The Girl from Hard Times Hill by Emma Barnes Page B

day.
    â€˜Don’t worry,’ I yelled. ‘I’ll be there!’

Chapter Two

Pam
    I ran up the back lane to Pam’s house, past yards which, like ours, were full of lines of fluttering washing. When I reached her gate, I called out ‘Pammy-oh!’ with my hands cupped round my mouth.
    We all do that – the children who live on Hardy Hill. Whenever anybody wants a friend to come out and play, they call, ‘Megan-oh!’ or ‘Tommy-oh!’ or ‘Susan-oh!’ (the name changes, but you see what I mean) from the back lane. Then, whoever it is comes running out to find them.
    We don’t go into each others’ houses much. Houses are full of grown-ups who don’t want extra childrenunder foot. So the funny thing is, although I see Pam every day, when I go into her house it’s like visiting for the first time.
    This time, Pam came to find me almost before I’d finished calling.
    â€˜At
last
,’ she said. ‘Mum made me help that awful Maureen with her spellings, or I’d have been round for you.’
    One of the things Pam and I have in common is annoying siblings. We both dream of being only children. I suppose I
was
an only child, in a way, until Shirley and Barbara came back from Germany, and I often wish I still was. That’s a secret, though – from everyone except Pam.
    â€˜So do we have time to go up the Hill?’ Pam waved her roller skates at me. She was holding them by the straps.
    â€˜I reckon so!’ I produced mine from behind my back.
    â€˜Come on, then!’
    As we ran, we saw Davy Levenson sitting on his back step with a big book open on his lap. He peered at us but he didn’t say anything. He never does say much, even though he speaks perfect English – he was born here, though his parents, who came fromGermany before the War, still sound German when they speak.
    Pam paused a moment. ‘Why don’t you come roller-skating, Davy?’
    Davy shook his head.
    â€˜Aw, come on! It’s more fun than reading!’
    Davy just shrugged so we ran on.
    â€˜That Davy – you’d think he’d like a change sometimes,’ Pam grumbled. ‘And my mum says reading isn’t good for you.’
    Pam’s not a great one for reading herself. I
do
like reading, but I like to play out too. Reading is for evenings – curled up on my bed, all alone, with my little reading lamp on. Or at least, it was.
    â€˜It takes all sorts,’ I said. This is something Nana often says.
    â€˜That’s true. He is
strange
, though. Maybe it’s because he’s German.’
    â€˜He’s not German.’
    â€˜You know what I mean. Or because he’s Jewish.’
    â€˜I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I don’t know anyone else who’s Jewish besides the Levensons.’
    â€˜My uncle lives in Cardiff and there’s lots of Jewish people there. Do you know, he says some people don’t like them?’
    â€˜I like the Levensons,’ I said.
    I did too. Davy was quiet – but that was better than some of the boys in our class, who made too much noise altogether. Mrs Levenson was always friendly to me. She asked me in sometimes on a Saturday, to light the gas on her stove. Apparently it’s against her religion to light your own gas on a Saturday. She always asked if I was enjoying school, and sometimes gave me an apple.
    I felt sorry for Mr Levenson. He was even quieter than Davy, with a haunted look about him. Sometimes he didn’t even notice that I was there. Nana said a lot of his family had been killed by Hitler during the War.
    â€˜I like them too,’ said Pam. ‘And of course Davy’s awfully clever,’ she added, as if being clever was bound to make you a bit strange. ‘I reckon he’s even cleverer than my cousin’s friend who went to grammar school.’
    We had reached the railway bridge, and there was nobody around. I tugged