did, at the convenience store opposite the Chinese restaurant. Her dad’s breakfasts were nutritious and filling, and the school canteen had plenty of healthy lunch options, but it was always good to have a packet of crisps on hand for that hungry patch after the first lesson.

  On her way to the counter to pay, Dhikilo noticed the newspapers laid out with their headlines showing.

  MIGRANT FLOO MUST STOP, PM VOWS

  said the Aily Mail.

  EPORT THE FREELOAERS

  said the Aily Express.

  FOREIGN OCTORS BLOCKE BY NEW IRECTIVE

  said the Guarian.

  PIGEON MESS A ISGRACE, SAY LOCAL MUMS

  said the latest edition of the Cawber-on-Sans Heral, fresh out this morning.

  Dhikilo bought her crisps and walked the rest of the way to school. Mariette and Fiona were hanging round near the gate waiting for her. They liked to walk in together. It was more pleasant that way, and also it meant that Miss Yeats, whose job it was to stand by the entrance checking the length of skirts, would have less chance of spotting that Fiona’s was too short again.

  “Hi, Icky!”

  Dhikilo jerked back as if someone had flicked her nose.

  But Mariette and Fiona looked as friendly as ever.

  “What’s wrong?” said Mariette.

  “Please don’t call me Icky,” said Dhikilo.

  “You were always fine with it before,” said Fiona, confused.

  “Has anything ba happene?” said Mariette.

  “My name is Dhikilo,” said Dhikilo.

  “Hikilo, sure,” said Mariette, and smiled. “Accor!”

  Dhikilo blinked. “I’m sorry?” she said.

  “It’s French for ‘OK.’”

  The three of them walked through the gate together, just like always, except it wasn’t like always.

  “On’t think I in’t notice, young lay!” said Miss Yeats.

  Eeper Unerstaning

  It was a long, long day without the D.

  With twenty-six letters in the alphabet you’d think that losing one of them wouldn’t be so bad, but it was very bad indeed (or very ba inee, as everyone around her would put it). Dhikilo had to sit at a esk and pay attention to what was written on a boar, she had to put up her han when she knew the answer (“Yes, Hikilo?”), she was cautioned by Mr Dawkins (who was now Mr Awkins) that a science experiment was angerous, she was supposed to tell the ifference between poetry and oggerel, and she was expected to evelop a eeper unerstaning of natural isasters. She handed in a piece of writing to Miss Forster, and Miss Forster shook her head and said, “Honestly, Hikilo, your spelling...!” and proceeded to cross out every D with her red felt-tip pen, until Dhikilo’s little essay looked as if it had been used for cutting up strawberries on. Even the name in the top right corner got corrected: Hikilo Saxarii Samawaa Bentley.

  “That’s not my name, Miss,” said Dhikilo, trying hard to keep her voice quiet and calm.

  “I think you’ll fin that it is,” said Miss Forster with a tight smile, and several of the other girls in the class tittered.

  * * *

  At lunchtime, half the things on the canteen menu were not right. Dhikilo had no desire to eat brea or nooles or umplings or puing.

  “What are you having?” she asked Mariette.

  “I’m trying to eat more healthily,” said Mariette. “So I think I’ll have the sala.”

  Dhikilo looked her right in the eyes. “You know that ‘salad’ should have a D in it, don’t you?”

  Mariette turned away and gazed through the transparent shields on the canteen. “I think this one has tomatoes, lettuce, olives an...erm...cucumber in it. Or maybe I’ll have the shepher’s pie? That has onions an carrots. Carrots are super healthy.”

  Dhikilo stood back while her friend ordered her food. One of the dinner ladies, Pat, who was now an inner lay, smiled at Dhikilo over Mariette’s shoulder. Pat knew exactly what each of the pupils liked or disliked, and she always made some recommendation or comment about the menu to Dhikilo.

  “You might ’ave to starve toay, ear,” she joked.

  “Sorry?” said Dhikilo.

  “We’ve got nuffing you aore,
an loas of fings you ain’t too keen on.”

  Mariette carried her plate of pie away from the counter, and it was Dhikilo’s turn to choose.

  ON’T FORGET YOUR FIVE A AY, said the little sign above the steaming display. Dhikilo chose a chicken rumstick, peas and potato weges.

  She looked around the canteen for Mariette. Mariette had seated herself at a table with a couple of other girls and there wasn’t a spare chair. It was the busiest part of the lunch break. The dining area was chock full of girls eating shepher’s pie and rumsticks and toa in the hole and puing and custar. They were chatting excitedly about homework they’d forgotten to o, fashion moels, holiays, pop stars, boyfriens. This was the way things were now. Nobody had a problem with the vanishment of the D. She, Dhikilo Bentley, was the only one.

  Maybe she should just get used to it? She couldn’t force the world to change back to the way it was yesterday. And Miss Forster’s tight smile and tone of voice had hinted that if she tried, she would regret it.

  * * *

  After lunch there was Music. Yay! Music was Dhikilo’s favourite subject. Her favourite subject used to be History, but that was in her first year when Professor Dodderfield was still at the school. Since he’d left, Music had gone up to the top spot.

  Cawber School for Girls had a terrific music room with three keyboards and a big drum kit and a bouzouki and a clarinet and a magnificent wall-mounted rack of recorders of various sizes. Dhikilo could get a nice noise out of most instruments she was given; it just seemed to come naturally. You put your fingers into a comfortable spot and then moved them around like a happy spider dancing.