Street Kid by Judy Westwater Page A

became the friend I’d been yearning for. Each morning, when I got up at first light, she would be waiting for me downstairs, wagging her tail in welcome. Suddenly, my chores didn’t seem half as miserable with this alert little pup at my side. She was remarkably patient with me when I wanted to play doctors and nurses, and even let me dress her up in my clothes. She quickly took over from Susie as my number one confidante, and when I got back from school, and had finished my afternoon chores, I’d lie on my bed telling her about my day. She’d sit with her paw on my knee and watch me with bright, intelligent eyes.
    Once, when my dad lifted his arm to hit me, Gyp jumped up and grabbed his sleeve, growling menacingly at him. She was a brave little dog and the best thing that had ever happened to me.
    It was through Gyp that I met Edna Hillyard. The dogs in our neighbourhood were all allowed to roam the streets during the day. No one bothered about collars or leads. When I left for school, Gyp stayed in Wood Street, playing with other dogs and scavenging for scraps. I used to wish I could hang around with her instead of having to go to school.
    I used to dash home in the afternoons, desperate to play with Gyp. When she ran up to greet me I’d squat down and put my arms around her neck and she’d lick my face. It was on one of these afternoons that I met Edna.
    Edna lived two doors up from us, the youngest child in a large, ramshackle family. On the day we first spoke to each other, she was sitting on the step with her dog eating a hunk of bread. I walked over to Gyp, who was sniffing around Edna’s large, friendly-looking mutt. The dog looked twice the weight of the girl, who was an undernourished scrap of a thing with thin, pale hair. She had a sharp little elfin face and must have been a year or two younger than me.
    ‘What’s your name?’
    Edna eyed me with bright eyes, like an inquisitive little robin. I didn’t answer her at first, too nervous to open my mouth. My back felt all prickly – I was sure that a hundred eyes were watching me. In my imaginings, Freda’s spies were always everywhere.
    ‘Judy.’ I barely moved my lips.
    ‘Mine’s Edna,’ the girl said. ‘Why can’t you play out?’
    ‘Not allowed.’
    ‘Why not?’ Edna wasn’t giving up.
    ‘Dunno.’ Part of me was wanting to continue with our conversation – what there was of it – but I simply didn’t dare. And so I called Gyp and went home.
    A few days later, I was walking down the alley next to our house with Gyp when I saw Edna standing on her own, scuffing the ground with a tatty plimsol. She looked bored. Gyp ran over to her dog and began to sniff his bottom.
    ‘Bonzo and Gyp are best friends,’ Edna said. ‘Do you want to come and play?’
    ‘Someone’ll see us.’
    ‘Not if we go to Lloyd Street.’ Edna said. ‘Come on.’
    I followed her and once we were a few streets away, in the road that skirted her school, I finally relaxed.
    ‘Can you do handstands?’ Edna asked, immediately flipping upside down. Her arms looked as though they’d be too spindly to carry her weight and she didn’t do a great job of it. I was ace at handstands – naturally bendy and totally fearless. If you’ve been bashed and beaten all your life I guess you don’t feel fear like other kids.
    Edna gave up doing handstands and watched me for a bit, looking impressed. Then she walked along the low wall that skirted the pavement, her arms stretched out on either side to help her balance.
    ‘Can you play hopscotch?’ I asked Edna.
    ‘Course!’
    ‘Come on, let’s look for a bit of slate.’ In those days, you could always find broken roof slates amongst the general rubble of our streets and alleys. Kids didn’t dare nick the teachers’ chalk, so slate was all they had to mark out the hopscotch grid.
    We found some bits of slate and I drew the numbers and squares on the ground. We then spent a happy half hour, throwing the piece of slate and