After Iris: the Diaries of Bluebell Gadsby by Natasha Farrant

faster’ and that I couldn’t stop smiling.
    ‘Which makes a nice change,’ she said, but she looked pleased and anyway, it’s true.
Wednesday 2 November
    Today it didn’t stop raining and Flora said that’s it, she doesn’t care how much Grandma thinks email rots your brain and won’t allow us to use it except for emergencies, this was a total emergency.
    ‘IN WHAT WAY, YOUNG LADY?’ Grandma boomed.
    Flora said, ‘I haven’t posted for so long my friends will think I’m dead.’ Grandma is very up to date in many ways, but that just floored her.
    My own email inbox was empty. Even Mum hadn’t written, I suppose because she knows we are at Grandma’s and unlikely to be allowed to check. I went on to Facebook. In all the time since I set up a Facebook page (because Flora told me to), nobody except her has ever posted anything on my wall or asked to be my friend, but today I had four friend requests – from Dodi, Jake Lyall, Tom Myers and Colin Morgan.  
    ‘What do I do?’ I asked Flora, who was looking over my shoulder.
    She rolled her eyes. ‘You just click on Accept.’
    ‘But I’m not sure I want to be friends with any of them.’
    ‘No wonder you’re so lonely,’ said Flora.
    I wasn’t going to click ‘Accept’ for Dodi, but Flora made me. ‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ she said, and I guess she’s right.
Thursday 3 November
    Grandma’s plans all fell through today. The waves were too small for surfing and the ground was too wet for riding, and the Babes flatly refused to go for a walk. Then Dad called to announce he was coming down for a surprise visit because he had a meeting in Exeter, and Grandma bundled the Babes into the car to go shopping.
    ‘Sure you won’t come with us?’ she asked, but Flora announced she had to do her roots and I shook my head because suddenly, more than anything in the world, I wanted to be alone.
    Grandma and the Babes drove off. Flora went inside , and I started to walk, very slowly, towards our tree.
    I don’t even know what sort of tree it is, just that it was always hers and mine and that it’s old and good for climbing, with a sort of platform halfway up which is hidden even in winter, when the leaves are fallen. It’s been a lot of things, that tree. It’s been Tintagel and Camelot, a Roman chariot and a pirate ship and it was ours . It’s the one place I know that I can always find her, and when I climbed up she was waiting. She is always waiting.
    I reached the platform and I closed my eyes and laid my cheek against the trunk. I swear, I could see her. I spread my hand out on the wood and it was like the tree had become her. I curled up with my arms around her and I cried and cried and cried until I heard the car come back and Grandma call me, and then I ran to the stream and held my head underwater until I thought it was going to burst.
    Grandma didn’t say anything when she saw me dripping wet. This afternoon she sent me to muck out and brush the ponies and this evening, when all the others were so excited to see Dad, she made me help her with dinner. Grandma may not be a very kissy grandmother, but when we had finished she said, ‘Well done, Bluebell’ very quietly, and I knew that she wasn’t just talking about my Yorkshire puddings.
    Flora checked her emails again after dinner. Grandma says now that Pandora’s box has been opened she is resigned to it never being closed again, but she is trying to ration us to fifteen minutes each in the evening, as long as we have done something outdoors during the day. Flora tapped away furiously for way more than fifteen minutes. I wasn’t even going to look, but when she said ‘Your turn’ I didn’t know how to say no. And I’m glad about that because I had an email from Joss.
    Joss said that things were very, very quiet in London. His parents and grandparents un-grounded him for the first weekend of half-term and he went back to Guildford to see his old friends, but now he is back in