Sweets From Morocco E-Book

Jo Verity

• Herausgeber: Honno Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Seitenzahl: 702

Beschreibung

When baby Gordon threatens their perfect childhood his elder siblings wish him gone. When he does disappear it blights their lives into middle age

Das E-Book wird angeboten von und wurde mit folgenden Begriffen kategorisiert:

Leseprobe

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Part I – 1954

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Part II – 1962

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Part III – 1968

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Part IV – 1976

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Part V – 1978

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Part VI – 1980

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Part VII – 1987

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Part VIII – 1988

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Part IX – 1991

Chapter 38

Part X – 1996

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Part XI – 1998

Chapter 43

Part XII – 2005

Chapter 44

Acknowledgements

About Honno

About Jo Verity

Other titles by Jo Verity

Copyright

Sweets from Morocco

by

Jo Verity

HONNO MODERN FICTION

For Nick Evans

I

1954

Chapter 1

Therectangulargardenwasdivided, half-and-half, into lawn and vegetable patch and in the far corner, between the row of runner beans and the tall privet hedge, two children sat on their heels. The girl’s dark-brown hair hung forward in heavy plaits, framing her solemn face, and she was frowning as, with a short length of bamboo cane, she agitated murky liquid in the jam jar which stood between them on the red soil. The boy looked on, glancing between the jar and the girl’s face, seeming to seek assurance that events were on course. His hair was brown, too, but less vibrantly so, his skin, paler, his movements more hesitant, as if he were her sun-bleached replica.

She stood up, holding the jar aloft and inspecting its swirling contents, then, with her free hand, flicked theplaits back over her shoulders. ‘I’ll go first.’

The boy scrambled to his feet and, now that they were both standing, it was possible to see that he was a shadetaller than his sister. ‘Must we?’

She dismissed his question by raising the rim of the jar to her lips, pausing long enough to ensure his face contorted with revulsion before taking a hearty gulp. She swallowed and, mouth fixed in a triumphant smile, offered the concoction to him.‘Now you.’

The boy shoved both fists into the pockets of his khaki shorts and turned his head to one side, avoiding her glare.

‘Lewis. Drink it.’

‘But…’

‘Drink it. Or I’ll never speak to you again.’ She thrust the jar close to his mouth.

He stood his ground but dipped his head, closing his eyes and screwing up his face as if he had already downed a dose of the disgusting brew.

‘You promised, Lewis. Come on. It’s only gravy browning and water.’

‘And vinegar. And bi carb.’

She tried another tack.‘We could do blood-mingling instead, if you like,’ but he didn’t respond and she stamped her foot. ‘Don’t be such a ninny.’

A reedy voice put an end to the stalemate.‘Tessa? Lewis? Come and wash your hands before dinner.’

Lewis edged to the end of the bean row.‘Coming, Gran,’ he shouted in the direction of the voice, disclosing their hiding place and gaining a let-up from his sister’s demands.

‘You know what breaking your promise means, don’t you? You’ll be cursed forever.’ Tessa caught the back of her brother’s tee shirt. As he twisted, trying to break from her grasp, she doused his feet with the contents of the jar. Some of the liquid splashed on to the ground, escaping in dusty rivulets across the compacted soil, but there was still plenty to saturate his new sandals– the second pair he’d had that summer as his feet had grown a size-and-a-half since Whitsun. He let out a squeak, like brake blocksbinding on the rim of a bicycle wheel, flexing his feet, listening to the kissy slurp of liquid surging up through the patterns punched in the leather.

Tessa dropped the jar and hugged him.‘Don’t cry, Lew. Please don’t cry. Here, take them off.’ She knelt and, whilst Lewis placed a hand on her shoulder to steady himself, she pulled the sandals off, not bothering to undo the buckles, still stiff with newness.

‘It’ll leave a mark. What’ll I tell Mum?’ he fretted.

‘Mum’s not here, stupid.’

‘Dad then.’

She slapped one shoe against the other then placed them on the ground. Reaching beneath her gingham skirt, she dragged her knickers down to her knees then slipped them off. She scrubbed away with this improvised duster, removing as much liquid as she could before placing the sandals on the path, in full sun but out of sight of the house.‘There. They’ll be dry by the time we’ve had dinner. Gran won’t notice you’ve got bare feet.’ She wriggled back into her knickers.

‘Lew-iiis. Tess-aaa.’ The calling voice rose on the second syllable of the names. ‘I won’t tell you again.’

‘C’mon, slow coach.’ Tessa grabbed her brother’s hand and they ran across the lawn to the back door.

Their grandmother was in the kitchen, stationed at the gas cooker, prodding the contents of two simmering pans with a vegetable knife. She nodded towards the sink.‘Wash your hands here, where I can keep an eye on you. I don’t want you disappearing again.’

Tessa ran cold water into the chipped enamel bowl and they dunked their grubby hands, drying them on the towel which hung from the handle of the larder door. Then the children took their places, side by side, at the table whilst their grandmother strained the vegetables through a colander, held at arms length to keep the rising steam away from her spectacles. For the past three weeks, the sun had blazed out of a near-cloudless sky and, as the heat built, there was talk of record-breaking temperatures. Despite this, Gran wore a cardigan over a summerdress, the whole lot swaddled in a washed out pinafore. Her hair was an improbable shade of orange, perfectlystraight to within an inch or two of the cut ends where it erupted in a crinkly border. Tessa and Lewis often discussed their grandmother’s hair, never daring to ask how she achieved this effect but, given its likeness to knitting wool which had been unravelled from an unwanted garment, they guessed it had been reached in a similar way.

‘What’s for pudding, Gran?’ Tessa asked before she’d taken more than a couple of mouthfuls of food.

‘Pudding? There’ll be no pudding until I’ve seen two clean dinner plates.’

‘Only two?’ Tessa asked. ‘What about yours?’

The woman shook her head.‘You’re too sharp, young lady. You’ll cut yourself one of these days.’ After a short silence she continued, ‘I don’t know why they give you these long school holidays. And I certainly don’t know what’s got into you two.’ Lots of their grandmother’s sentences began ‘I don’t know why…’ or ‘I don’t know what…’ as if life were a series of conundrums to which she would never find a satisfactory answer.

Tessa knew the answers to both. Miss Drake had explained to the class that the long summer holidays had come about hundreds of years ago, to enable children to help their families at harvest time. The school that she and Lewis attended was in a suburb, where the largest garden was, at most, twice the size of theirs, making nonsenseof this explanation. But, like admitting that she no longer believed in Father Christmas, it would be crazy to point it out and risk the holiday being shortened. And as for what had ‘got into’ her, Gran must be stupid if she couldn’t workthatone out. The birth of her new brother was what had ‘got into’ her.

Lewis hooked his heels over the strut of the chair and spread his toes as wide as they would go. Simply having nothing on his feet made him feel heroic. His mother told him off if he went about barefoot, warning that he would stand on a piece of glass or get splinters from the woodblock floor or catch those awful things from the swimming baths– verrucas, that was it. He’d get verrucas and the doctor would have to dig them out. This didn’t make sense, though, because how could anyone go swimmingunlesstheir feet were bare?

He dissected the luncheon meat on his plate, enjoying the ease with which the blunt-ended knife cut through thesoft pinkness of each slice. Two, four, eight. Two, four, eight. Sixteen neat rectangles.

‘Don’t play with your food, Lewis, there’s a good boy.’

How was he supposed to cut it up? Diagonal cuts generated a series of frivolous triangles and if he rolled a slice up and jammed it in, she would surely shout at him for overfilling his mouth. Thereweregrownups – Uncle Frank, for example – whom Lewis knew would be happy to discuss this dilemma, but not Gran. So in order to secure the bowls of strawberry jelly and evaporated milk that he’d spotted on the slab in the larder, he let it go unchallenged.

‘Gran?’ Tessa stirred the contents of her bowl, reducing it to an orangey-pink liquid, marbled with bright red. ‘When’s Mum coming home?’

Doris Lloyd’s face took on the soppy expression of someone seeing an orphaned puppy. ‘Are you missing her? Not long now. But she needs to get her strength back. She’ll have her hands full with you twoandyour new baby brother.’

Tessa continued stirring, clattering her spoon in the glass bowl whilst Lewis looked on uneasily.‘We don’t want a brother. Or a sister. We never asked her to get one, did we, Lewis?’ She nudged him.

He shrugged.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Tessa,’ their grandmother said. ‘It’ll be wonderful, having a baby in the house again.’

‘Why? Babies don’t do anything. They just cry and wet themselves.’

Doris Lloyd stood up and gathered the empty bowls.‘That’s enough of that. Off outside, you two. I’ve got things to do.’

The children returned to the garden. Lewis’s sandals had dried but, when he put them on, they felt stiff and rubbed his heels and the tops of his bare toes. To make matters worse, Tessa’s vigorous buffing had removed the polish and, as he had feared, a white tide mark wavered across the insteps.‘Mum’ll be mad.’

Tessa shook her head.‘No, she won’t. She won’t even notice. The baby’ll take up all her time and she won’t bother with us any more. Or love us.’

Lewis tugged at his ears, a sure sign that he was anxious.‘What about Dad? He’ll still love us. Won’t he?’

Tessa had two fathers. One told them adventure stories about a sister and brother, played never-ending games ofI-Spy, made bows and arrows from hazel twigs, and showed them how to fold a sheet of paper into a boat that really floated. The other banished their friends from the house, retreated behind the newspaper and refused to listen, flew off the handle at nothing at all and slapped the backs of their legs. Lewis said that their father would still love them but she wasn’t convinced.

His sudden tempers scared her. Once, smarting from what she considered to be an unjust outburst, Tessa had run crying to her mother.‘It’s hard to explain,’ her mother had said, ‘but Dad gets fed up sometimes. His leg gives him pain. It stops him sleeping and he gets … crabby.’ She’d heard the story many times. When he was fourteen, Dick Swinburne had been playing cricket in the street and had skied the ball on to the roof where it had lodged in the guttering. He’d volunteered to get it back but the ladder he was using slipped and he fell, injuring his hip and breaking hisleg. As a result of the accident, he wore a built-up shoe and walked with a jerky limp. Tessa barely noticed it but her friends stared and whispered when they came to the house. Her father’s leg might be the cause of his bad moods but there was no call to take it out on her and Lewis. They hadn’t even been born when the ladder slipped.

Heat smothered the garden and drove the children back into the house. They took out a jigsaw and began sorting the pieces, but jigsaws were for rainy days and they gave up, creeping upstairs to read comics from the box that they kept beneath Tessa’s bed, poring over the beloved characters who were more part of their lives than the next door neighbours.

‘It’s not fair,’ Tessa grumbled, flopping back on her bed. ‘Everyone’s away.’

The Swinburne family usually spent two weeks every summer in a caravan in Devon or Dorset. When school broke up, the children waited for their mother to begin filling two battered suitcases with shorts and sunhats, bathing costumes and pakamacs. They’d been saving sixpences in a draw string purse – a Christmas present to Tessa from Diane, her current best friend – to buy a model sailing boat and they planned to change the surplus into pennies for the slot machines on the pier. The previous year, Lewis had perfected his technique for launching one game’s tarnished ball bearings and he managed to get them to clunk into the metal cups every time. This success returned his stake money and earned him another try. By the end of the holiday, he had amassed a profit of one shilling and tuppence, which he spent on ice creams for the family.

This year the suitcases had remained in the attic and, when Tessa pestered, her mother had given an inadequate but ominous explanation.‘The baby’s due very soon and I have to be near the hospital. Perhaps we’ll go next year.’

Tessa and Lewis’s knowledge of human reproduction was based on the opaque statement ‘babies grow inside their mother’s tummy’ and, over the past months, their mother’s stomachhadswollen alarmingly. Voluminous dresses replaced gaily patterned skirts and pretty blouses, giving free rein to macabre imaginings. What was going on beneath those swathes of gathered fabric? She’d also taken to patting the swelling each time she said the word ‘baby’ which Tessa took to be a kind of ritual, like saluting a solitary magpie or crossing fingers when telling a fib. But once the baby had been born, the urge to know the ins-and-outs of the birth had diminished.‘Probably something to do with her belly button,’ Tessa ventured but couldn’t square her theory with the inconvenient fact that men possessed these intriguing features, too. In his turn, Lewis wasn’t keen to dwell on any of it, afraid that it might be distressing like the animal carcasses he tried to avoid seeing when they passed the butchers’ stalls in the Central Market.

They messed about for the rest of the afternoon, unsuccessfully pestering their grandmother for biscuits and pop, finally returning to the far end of the garden to hunt for caterpillars on the leaves of the wilting sprout plants.

Dick Swinburne– only his schoolteachers had ever called him Richard – finished work at the General Post Office at five-thirty but for the past week he’d gone straight to the hospital, not getting home until well after Tessa and Lewis had finished tea. Once he’d given his mother-in-law the latest news, she was released from duty and went to catch the bus back to her terraced house on the other side of town.

‘Have you two behaved yourselves for Gran?’

‘Did she say anything?’ Tessa asked.

Ignoring her question he turned to Lewis.‘Haveyou?’ he repeated.

‘Yes, Dad,’ Lewis answered, thankful that his stained sandals were hidden in the shadows under his bed.

‘Good, because I’ve got some news.’ He settled in his shabby leather chair, patting the wide arms where the children perched when there were stories to be told or news to share.‘Jump up.’

Tessa could tell from his tone that he was in a good mood as she and her brother took their places, draping their skinny arms around the back of the chair behind his head.‘What?’

‘Can’t you guess? I’ll give you a clue.’ He shut his eyes and leaned his head back and she marvelled at the tufts of gingery hair which burst from hisnose and ears and the darker bristles, erupting from his chin.‘Let’s see. Something rather special is happening tomorrow.’

‘We’re going on holiday?’ Lewis suggested.

Tessa, understanding immediately what her father was hinting at, was delighted with her brother’s innocent remark and prolonged the episode. ‘You’re taking us to the circus?’

‘Come on. Think hard.’

His good humour was dissolving so Tessa gave the answer he was looking for.‘Mum’s coming home?’

‘Well done, Tess. Mum andGordonare coming home.’

‘Who’s Gordon?’ demanded Lewis. The only Gordon he’d ever heard of was a blue train in the books he borrowed from the library.

‘Gordon is your new brother. We’ve named him Gordon John after your granddad who died in France. I think you’re going to like him.’

The children hadn’t been allowed to visit their mother. Lewis could only assume that this was because the place was in some way terrifying. If he went by his grandmother’s description – ‘He’s a bonny little chap. He’s got your dad’s nose.’ – all he could picture was a kind of blancmange with tufty nostrils.

Worse than that, he and Tessa had not been consulted about the name. Choosing a good name for the succession ofpets that had swum, slithered and hopped in and out of their lives, had always been a serious process, not least because of the wheedling involved to get their parents to agree to the budgie, goldfish, white mice or whatever in the first place. Current pets were Pip, a spiteful ginger cat who lacerated anyone foolish enough to getwithin arm’s length and Speedy the tortoise, who did nothing much. The family had, for three weeks or so, owned a bright-eyed Cairn terrier called Pete who had made a permanent getaway by slipping his lead when supposedly moored to the lamp post outside the library. Lewis thought that‘Pete’ would make a jaunty name for a new brother. Easy to spell, too. His father’s disclosure that the baby’s name had already been decided was further confirmation that family rules were being re-written as Tessa had warned.

‘So, it’s an early night for you two. In the morning you can help me get the place ship shape and set up the cot in ourbedroom. The little chap’ll be sleeping in with us for a while.’

Lewis was optimistic, at least for the first five minutes. Their mother looked pretty much as she had before she’d swollen up and, as soon as she came in, she pulled him and Tessa down to sit either side of her on the sofa, hugging them and laughing.‘I’m sure you’ve both grown an inch while I’ve been away.’

He longed to tell her how much he’d missed her and that Gran’s mashed potato wasn’t quite right and how Dad had given him such a scrubbing at bath time that he’d skinned his neck. But Tessa jumped in first, with a rambling request to spend the night at Diane’s and he was content to flop against his mother, inhaling lavender, perspiration and something half-remembered.

‘So, can I go, Mum?Please?’

‘Don’t pester your mother, Tess.’ Their father came into the room with something large, wrapped in brown paper.

Out of the corner of her eye, Tessa noticed that the white bundle on her grandmother’s lap was moving but, determined to ignore it, she concentrated on the parcel. ‘Is that for us, Dad?’

‘Hold your horses. Aren’t you two going to say hello to your new brother?’ He placed the parcel on the floor, pushing it under the table with his foot.

‘Don’t rush them, Dick…’ her mother’s voice was barely audible.

Lewis stood up and sidled across to their grandmother but Tessa stayed where she was.‘What’s the point of saying “hello” to a baby? He won’t understand, will he?’

‘Tessa!’ Her father grabbed her bare arm, hauled her to her feet and pulled her across the room.

‘Don’t, Dick, please.’

‘You’re soft on her, Peggy. She’s getting too old for this silly behaviour.’ Squeezing both her arms, he shook her.

At school Tessa was forever protesting against accusations of misbehaviour– talking, passing notes, that sort of thing – but, having issued their verdict, the teachers never budged. Finding herself once again up against the injustice of an adult’s demands, knowing that it was a waste of time trying to make her father understand, she shut her eyes and screamed, her voice sliding from one penetrating note to another in a blood-curdling yodel.‘Aaagh. Dad. Aaagh. You’re hurting me.’

The baby joined in, letting out a high-pitched wail, his red hands jerking haphazardly. Gran got to her feet, jiggling the baby and making soothing noises but his crying continued, growing louder and more desperate. She glared at Tessa.‘See what you’ve done, madam?’

‘You. Upstairs. Now.’ Her father pushed her towards the door.

‘Please, Dick. Don’t…’ Their mother half rose then seemed to surrender, sinking back on the sofa, her hand clamped over her mouth.

Tessa dashed upstairs and slammed her bedroom door, whilst the baby, seeming to sense that he was centre stage at last, continued his bawling and Peggy Swinburne, whose hand was no longer adequate to stifle her misery, began sobbing.

Unable to stand the noise, Lewis escaped into the garden where he spent the rest of the afternoon pretending that he was on a desert island, the sole survivor from a crashed Spitfire.

Chapter 2

Tessaspatoutthetoothpaste, watching the river of froth meander towards the plughole. ‘Gordon. Yuck. What a disgusting name.Don’t you think it’sbloodydisgusting, Lew?’ Tessa found swearing exciting but the bad words – damn and blast – and thereallybad words – bloody and bugger – didn’t sound casual enough. She needed a lot more practice. ‘I think we should make them change it to…’ she wrinkled her nose then struck the side of the washbasin with her toothbrush ‘Jim.’ She was readingTreasure Islandfor the third time and was captivated by its hero.

It was nine days since their mother had brought Gordon home and Tessa was still refusing to get involved with, or show any interest in, her new brother. Lewis was less uncompromising and when Tessa abandoned him, going offto play with Diane or Susan, he often knelt on his parents’ bed, peering into the cot and watching the strange little creature run through his repertoire of twitches. Lewis was a patient observer. He noticed how Gordon barely blinked his dark eyes and how he craned his head slowlyfrom side to side, revealing folds of slack skin at the base of his neck. It reminded Lewis of Speedy. He also discovered that if he placed his index fingers against the silky-smooth palms, the baby clung to him, impossibly small fists gripping so tight that he could pull him up into a sitting position. During those intimate moments, Lewis decided that‘Pete’ would be a much better name for his brother.

‘How about ‘Pete’?’ Lewis ventured.

‘Pete?’ She shook her head. ‘That’d be daft. Sweet Pete. Sweet Pea.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Sweet poo.’

Lewis, hurt by her dismissal of his suggestion yet eager to win her approval, took the game one step further,‘Smelly poo.’

‘Smelly bum.’

Giggles escalated to shrieking laughter as they chorused,‘Smelly Gordon. Smelly Gordon.’

‘This sounds fun. Can I join in?’ Their mother stood in the doorway, eyebrows raised, a pile of folded nappies clutched to her chest.

‘Lewis was telling me a joke.’ Unsure how much her mother had heard, Tessa turned to Lewis for confirmation. ‘Weren’t you?’

‘Yes … but I’ve forgotten it,’ he mumbled.

‘Well I hope you weren’t beingmeanabout anyone. It’s cruel to say nasty things about people who can’t answer back.’

Tessa, not caring for the way the conversation was heading, demanded,‘Can’t we go somewhere, Mum? We’re bored.’

‘Why don’t you play in the garden? It’s much too nice to be indoors.’

‘But what can wedoin the garden? We’ve spent the whole holiday in the garden. We want to go to the pictures, don’t we, Lewis? Why can’t you take us?’ Tessa knew that it was out of the question but it gave her satisfaction to put her mother on the spot and winanother battle in her war against Gordon.

‘Maybe we could go for a little walk this afternoon. To the park. Take Gordon on his first outing. You could help me push the pram.’

Tessa and Lewis’s pram had been disposed of years ago, and their parents had bought the flamboyant vehicle now standing in the hall from a neighbour. A few weeks before the baby’s arrival, their father had given it a complete overhaul. After it was duly oiled and polished, he demonstratedmanoeuvring techniques – how to lean on the handle to raise the front wheels; how to apply the brake with a stab of the foot. Lewis thought it might be fun to push it along the pavement, fringed canopy dancing as the shiny black pram dipped on its strapped suspension.

‘No, thanks,’ Tessa answered.

With that, Gordon started a fretful grizzle and, without further discussion, their mother left them.

‘Whatshallwe do, then?’ Lewis asked.

‘Let’s go to Cranwell Lodge.’

Lewis looked dubious.‘We’ll have to tell Mum we’re going out.’

‘Why? She doesn’t carewhatwe do as long as we don’t pester.’

They slipped out of the front gate, skipping along the pavement, pausing only to stroke a tabby cat, sprawled in the shade of one of the lime trees that punctuated Medway Avenue. They hurried on in silence, taking the second right into Cranwell Road, keeping up the pace, breathing heavily as the road rose steeply, lined on both sides with identical pebble-dashed semis. They toiled on up the hill until, beyond the last of the boring little houses, they came to the entrance of a detached villa, standing some way back from the road. Cranwell Lodge was inscribed in the rectangle of slate set in one of the brick piers. The rotting wooden gates hung open, revealing a paved drive, green with moss and creeping ivy, which, as it neared the house, was overhung with leggy bushes. It was a sombre place, the kind of place youngsters might scurry past, before a clawed hand reached from thefoliage to clutch a tender throat.

The children slipped through the vegetation, following the overgrown path around to the back of the house whereTessa tapped boldly on the glazed upper panel of the door. They waited, ears inclined towards the grimy glass.

‘She’s singing.’ Lewis drew away from the door as a voice, thin yet piercing, grew louder.

‘It’s “Oh Come All Ye Faithful”,’ Tessa grinned.

A figure, blurred by the frosted glass, appeared on the other side of the door and, still singing, reached first up then down, noisily drawing back the bolts before unlocking and opening it. The singer was a woman, perhapsseventy years old, wiry white hair cut short in uneven clumps. She wore a white blouse and a black skirt – standard old lady garb had it not been for the crimson satin dressing gown covering it and the matching velvet beret, dipped provocatively over one ear.

Their first meeting with Mrs Channing had been last summer when, against their mother’s instructions, they’d wandered away from home in search of a slope down which to test drive a go-cart, recently acquired from a neighbour who was clearing an outhouse. They were cautious to begin with, starting their ride on the crude contraption a short way up the incline of Cranwell Road, taking it in turns to straddle the rough plank that formed the chassis. As they mastered the steering– a tug on the loop of rope which was connected to either side of the front axle – and brakes – the driver’s heels, applied to the pavement – they grew more cocky until eventually they were careering down the hill, from top to bottom. Lewis was unlucky on his third run, when the front wheel caught the edge of a tilted paving slab, causing the axle to pivot andthe wheel to ram into the plank, stopping the cart dead and throwing him off. In putting a hand out to save himself, he grazed his knuckles and twisted his wrist backwards. Tessa raced to help her brother, who was wailing,shock aggravating the actual damage. At that moment a taxi drew up and an old lady got out. Lewis had stoppedcrying at the sight of the woman, who cut an unusual figure, petite and fragile, in a floaty turquoise coat exactly the same colour as the feathers decorating her wide-brimmed straw hat. More striking than her clothes was the cage, containing a small white parrot, which the driver removed from the seat next to him and placed on thepavement. ‘D’you need a hand with her, Miss?’ the driver asked, pointing at the bird. ‘No thank you, Mr Wilkins.’ Then, as if she’d known them all their lives, she’d nodded towards them, smiling. ‘The children will help me, won’t you, dears?’ Lewis, his injured left hand clamped under his right armpit, sniffed and said nothing but Tessa, sensing one of those moment when something remarkable was about to take place, nodded. Thus began the children’s clandestine association with Mrs Channing and Blanche, the sulphur-crested cockatoo.

‘Good morning, Swinburnes. This is an unexpected pleasure.’ This had become the standard greeting whenever they turned up on her doorstep and her choice of collective name delighted them.

Lewis pointed out tactfully,‘It’s quite a long time ’til Christmas.’

‘Yes, my dear, but when one is as old as I am, there’s no guarantee that one will be around next December. Do come in.’

They followed her through the scullery. Despite the soaring temperatures, the décor– clinical white tiles to a dado rail, then pale blue walls running up to a flaking white ceiling – gave the impression that the daylight was reflected off a carpet of snow. The faintest whiff of gas lingered in the austere room as she led them, all three singing… Oh come let us adore Him … Oh comelet us adore Him …the crêpe soles of the children’s sandals squeaking on the lino. They might have visited the house a dozen times since Lewis’s mishap, but not once had they seen so much as a loaf of bread on the scrubbed table, a vegetable on the draining board or a pan simmering on the spindly-legged gas cooker.

By contrast, the breakfast room beyond, although spacious, was cosy. Swags of green velvet curtains excluded most of the daylight but the room was illuminated by table lamps stationed on the dark, bulbous furniture. Patterned rugs layered the floor like fallen leaves. The walls, covered with rust red wallpaper, were crowded with paintings and framed photographs of sailing boats and elephants and dreamy-eyed ladies and stern-faced men. Therewas a sofa and two armchairs, piled with cushions, and a floor-to-ceiling dresser cluttered with mismatched china. From the bay window, shafts of sunlight slid between the curtains and fell across the ruby red cloth covering the huge, round table. The mantelpiece was piled high with fascinating objects: a stuffed squirrelnotin a glass case; a marble death-mask; a replica of the Taj Mahal; brass candlesticks and copper bowls – items the like of which the children had only seen in museums. Aladdin’s cave or a Bedouin tent could not have been more engaging. Next to the fireplace, and without a doubt the starattraction, a white parrot with a yellow crest sidled back and forth along its perch, dipping its head and muttering to itself in gentle squawks.

‘So, what have you got to tell us?’ Mrs Channing stood next to the parrot, her words suggesting that the creature had an equal interest in whatever the children had to say.

‘We’ve got a baby brother now,’ Tessa sighed and stuck out her lower lip.

‘And you don’t think much of him.’ The old lady spoke as if it were an established fact.

Tessa looked surprised.‘How d’you know that?’

‘Well, for a start, you look as if you’ve lost a pound and found a penny. Besides, it’s common knowledge that babies are a pain in the arse.’

The children stifled giggles, thrilled to hear such fruity language.

‘Babies should be kept in the cellar until they are …’ she put a gnarled finger to her chin as if performing a complex calculation, ‘… three years old. That’s when they start to become interesting.’

‘Didyouhave any babies, Mrs Channing?’ Lewis asked, imagining her slamming and locking a cellar door.

‘No. No, I didn’t. But I did have a brother. A younger brother. Harold.’

‘The same as the one who got an arrow in his eye?’ Tessa suggested.

‘Yes, my dear.’ She turned away, realigning the troupe of ebony elephants that paraded along the mantelpiece. ‘He was killed in battle too, like King Harold. But not by an arrow. By Boer guns. At Ladysmith. He was twenty-two.’ Her voice faded, as if the information was no longer meant for them.

The children stood in silence but their discomfort was almost immediately dispelled by the sound of enthusiastic nose-blowing from somewhere in the house. It continued, growing louder, until the door on the other side of the room opened and an elderly man, white handkerchief clutched to his nose, came in. Catching sight of the children, he gave his nose a final wipe and stuffed the handkerchief into his trouser pocket.‘Visitors. We have visitors.’ He smiled, revealing impossibly white teeth.

Henry Zeal was a scaled down version of a man, barely a foot taller than nine-year-old Lewis. His ruddy face shone as though it had been polished then buffed with a duster and an overly large nose dominated it, rendering his deep-set grey eyes and near lipless mouth even less significant. An abundance of wavy grey hair topped him off, the waves running from side to side, like furrows in a ploughed field. But despite his physical disadvantages, he had the presence of a man twice his size and a full, bass-baritone voice, more fitting a Goliath than a Tom Thumb.

‘Henry, these poor Swinburnes have suffered a great misfortune since we last saw them.’

Tessa was enchanted at Mrs Channing’s and Mr Zeal’s vocabulary. It reminded her of the time a group of actors came to the school to perform an adaptation ofDavid Copperfield.She hadn’t understood a lot of what they said but the sense was made perfectly clear by the way they delivered the lines. In fact it was just as if these two old people were putting on a show for her and Lewis and she wondered if they carried on in the same way once they were alone.

After a dramatic pause Mrs Channing continued.‘They have acquired a baby brother.’

Lewis, who seemed more able in this house than anywhere to speak for himself, filled out the details.‘We didn’t … whatever-you-said … him. Mum did. He’s called Gordon. He’s okay, I suppose.’

‘He’s not,’ Tessa snapped. ‘Mum spends all her time fussing with him. She never takes us anywhere any more.’

Mr Zeal patted her hand,‘I’m sure it’s just temporary, my dear, and everything will be back to normal before too long. But let’s forget about Gordon for a while, shall we? Is it too early in the day to offer you both a glass of sherry?’

Tessa and Lewis giggled. They loved coming to this house where adults and children were treated as equals. And equality encouraged truthfulness.‘We’re too young to drink sherry, aren’t we, Lewis? I don’t think we’d like it anyway. Dad let us have a sip of beer at Christmas and it was horrible.’

‘Lemonade, then? One may be too young to drink sherry but one isnevertoo old to drink lemonade.’ Mr Zeal opened the cupboard at the base of the dresser and took out a bottle of lemonade and four cut glass tumblers similar to the ones that their mother kept locked in the glass-fronted cabinet and whichnevercame out, not even at Christmas.

Once they had finished their drinks, the children turned their attention to Blanche, offering her sunflower seeds which she took from the palms of their hands, her black beak twisted to the side, transforming it from weapon to tool. Mrs Channing had taught them how to pet the bird, how to run the backs of their index fingers down her white breast and to listen for the burbling that signified contentment.

The children had managed to keep these visits to Cranwell Lodge and their friendship with Mrs Channing a secret. Even if their mother had heard rumours about an eccentric old lady, there was little likelihood that she would bump into her. Mrs Channing kept herself to herself, rarely leaving the house and when she did– to take Blanche to the vet or to see her bank manager – she went in Mr Wilkins’s taxi. Groceries, meat and bread were delivered to the door and she had no involvement with the neighbours. Despite this, if they were to keep their visits a secret, the children dared not come too frequently or stay too long. As a result, these visits became an exquisite treat to be rationed like a box of chocolates.

The clock started to strike eleven. Tessa nudged her brother.‘We’d better go.’

Mr Zeal eased himself out of the armchair and delved into the pocket of his cardigan.‘Before you venture on your way, hold out your right hands.’

The children waited, savouring what they knew would come next.

The old man dropped a wrapped sweet onto each extended palm.‘From Morocco,’ he said, as he always did.

They sauntered down the road, chewing the chocolate-covered toffees, which needed to be eaten before they reached home. Tessa, the faster eater, finished first.‘It was barley sugar last time, wasn’t it?’

Lewis nodded.

‘Those were from Morocco, too. D’you think he gets all his sweets from there?’

Lewis shrugged and mumbled,‘Dunno.’ Then, swallowing, asked, ‘Where is Morocco, anyway?’

‘A long way away,’ Tessa hedged. ‘He must get them sent.’

‘Probably in crates,’ Lewis added.

Once back home, it was clear that their mother hadn’t given them a second thought. The pram stood outside the back door, Gordon, barely visible beneath a mound of shawls and blankets, whimpering persistently.

‘What’s the matter with him, Mum?’ Lewis asked, following her as she pegged nappies on the clothes line. He was getting used to the paraphernalia that had arrived with Gordon. It covered every surface, like debris after a bomb had exploded – nappies, bibs, safety pins, Vaseline, fancy cardigans and smocked romper suits, talcum powder, cotton wool. But he didn’t think he would ever become accustomed to the grizzling that he knew would, without intervention, increase in intensity until the screaming baby was the only thing in the world.

His mother smiled.‘There’s nothing wrong with him, Lewis. He’s just a baby. All he can do is cry.’

‘And wee and poo and puke,’ he added, wanting to set the record straight, ‘Like Tess said.’

His mother pushed his hair away from his forehead.‘Tessa’s very stubborn. Once she says something she’ll stick to it, whether it’s right or wrong. And remember, she’s notalwaysright. You must make up your own mind.’ Again and again her fingers ran through his hair, calming and attentive, and, looking up into her face, he willed her never to stop, but the baby’s wail grew louder and she hurried to the pram. He followed, watching as she pulled back the covers and lifted Gordon, laying him gently on her left shoulder and stroking his back.‘There, there. Mummy’s here. What’s the matter? D’you want a cuddle? Do you?’

The baby soon stopped crying and Lewis noticed that his eyes were open and that he appeared to be peeping at him over his mother’s shoulder as if to say,She’s mine.

‘I’m bored.’ Tessa burst out of the house where she’d been looking for something to do. ‘When’s dinner ready, Mum? I’m starving.’

‘I’ll get something when I’ve fed Gordon and settled him for his nap.’

‘That’ll takeages. Me and Lewis need feeding, too. Why are we the ones who have to wait?’

Their mother swayed from side to side, the baby silent on her shoulder.‘You know what Dad said, Tessa. You two are supposed to be helping, not making things more difficult.’

‘Just a jam sandwich to go on with?’ suggested Lewis, inclined, as ever, to look for the middle way.

Lewis and Tessa took their sandwiches to the far corner of the garden, their favourite place to escape the baby-ness that had, during the previous week, permeated the house and transformed it into a foreign land. As they ate, they returned to the topic which now dominated their lives.

‘See. I told you it would be like this, didn’t I?’ Tessa threw a clod of soil at a white butterfly that had settled on a ragged cabbage. ‘We’ve got to do something.’

‘Like what?’

Tessa sucked the end of her plait and then looped it under her nose.‘D’you like him?’

‘How d’you mean?’

‘D’youlikehim? D’youlikeit how it is now? Or d’you think everything was nicer before he was born?’

‘Before.’ Lewis came straight back with his verdict.

‘Me, too. So we’ve got todosomething.’

Lewis waited, confident that his sister had a plan.

‘I’ve been thinking about it. What if we put a spell on him? Something to make him … to make it like it was … before.’

‘We can’t kill him,’ Lewis said firmly.

‘Not kill him. Just … send him back.’

‘Back where?’ He tried not to picture where Gordon had come from.

Tessa shrugged.‘Look. Why don’t we just do a spell and see what happens? It probably won’t work,’ she conceded. Then added, ‘Anyway, it’ll be something to do.’

Lewis, feeling out of his depth, scrambled up into the flowering cherry that grew on the edge of the lawn, the bark on its trunk and lower branches polished to a rich red in several places, indicating the best foot and hand holds. Safely in the crown of the tree, he crouched, knees doubled up to his chin. In winter this made an excellent vantage point from which to study the houses and back gardens of Medway Avenue but now, peering between the leaves, he only saw fragmented sections of the same scene, as if it were a half-finished jigsaw puzzle and,when he looked up, the leaves stirring in the light breeze revealed shifting patches of sky, giving him the not unpleasant sensation that he, too, was moving.

‘I’ve worked out what we’ve got to do.’ Tessa stood at the base of the tree. ‘We’ll get started after dinner.’

Chapter 3

‘I’vemadealist.’ Tessa pulled a scrap of paper from the pocket of her navy shorts. The children were sitting cross-legged on the floor in her bedroom and, beyond the closed door, Gordon was crying.‘Plasticine. A dirty bib. Some of his hair – it doesn’t have to be much. And…’ she paused, ‘a blob of poo. Gordon’s poo, that is.’

Lewis closed his eyes and shook his head.‘I’m not touching poo. Can’t we use something else?’

‘No, we can’t.’

What was the matter with Lewis? Wasn’t it obvious that if the magic were to be successful they needed to use the right things – things that belonged to Gordon? People seemed to think that Lewis was brainy, and maybe he was as long as he had all day to work things out, but at the moment he was being completely dim.

‘But you said the spell probably wouldn’t work so I don’t know why we’re—’

‘Because – we – haven’t – got – anything – else – to – doooo.’ She emphasised every word, effectively overruling his objection.

They sneaked around the house, locating a soiled bib and a ball of plasticine. The hair was trickier. Whilst Lewis asked his mother to write out a page of sums, Tessa sneaked the nail scissors from the manicure set that was kept in the middle drawer of her mother’s dressing table. She tiptoed towards the cot, whispering the nonsense that people used as soon as they were within sight of a baby.‘There, there. Everything’s fine. Fine. There.’ It was a bit spooky when Gordon’s intermittent crying stopped as, open-eyed and calm, he appeared to be looking at her. She lifted a few silky strands of dark hair from the nape of his neck, where it grew thickest, and snipped it with the scissors. He turned purposefully towards her touch, his parted lips in search of something, but she pulled away and, dropping the tuft of hair into an envelope she’d salvaged from the waste-paper basket, slipped out of the room.

The final item proved more straightforward than they could have hoped. When Gordon soiled a nappy, their motherremoved it, folding it over, and set it to one side whilst she cleaned him up and pinned on a fresh one. Tessa made sure that she was with her mother on several nappy changes and eventually, when she went to find something in the bathroom, Tessa had the chance, with the aid of a wad of cotton wool, to collect a smear of poo from the soiled nappy. This she wrapped in a sheet of Izal toilet paper before placing it in an empty Smiths crisp packet.‘Like a pass-the-parcel,’ she explained to Lewis later, thrilled by her own daring.

Lewis, relieved that his role in the plot had been so hygienic, smiled his admiration.‘When are we going to do the actual spell? Won’t it look a bit funny if we start dancing around him, chanting or whatever we have to do?’

‘We can do it without going anywhere near him. That’s what all this is for.’ Tessa held up the brown paper bag that now contained everything they needed to proceed. Getting hold of the spell items had been great fun in itself, like fulfilling a secret mission, and they agreed to leave it until thefollowing day before carrying out the next phase of the plan.

Lewis settled at the kitchen table to do the sums, double-checking his calculations, muttering,‘Look at the sign,’ before starting each one. Tessa sat opposite, cutting pictures and words from an old magazine then pasting them into a scrapbook. There was no purpose in her effort, no holiday homework to complete or Brownie badge in theoffing – she was doing it because she liked cutting things out, liked the almond scent of the stiff paste. They concentrated on their projects, sporadically breaking into song, one starting and the other joining in.‘Maresy dotes… andozy dotes… an liddle lambsy tivy’, occasionally exchanging glances or kicking each other under the table.

Their mother was ironing in the dining room when the phone rang. The children stopped what they were doing, listening as she crossed the hall to answer it.

‘Of course, Frank… Of course not… You’ll have to take pot luck… See you later then.’

Tessa returned to the table.‘I think Uncle Frank’s coming to tea.’

Lewis smiled.‘Good.’

They were playing hopscotch behind the garage when Frank Swinburne came whistling around the corner.‘You kiddos up to no good, as usual,’ he grinned.

The children loved everything about Uncle Frank. He was one of the few people they knew– along with Mrs Channing and Mr Zeal – whose company lived up to expectations. He wasn’t like other adults who promised ‘I’ll be there in a minute’ but never came.

‘Will you play hopscotch, Uncle Frank?’ Lewis asked.

‘Why else would I come to this hell hole? Don’t you know I won medals for hopping when I was in the army?’ He dipped his knees, catching each of them around the waist, lifting and swinging them round. When they signalled enough, squealing and screaming that they were going to be sick, he took his turn in their game, skidding the flat stone across the chalked grid, hopping from square to square, ensuring he made a bad job of it then feigning outrage at their amusement.

Peggy Swinburne came out, the baby a swaddled bundle clasped against her chest.‘What’s all the noise about?’ Her frown dissolved. ‘Oh, hello, Frank. Dick’s not home yet.’

‘Hi, Peg. These two horrors are giving me a hard time.’ He dropped to his knees, clutching his chest, then sprawled forward. ‘You win. I’m a gonner. Aaaggghh.’ He lay prone, eyes closed and legs twitching.

The children whooped with delight and their mother laughed.‘You’re a daft beggar, Frank. You’ll ruin your clothes.’

He jumped up, brushing chalk-dust from the knees of his pale trousers and the front of his short-sleeved shirt,and held his arms out, ‘Let’s have a gander at this new nephew of mine, then.’ He took the baby in the crook of his left arm, loosening the sheet around the tiny head. ‘Ugly little blighter, aren’t you?’

Tessa couldn’t square his unkind words with their tender delivery, or the way he raised the baby to his face, brushing his lips against the pink forehead. She looked to her mother, expecting her to look hurt by the insult, but she was smiling.

‘We think he’s ugly too,’ Tessa crowed.

‘Almost as ugly as you two.’ He punched them both lightly on the shoulder.

‘I think it’s a joke,’ Lewis whispered to his sister.

‘I know. I’m not stupid.’ In an instant, her adoration for her uncle turned to loathing. Did he really intend to treat this upstart as their equal?

‘I’m a bit behind with the tea,’ their mother announced. ‘Could you hold Gordon while I get organised?’

‘Why don’t we have a picnic? Out here, in the garden.’ Frank suggested. ‘And we’ll sort it out, won’t we, kids? Give you time to settle this little fella down.’

This was more like it.‘Can we, Mum? Pleeease.’ As their uncle passed the baby back to their mother, Tessa immediately forgave him for his disloyalty.

Picnic preparations were well under way when the garage doors slammed, heralding Dick Swinburne’s arrival. The children, who were tugging the plastic table-cloth, arguing over the best spot on the lawn to place it, abandoned their tussle and rushed to meet him.

‘Dad. Dad—’

‘We found a dead frog by the rhubarb—’

‘Uncle Frank’s hopeless at hopscotch—’

‘He says Gordon’s ugly.’ This, gleefully, from Tessa.

‘We’re having a picnic tea, Dad.’

‘Hang on, hang on.’ Their father put down his well-worn brief case, hugged his children and nodded to his older brother. ‘Hello, Frank.’

‘How’s tricks?’ Frank asked.

‘Fine, thanks. You?’

‘Tickety-boo. Just took over a mate’s book and doubled my commission. I’m thinking of changing my car. Peggy’s looking well. And the nipper.’

‘Yes. She’s tired, of course, but it’ll be easier when the kids are back at school.’

The two men sat on the steps leading up from the yard to the lawn talking about work and cars and cricket, while the children hovered hoping that each lull in the conversation signalled its conclusion. On and on they rumbled and Tessa closed her eyes, surprised how alike the men’s voices sounded. They looked similar, too – brown hair, grey eyes, big ears and straight noses – but Uncle Frank’s face seemed somehow gentler; more friendly. He always wore interesting clothes. Pale trousers and jazzy ties.Coloured socks. Not boring greys and browns like Dad. And, of course, he didn’t limp.

Eventually the children could put up with hunger and inactivity no longer and went to see why their mother was taking so long.

After the picnic, Frank showed the children how, by blowing across a blade of grass clamped between their thumbs, they could generate a delightfully ear-splitting noise. Tessa struggled for a few minutes, refusing to take advice from anyone, then gave up altogether and began juggling with two tennis balls– something her brother couldn’t do. Lewis persisted with the grass until he was able to produce the reedy sound at will.

Frank gave him the thumbs up.‘The lad’s got talent.’

Delighted at gaining his uncle’s approval, he marched around the lawn, blowing into his fist, drowning out the gentle evening sounds that floated across the gardens. But, after a couple of circuits, his father snapped,‘That’ll do, Lewis. We’ve had quite enough of that racket.’ He pointed to the open bedroom window. ‘You’ll wake Gordon.’

The grown-ups went on chatting and Lewis, near to tears at what he considered an unjust reprimand, retreated tothe far corner of the garden. Here he pretended to be fascinated by a colony of ants as they went about theirmysterious business, all the while wishing that his mother would come looking for him, to hug him and persuade him to rejoin the family group. But she didn’t, leaving him feeling doubly abandoned. After a while the ants gained his attention and he pushed a twig down into the mound of frothy soil which marked the nest. Instantly, shiny dark-brown ants spilled out, scattering in all directions, many carrying a single egg the size of a grain of pudding rice.

‘Ssshhh.’ Tessa crept up behind him. ‘Don’t talk too loud. I think they’ve forgotten us and it’s way past bedtime.’

‘Ihatehim,’ Lewis whispered.

‘Who? Dad or Gordon?’

He thought for a moment.‘All of them.’

‘What about me?’

He stared at her. What a silly question. Her‘What about me?’ was like asking what he felt about clouds or Saturdays or books. His sisterwas– and there was nothing more to be said.

A wail, quiet but powerful, seeped out of the bedroom window, like a factory hooter announcing that it was timeto go home. Dick Swinburne glanced around and, spotting the children, pointed at his wristwatch. ‘Come on, you two. Look at the time.’

‘Ooohhh. Can’t we have a bit longer, Dad? It’s the holidays,’ Tessa pleaded.

Frank jumped up, brushing grass off the seat of his trousers. ‘I’m off now anyway. Got to see a man about a dog.’ He grabbed the children gently by the earlobes and led them, giggling, towards the house where he said his goodbyes, shaking his brother’s hand and kissing Peggy and the children on the cheek.

‘See you soon, Frank,’ Peggy said.

‘Not if I see you first,’ he countered, winking at the children, and the family stood on the doorstep, waving as he drove away, the novelty of the evening dissolving as he disappeared from view.

Tessa and Lewis undressed then went in search of their mother. She was sitting in her bedroom, giving Gordon his bottle, singing tenderly‘Lula-lula, lula-lula bye-bye…’and smiling down into the baby’s face, so absorbed that she didn’t notice her other children, waiting in the doorway for her bedtime blessing.

‘Where’s the … stuff?’ Lewis whispered after breakfast.

‘Under the hedge, by the rhubarb.’ Tessa checked that her mother was out of earshot. ‘We’ll do the next bit when she gives him his feed.’

During the course of the morning, Peggy Swinburne paid more attention to her older children than she had for weeks, apologising for the dreariness of their school holiday.‘Perhaps we can do something nice at the weekend, if the weather holds. Go to the beach, maybe. Dad’ll be here to help…’

‘Listen.’ Tessa held her finger up. ‘I think Gordon’s crying, Mum.’

‘My goodness, you’ve got sharp ears.’

They rescued the paper bag from its hiding place, removing the contents cautiously in case the magic had started without them, then, seeing everything was as it should be, they brushed the soil off a flat stone and laid the collection out.

‘First we’ve got to make a baby.’ Tessa rolled the plasticine between her palms, softening it. She subdivided it into six blobs and, after morerolling, pushed the blobs together to make a rudimentary human form.

‘Is it supposed to be Gordon?’ Lewis asked, critically.

‘I haven’t finished yet. Here, hold this.’ Tessa handed the model to Lewis. Opening the envelope, she took out the snipping of hair and pushed it firmlyinto the clay skull. The next step was the one she had been dreading but, not wanting to lose Lewis’s respect, she unwrapped the toilet paper.

‘Aren’t you going to put a nappy on him?’ Lewis asked and in so doing provided her with the solution.

‘Yes. With his poo in it.’ She tore a rectangle from the corner of the toilet paper and folded it around the clay crotch, including the soiled cotton wool. Finally, she laid the effigy on the bib and rolled it up, securing it with the ties.‘There.’ The parcel looked no more sinister than a folded face flannel.

‘What do we do next?’

Tessa had worked out a broad plan but the details needed refining.‘We’ve got to send this,’ she raised the parcel, ‘away. We’ve got to get it as far away from the house as possible.’

Lewis looked doubtful.

‘C’mon, Lew. We agreed, didn’t we, that everything was much nicer before he came.’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘We’re not going to hurt him or anything. Just send him…’ She had no idea where unwanted brothers went.

‘We could leave the … thing … somewhere. For someone to find.’ Lewis thought for a moment. ‘Like in a phone box.’

Tessa kissed him and he flushed with pride.‘That’s it. We’ll leave it in the phone box. C’mon.’ She was already walking towards the gate.

‘What, we’re going to do it now?’

‘Why not? It won’t take long and then it’ll be done.’

The only phone box they could think of was on the far side– the out-of-bounds side – of the main road that marked the limit of their territory. Tessa took charge of the towelling bundle, safely concealed in the paper bag, and they walked briskly to the end of Medway Avenue then turned right, continuing along Buckingham Road until they reached the pedestrian crossing, almost opposite their target. The road was on several bus routes and local traffic used it to avoid going through the centre of the town. The noise and the rush of filthy air from the passing vehicles deterred even Tessa from breaking the rules laid down by their parents and they settled themselves on a garden wall. At last a young woman paused at the crossing and Tessa, having