She looked up at them with baleful eyes.

They were looking at the little girl with muddy knees and defiant chin.

They didn't notice.

She went away.

She looked at the ivy-covered bungalow over the wall.

It asked what was wrong.

She didn't say it out loud, for they would think she was mad if they heard.

She mouthed the words and thought as loud as she could.

Attention.

It was so foolish to want it... So un-grown-up.

But she was hungry for it, and she wouldn't ask for it, and she wouldn't get it, and she wanted to cry.

The TV was loud, and her mind drifted off to it sometimes, forgetting what she was crying about.

"This programme presented by... Make your home the envy of the world ! Bring home..."

Then she felt the tears again, and felt angry. Only weak people pity themselves.

She cried some more.

Silly crybaby. Foolish girl. Stop it.

If someone came in ?

They would think she'd gone funny if she sat around howling for no reason.

For of course she couldn't tell them.

They had enough on their minds.

Everyone had enough problems of their own.

She wasn't going to shove hers onto them as well.

And they might laugh.

She didn't know why they should, but people were odd.

They might laugh. And that would hurt.

No.

She pushed it all away, and smiled a weak smile at the bungalow, which was quietly contemplating what she'd told it.

She told it not to bother.

It would all be alright.

From the bottom of the stairs, someone called her name.

Twice in five seconds.

A bitter half-smile.

Then she blanked her face, and went down.