Pete.
We turned left into Ottery Lane, then took a track off to the right.
“This is the cinder path,” said Roger, “where we made our igloo in the snow last year. Tooboy helped, but it was so small we could only get two in at a time. I read somewhere that you’re supposed to light a fire inside an igloo so the ice melts and seals up all the cracks, but we didn’t have enough room for a fire, so Pete and me took a candle in, but when we lit it, we were so squashed it singed his balaclava.”
“And me eyebrows went frizzy,” said Pete. “Then this man off the
Lokswood Herald
was going to take a picture with us standing in front of our igloo. He called at our house with his camera and we were all excited and brought him down, but when we got here, someone had kicked it in.”
“I think it was most probably Figsy, or Tooboy’s friend Malcolm,” said Roger. “But Mum and Dad tried to make up for us not being in the paper, so that night when we were in bed, they crept out and made a great big snow-woman in the garden.”
“She had big bosoms sticking out,” said Pete, showing me what they looked like, “and she was sitting down with her legs straight out and we called her Marilyn Monroe.”
“And do you know,” said Roger, “there was a little heap of Marilyn Monroe in the garden right up till April.”
Ahead of us was a wall of trees. At the edge of the woods, the cinder path became a narrow track that wound its way around the trunks. I looked up as we walked along to see little sparkles of sunlight gleaming every now and then through the whispering leaves above us.
The bomoles were three miserable bomb craters from the war.
All around us at home in London, there were places that had hardly been cleared up since the bombing, even at the end of our street. Dad said the government didn’t have any money to do anything. They’d started building new flats, but it was going to take ages. Some people had lived in prefabs for years. My friends and I played in ruins all the time and found all sorts of stuff in the rubbish — sometimes a few coppers to buy sweets with.
To be frank, these bomoles in the woods weren’t up to much — just holes in the ground with wet mushy leaves in the middle. I didn’t say anything.
There was a huge rope-swing, though, made by this big boy, Figsy. It was so high you had to climb the giant tree it was hanging from, lean over the fork made by two thick branches and have the swing handed up to you. You sat on the plank of wood with your legs on either side of the rope, then jumped off the tree and swung backwards and forwards. I could wrap my legs right around the plank, then lean back and dangle my head and arms upside down as I went, leaving my stomach behind on the tree.
Roger and Pete showed me some of their camps. The best one was in a tall tree that had a platform of branches halfway up. Roger and Tooboy, Figsy’s brother, had found an old black car door on the cinder path, and they’d dragged it up the tree and wedged it across the branches so you could sit on it, although it did slope down a bit. Pete slid sideways and flattened our bag of jam sandwiches. They ended up squashed thin, but we ate them anyway, sitting on the door, looking out over the tops of the trees and across the yellow cornfield beyond. Roger pointed out the faraway tower of North Fairing church.
When we got back to Roger’s, Mimi had fallen in the pond and was wearing a pair of Terry’s shorts. Mrs. Jotman told me to say sorry about it to Auntie Ida. She’d washed her frock, and it would be dry for tomorrow.
“You’d better hurry back,” she added. “It feels really close, and look at those big dark clouds. You don’t want to get caught in a thunderstorm.”
Mimi wanted me to carry her all the way down Old Glebe Lane to Auntie Ida’s, but I told her if she didn’t walk, I’d leave her behind. I couldn’t have lifted her if I’d wanted to. Everything ached, and now my shoulders
We turned left into Ottery Lane, then took a track off to the right.
“This is the cinder path,” said Roger, “where we made our igloo in the snow last year. Tooboy helped, but it was so small we could only get two in at a time. I read somewhere that you’re supposed to light a fire inside an igloo so the ice melts and seals up all the cracks, but we didn’t have enough room for a fire, so Pete and me took a candle in, but when we lit it, we were so squashed it singed his balaclava.”
“And me eyebrows went frizzy,” said Pete. “Then this man off the
Lokswood Herald
was going to take a picture with us standing in front of our igloo. He called at our house with his camera and we were all excited and brought him down, but when we got here, someone had kicked it in.”
“I think it was most probably Figsy, or Tooboy’s friend Malcolm,” said Roger. “But Mum and Dad tried to make up for us not being in the paper, so that night when we were in bed, they crept out and made a great big snow-woman in the garden.”
“She had big bosoms sticking out,” said Pete, showing me what they looked like, “and she was sitting down with her legs straight out and we called her Marilyn Monroe.”
“And do you know,” said Roger, “there was a little heap of Marilyn Monroe in the garden right up till April.”
Ahead of us was a wall of trees. At the edge of the woods, the cinder path became a narrow track that wound its way around the trunks. I looked up as we walked along to see little sparkles of sunlight gleaming every now and then through the whispering leaves above us.
The bomoles were three miserable bomb craters from the war.
All around us at home in London, there were places that had hardly been cleared up since the bombing, even at the end of our street. Dad said the government didn’t have any money to do anything. They’d started building new flats, but it was going to take ages. Some people had lived in prefabs for years. My friends and I played in ruins all the time and found all sorts of stuff in the rubbish — sometimes a few coppers to buy sweets with.
To be frank, these bomoles in the woods weren’t up to much — just holes in the ground with wet mushy leaves in the middle. I didn’t say anything.
There was a huge rope-swing, though, made by this big boy, Figsy. It was so high you had to climb the giant tree it was hanging from, lean over the fork made by two thick branches and have the swing handed up to you. You sat on the plank of wood with your legs on either side of the rope, then jumped off the tree and swung backwards and forwards. I could wrap my legs right around the plank, then lean back and dangle my head and arms upside down as I went, leaving my stomach behind on the tree.
Roger and Pete showed me some of their camps. The best one was in a tall tree that had a platform of branches halfway up. Roger and Tooboy, Figsy’s brother, had found an old black car door on the cinder path, and they’d dragged it up the tree and wedged it across the branches so you could sit on it, although it did slope down a bit. Pete slid sideways and flattened our bag of jam sandwiches. They ended up squashed thin, but we ate them anyway, sitting on the door, looking out over the tops of the trees and across the yellow cornfield beyond. Roger pointed out the faraway tower of North Fairing church.
When we got back to Roger’s, Mimi had fallen in the pond and was wearing a pair of Terry’s shorts. Mrs. Jotman told me to say sorry about it to Auntie Ida. She’d washed her frock, and it would be dry for tomorrow.
“You’d better hurry back,” she added. “It feels really close, and look at those big dark clouds. You don’t want to get caught in a thunderstorm.”
Mimi wanted me to carry her all the way down Old Glebe Lane to Auntie Ida’s, but I told her if she didn’t walk, I’d leave her behind. I couldn’t have lifted her if I’d wanted to. Everything ached, and now my shoulders
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