Doodlebug Summer by Alison Prince Page B

they give you the shudders. I can’t help watching Hedge. He cuts the cheese up with a heavy old clasp knife he takes out of his pocket, and puts a chunk of it into his mouth with a lump of bread. He talks as he’s munching, and splutters crumbs through his dreadful teeth.
    â€˜You bin plantin’ things again,’ he says to Mum, as if it’s a crime.
    She turns a bit pink and says, ‘Mrs Potter gave me these sweet-pea seedlings, so I thought I’d better get them in.’
    He shakes his head. ‘You can’t be plantin’ now, not when the moon’s goin’ down. You need to catch her when she’s risin’. Tha’s when things grow.’
    â€˜Oh, I see,’ Mum says. ‘Sorry.’
    â€˜Nuther time, you just leave ’em to me.’
    â€˜Yes, perhaps I’d better.’
    My dad isn’t a bit like Hedge. He plays the piano, and when we go to the library, he borrows old, dusty books that nobody else would bother with. He’s hopeless about gardening. He saw some flowers growing by the coal shed once and said, ‘Those are nice,’ and Mum said, ‘They’re dandelions.’ I quite like dandelions, really.
    Mum shouts through the window to Ian, ‘Do you want some milk and biscuits?’
    â€˜No!’ he shouts back. ‘Three hundred and ten.’
    He goes on counting. I can’t imagine how he got to be so good at numbers when he’s so young. But then, I can’t imagine why Pauline has such a struggle with French.

2
The Start of It
    Madame Souris a une maison.
Mrs Mouse has a house
.
    Pauline and I are in a house. It’s underground, so there aren’t any windows, but there are gold medals all over its walls, in between framed oil paintings of mice. We won the medals because we’re very good at French
.
    â€˜What a dreadful noise,’ says Mrs Mouse, frowning at us as she wipes her paws on her apron. ‘It’ll be a tractor. That’s the trouble when you let humans in, they bring their machinery with them.’
    I was going to tell her I don’t have a tractor, but then I woke up. Madame Souris was right, there
is
a noise. It’s not atractor, though. It sounds more like a motorbike, but louder, with an engine that’s not working very well. It’s coming closer.
    Du-du-du-du-du-du-du-du-DU-DU-DU
– Good, it’s stopped. Turn over, go back to sleep again.
    BANG!
    The explosion shakes me in my bed.
    That’s
heavy
, I think. I’m used to bombs, I know the difference between the high-explosive ones and the lighter firebombs, but this is something new. The crash was incredibly loud, and I’ve never heard anything like the stuttering engine sound. And if there’s a raid on, why haven’t we heard the air-raid siren? Why aren’t the guns firing?
    Ian’s woken up, he’s crying. I switch my light on. I can hear Mum getting out of bed. Dad’s not here, he’s on fire-watch duty at the bank in London where he works. All the staff have to take a turn, and this weekend it’s him.
    The motorbike noise is starting again.
    It’s very scary. I pull the bedclothes over my head and curl up like a caterpillar,though I know it’s useless. It takes more than an eiderdown to keep you safe, but having something close and warm round you makes you feel better.
    The noise is coming closer –
du-du-du-du-du-DU
– it’s stopped.
    BANG!
    The explosion comes at once this time, and even louder.
    Mum opens the door. She’s in her dressing gown, and Ian’s beside her, clutching his old bit of blanket and Bun, this rather bald rabbit that he has to have at night.
    â€˜Katie, love, we’d better get downstairs,’ Mum says.
    â€˜What was it?’
    Stupid question – she can’t know.
    â€˜Could have been a damaged aeroplane that crashed. Only I can’t see why there should be two. Come on, quickly.’
    The noise is