The Girl in the Scrapbook

like that. They were a couple in their forties who loved her dearly and believed the key to successful parenting was routine and consistency. Nothing could swerve them from the normal bedtime ritual- a cup of milk, a bedtime story and lights out at six o’clock. But it had not been dark at six o’clock and the excitement of her new bed had meant that she just could not settle. First her mum had come and spent some while reassuring her; then, when she started crying again, her dad had appeared, patient but a little stern to settle her once again. She remembered that by now it was getting dark and the light from the moon was casting scary shapes on her wall. She could not help it; she began to cry again, even more loudly than before. This time when her dad had stomped up the stairs he was cross but he did switch on the lamp on her bedside table for ‘just a little while.’

That was when she first saw Molly- although she had not named her Molly then- sitting calmly at the foot of her bed, all dressed in black, watching her intently with sad, green eyes. Curiously, she had not been afraid; instead she felt strangely comforted, content to close her eyes and relax into sleep. When Emily awoke in the morning, the figure was gone but it reappeared regularly after that, so much so that Emily christened her Molly, after a character in one of her favourite stories.

Molly never spoke but Emily did not mind - she had always been a chatterbox and was happy to talk for both of them. Molly was a watchful, calming presence, with long, dark auburn hair and green eyes much like Emily’s own. Always she was dressed the same, in an old-fashioned, plain, belted, black dress and sturdy black shoes. Mostly she sat with Emily in her bedroom but she had appeared once during a trip to the supermarket with her mum. Emily remembered it particularly because she had been trying to climb out of the trolley at the time to reach a very tempting display of chocolate bars while her mum had her back to her. Molly had stood in front of her, blocking the route and she had meekly sat back down. At least she had tried to but her leg had got stuck in the precariously rocking trolley and then a helpful shopper had alerted her mum. She had received a severe telling off, she remembered, and no sweets at all for a week. It was for her own good so she would know not to do it again, she was told.

Inevitably, she soon started mentioning Molly in the course of conversation at home, imbuing her with all sorts of wisdoms, completely fabricated by Emily herself, to help her get her own way. ‘Molly said that you should take me to the park’ or ‘Molly said you should buy me some sweeties’ were two of her favourites. Her mum and dad had looked at each other across the breakfast table when she had first tried it. There was no Molly, as far as they knew, at the nursery Emily attended every morning.

‘Who is Molly, darling?’ her mum had asked.

Emily had wrinkled her face into a frown. How could she describe Molly? ‘She … she’s … my … friend,’ she replied slowly and then with a bit more conviction. ‘Friend.’

‘Yes, I realise that, darling,’ her mum had said patiently. ‘But where from? Does Molly go to nursery?’

Emily pondered the question. No, she had never seen her at nursery. She shook her head.

‘Then who is she? Where did you meet her?’

She thought it best to keep quiet about the supermarket. ‘My room,’ she had admitted cautiously.

Emily remembered that her parents had been understandably alarmed at this point and asked her all sorts of questions to which she really did not know the answers. Eventually they had given up but told her that she was to tell them whenever she next saw Molly.

It just so happened that it was the very same evening when Molly reappeared and Emily had eagerly called her parents. They had come charging up the stairs and switched on the light.

‘Where? Where is she?’ Dad had demanded as he searched the room, even peering behind the curtains.

Emily was frightened by their panic. She had pointed, wide-eyed, to where Molly was sitting, as usual, at the bottom of her bed.

‘There’s no one there, darling.’ Her mum had instantly relaxed and smiled across at her husband who at this point was on all fours peering under the bed. ‘It’s just your imagination.’

‘What’s imag … imag ...?’ It was a difficult word for a four-year-old to get her tongue around.

‘It means she’s not real. She’s someone you’ve made up,’ Mum had replied, giving her a hug. ‘It’s nothing to worry about, sweetheart. Lots of children have imaginary friends, especially when they have no brothers and sisters of their own. It’s good that you have Molly to play with.’

Emily was confused. Did that mean they could not see her? Why couldn’t they see her when she was right there? ‘Look, she’s here,’ she insisted, pointing again.

‘We know,’ Mum had reassured her. ‘Now it’s time for you to lie back down and go to sleep. Say goodnight to Molly.’

‘Goodnight, Molly,’ Emily had repeated obediently.

From that point on, Emily became used to hearing Molly referred to as ‘Emily’s imaginary friend’ when her parents were talking to their own friends, her two aunts and, when she started school, her teachers. The other children were curious and Emily delighted in inventing a catalogue of tales recalling adventures she had undertaken with Molly. This afforded her a pleasing celebrity status amongst her peers and the stories became more and more far-fetched. One day, Molly had taken her for a ride on her broomstick to see the Queen, she was casually informing a crowd of open-mouthed, six-year-old girls in the playground, when her stardom had