Long Lankin by Lindsey Barraclough Page B

have time to do it, so it’s just left, and there are some climbing trees and lots of wild bits with grass snakes and slow worms, and we can ride our bikes around. The grass isn’t all smooth like the Treasures’. Sometimes we get punctures and I have to fix mine quickly before Dad finds out because my bike’s new. It’s a Raleigh. I got it for passing my scholarship.
    Mum was out the back hanging nappies on the line while Pamela slept in the big black pram. Dennis and Terry were having a row by the pond.
    “For heaven’s sake, let him have the jar, Dennis!” Mum was shouting.
    “No, he just gets mud in it!” Dennis shouted back.
    “Oh, hello,” she said, catching sight of us. “While you’re there, Roger, can you look in the shed and see if there’s another jar for Terry?”
    “Can’t Pete go?”
    “I asked you. Now, go on! Or I’ll get it and you hang up the nappies.”
    I dragged myself over to the shed to get a jam jar. Of course, by the time I found one and took it over to the pond, Dennis had fished out one of those big newts with the orange belly and spots and was poking it with his finger. He wasn’t bothered about his jar anymore and had given it to Terry, so I needn’t have bothered. I knew that would happen.

    Mrs. Jotman put down her empty basket, came over to us, bent over, and looked Mimi in the eye.
    “And what’s your name?” she asked.
    “Mimi, and this is Sid.”
    “Hello, Sid,” said Mrs. Jotman, then looked over at me. “And how about you?”
    “Cora — Cora Drumm,” I said.
    “They’re staying down at Mrs. Eastfield’s,” said Pete.
    “Are they indeed? It’s been a long time since there were any children down there,” said Mrs. Jotman.
    Suddenly she wrinkled her eyebrows together. “Unless . . . Roger! Come here!”
    Roger obviously knew the tone of her voice, and rolled up his eyes.
    At least Mrs. Jotman had the decency not to tell Roger off in front of strangers. She caught hold of his elbow and marched him round the side of the house. We could still hear every word she said.
    “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times . . .” she started.
    Pete and me kept our eyes down and scuffed up the earth, while Mimi went off to see what the boys were doing by the pond.
    “You’ve got the woods to play in, the garden. You can even walk into Daneflete to the park, or the pictures!” she was yelling. “Do I have to keep you in? Are you ever going to take notice of anything I say?” Then came a dull thump, but it wasn’t much. “You know I don’t want you going down to the church. You know that, Roger. I had an idea you’d been down to the marshes. You’re covered in gnat bites.”
    “We were only down at Mrs. Eastfield’s, not the church.”
    “Don’t talk rubbish! I know you’re lying. Your ears are going red. You are absolutely not ever — ever — to go down there again. Do you hear me? I’m not having this sort of trouble all through the holidays! You’re to put your pocket money in Saint Peter’s Pence next time you go to church! Understand?!”
    They came back round the house again, Roger trailing behind Mrs. Jotman, eyes downcast and rubbing his arm. As he got nearer, he looked up from under his fringe and gave us a grin.
    Baby Pamela started making a noise like a little sheep. Mrs. Jotman went over to look at her and told Roger to take me in and make some tea.
    In the kitchen, Roger filled up the kettle, put it on the stove, and struck a match to light the gas. Then he emptied the old tea leaves into a bucket under the sink. Pete took some cups and saucers off the draining board and set them out on the table, then we helped ourselves to some broken biscuits from the tin.
    “You know what makes me cross?” said Roger as we waited for the kettle to boil. “Everybody shouts at us for going down the church, but nobody ever says why we aren’t meant to go.”
    “Why don’t you ask?” I said, rooting around the tin for something