Molly Quick was born on the first of April. This is not a joke. Anyone who knows Molly will understand that this is not a joke.

In April, Molly Quick, stood on the grassy bank of the Oxford Canal staring at her new home. It was the last in a row of cottages which line the canal in the small village of Daring End, five miles north of Oxford. Her parents, Spencer and Lilly, were not far away.

‘Pretty, isn’t it,’ Lilly said.

Spencer tilted his head and let out a dreamy hum of agreement.

‘This feels right,’ Lilly said. ‘I’m tired of moving.’

The Quicks have moved quite often over the years – coincidentally a bit more since the arrival of Molly.

‘We can put down some roots at last,’ Spencer declared with a hint of relief. ‘That would be good. Mol, did I ever tell you cousins of mine used to live here? Ages ago.’

Only five hundred times, Molly muttered under her breath. Why do fathers repeat themselves all the time? And why had he taken to calling her Mol? He hadn’t asked.

Molly had been surveying her new surroundings. ‘Not many hills,’ she muttered, more to herself than to be heard.

‘It’s not Headington, dear.’ Lilly said. ‘You won’t be able to use your go-cart quite so much around here.’

‘Not unless it floats!’ Spencer said.

Molly creased her face.

A large white van appeared round the corner.

‘Ah,’ Spencer said. ‘Here with go. Give us a hand, Mol?’

The arrival of the van did not interest Molly at all.  ‘When’s Rusty coming?’ she asked.

‘Soon. Soon. Be patient, Mol,’ Spencer said. ‘We’ve got to do a bit of unloading first.’

Two minutes later, Molly was upstairs in her bare bedroom sitting cross-legged on the floor with her head firmly stuck in one of her many annuals, and there she spent a happy hour ignoring the bustling noises associated with moving in. She would have helped but she knew that her best sort of help was keeping out of the way. Besides, there were two men from the white van to lug the heavy stuff.