Key to the Door by Alan Sillitoe

said impatiently.
    She clarified her claim: “It ain’t a joke; it’s a piece of pointry,” then sat down.
    He sat by her. “I like pointry. Go on and tell it me.”
    Her face saddened. “I’ve forgot it.”
    He was disappointed, liked to be told poetry and stories, except when he was made to learn them by heart at school. “You’re daft. You forget everything.”
    â€œI’m not daft, Brian Seaton,” she pouted. “If you say I’m daft I wain’t tell you my pointry.”
    â€œDid you make it up?”
    Proudly: “Yes.”
    She’s fibbin’, he told himself, but didn’t say anything because he wanted to hear it. “Tell it me, then,” he said again. “I didn’t mean it when I said you was daft.”
    She was happy at this. “I’ve remembered it now”—and recited the poem.
    â€œThat’s a good ’un,” he said, laughing. She waited for him to stop: “Now you tell me one.”
    â€œI don’t know any.”
    â€œMek one up then,” she ordered, “like I did.”
    â€œI can’t,” he said defiantly.
    She ran off across the field, slammed the rickety wooden gate, and went into the cottage.
    The fire-scooped hollow of the tree smelled of charcoal: who made such a big blaze to scorch out all this wood? Must have searched days for twigs and leaves to get it going. But what a fire, to burn yet carve a black hooded hollow big enough for a good many to hide in from rain or chasing gang, though it wouldn’t make such a good hiding place because every kid in Radford knew about it. He went in, plucked a layer of charcoal and stamped it into the soft wet soil; picked off more to crush in his fingers and turn his flesh black. Must have smoked for days, everyone walking by and nobody thinking to piss on it even. Colliers riding past on their bikes, and laughing at it, letting it burn its heart into a hide-out and shelter for when it rains, though it wouldn’t be a good place if it thundered and lightninged because trees often get struck. Grandma ought to know because she’s older than mam, and even she knows. But p’raps somebody had chucked a bucket of water at the tree to swill it down, watched it sizzling and steaming and gone off thinking it was finished, but as soon as it stopped steaming it starting smoking again until it got red and went back to burning, which served the bloke right for trying to kill it out. He should have minded his own business and let it burn, because once fires start it ain’t right to bother ’em, especially if they’re in a field like this one was: you’ve got to let them get on with it and burn red hot, as any daft sod knows. Tons and tons of wood must a bin burnt in this tree and I’d like to a seen it. Mam says it’s allus bin like this, that even she can’t remember how it was before it was black and hollow.
    By Sunday dinner Gyp hadn’t come back. Merton was in an amiable mood, bland with a few pints of soothing brown ale inside him, and asked at the table if anybody’d seen Gyp. They hadn’t. And no wonder, Violet said, after such a pasting as he’d given the poor bogger. For nothing, as well. Can you blame him for not coming back? Well, it should do as it’s towd, Merton maintained, then it wouldn’t get stick so often. I expect he’s roaming the fields, though. A forkful of mutton fat went into his hatch. He turned to Brian: “Shall you come wi’ me, Nimrod, and see’f we can find ’im after dinner?”
    â€œO yes, grandad.”
    They rounded to the house-back and set off up the sloping path, passing the sentinel well and making a bee-line for Serpent Wood. Was the stick he carried to help him on his walk, or to beat Gyp with for desertion? Yesterday he hated him for hitting the dog, but now, trailing behind in the heavy-clouded silence of green fields, he