Buddy

Sharey and Jelly stopped speaking on Wednesday.

Nobody could remember exactly why. There had been something about a turn on the swing, and then something about a thing somebody said about the thing about the swing, and by Thursday they were sitting at opposite ends of the garden, not looking at each other with tremendous effort.

Buddy, who knows everybody's name and never lets anybody play alone, felt the whole thing land in Buddy's stomach like a stone.

So Buddy started carrying messages.

"Sharey says she doesn't care."

"Jelly says fine then."

"Sharey says tell Jelly the swing was hers first."

By Friday, Buddy had run between them fourteen times, had been snapped at by both, and was thoroughly miserable. The friendship was not fixed. It was worse. And Buddy had started to feel like somebody had unpicked a stitch in the middle of Buddy's chest.

Snuggs found Buddy under the table.

"Whose argument is it?" said Snuggs.

"Theirs."

"And who's been running about all week trying to mend it?"

Buddy thought about this from under the table.

"But if they stop being friends," said Buddy, in a very wobbly voice, "then everything's broken. All of it."

"That's the bit that's actually frightening you, isn't it," said Snuggs. "Not their argument. Yours."

Buddy stopped carrying messages.

It was horrible. Buddy played with Sharey on Saturday and with Jelly on Sunday, and did not say a single thing about the other one, and did not pass on one message, and just kept being ordinary with both of them.

On Monday, without any help at all, Jelly said to Sharey, "This is stupid."

And Sharey said, "I know."

That was the whole reconciliation. Buddy had not been involved in any of it.

They were back on the swing by lunchtime, taking turns, counting to ten.