brake him. The lines of green looked wrong in the snow.
‘What’s up?’ said William.
‘Nowt,’ said Stewart Allman. ‘It’s your turn.’
‘Why couldn’t you bring it back?’ said William.
‘It’s not mine,’ said Stewart Allman.
‘You should’ve fetched it!’
Stewart Allman began to make snowballs.
William took his turn from the same place as before, but kicked harder and had enough speed to ride the hump. At the bottom he waited for Stewart Allman, but he didn’t come, so William went back up the field.
‘One more,’ said William, ‘then I’m off.’
‘What doing?’
‘I must go see me Grandad.’
‘Why now?’
‘I must catch him while he’s at work. And anyroad, it’s going to snow a blizzard.’
‘You can’t tell that,’ said Stewart Allman. ‘Sun’s shining.’
‘It isn’t at the back of Saint Philip’s,’ said William.
The sky was clear, but behind the church and across the plain there was a cloud that made the seagulls white against it, and the weathercock on the church was golden.
‘Snow’s not that colour,’ said Stewart Allman. ‘Snow’s not black. You’re daft.’
‘It’s still last goes,’ said William.
‘I tell you what,’ said Stewart Allman. ‘You lie on top of me, and I’ll steer, and we’ll get a fair old baz up with that weight.’
‘No,’ said William.
‘Are you frit again?’
‘It’d squash your gas mask.’
‘Mardy!’ said Stewart Allman, and ran down the hill, pushing the sledge in front of him. When he could run no faster he dived on and was away.
As he reached top speed, just before the hump, the left hand runner began to squirm. Even William could see the movement. Stewart Allman tried to brake, but couldn’t, and he lost direction by putting both toes down. The runner cracked, and the sledge lifted into the air sideways, and Stewart Allman rolled with it so that the sledge was between him and the gatepost. William heard the crunch and the smash and was already running. The shrapnel chimed in his pockets.
‘I’ve bent me incendiary,’ said Stewart Allman. ‘Whatever made you think that was a sledge?’ He held the splintered boxwood dangling together on lengths of tin. ‘Two wrecked in one day’s not bad, is it? Shall you be coming after tea?’
‘How can I, now you’ve bust me sledge?’ said William.
‘Oh, there’ll be plenty tonight,’ said Stewart Allman, ‘never fret. And it’s a bomber’s moon: should be good.’
‘I’ll have to see,’ said William.
‘Play again, then?’ said Stewart Allman.
‘Play again,’ said William.
William left his sledge on the pile of other broken sledges and set off for the village.
Grandad’s house was at the bottom of Lizzie Leah’s, and it was a measured mile from the house to where he worked. William tried to pace it, one thousand seven hundred and sixty strides, but his stride wasn’t a yard long and the snow packed under his clogs, and the wind came with the blizzard out of the cloud.
The worst part of sledging was always after. The flakes melted in his balaclava, and he had to keep sucking the chinpiece to keep it from rubbing sore. His mouth tasted of sweet wool. He drew his hands up inside his jacket sleeves, but his khaki mittens were wet. His trousers chafed below his knees, and his sock garters were tight. Each kneecap was blue.
The air raid siren sounded the alert. The alert often went during the day, although the bombers came only at night.
William crossed the village street in frog-hops and giant-strides to reach the grid above the ironmonger’s cellar where Grandad worked. He made it: one thousand seven hundred and sixty yards, jumps and strides.
William stood on the grid. He could see Grandad’s bench below, and the silver gleam of his hair.
William sniffed the drop off his nose. He was cold. He dragged his feet sideways across the grating, to free his clogs, but all he did was to push loose snow onto Grandad’s window.
‘Oh,
‘What’s up?’ said William.
‘Nowt,’ said Stewart Allman. ‘It’s your turn.’
‘Why couldn’t you bring it back?’ said William.
‘It’s not mine,’ said Stewart Allman.
‘You should’ve fetched it!’
Stewart Allman began to make snowballs.
William took his turn from the same place as before, but kicked harder and had enough speed to ride the hump. At the bottom he waited for Stewart Allman, but he didn’t come, so William went back up the field.
‘One more,’ said William, ‘then I’m off.’
‘What doing?’
‘I must go see me Grandad.’
‘Why now?’
‘I must catch him while he’s at work. And anyroad, it’s going to snow a blizzard.’
‘You can’t tell that,’ said Stewart Allman. ‘Sun’s shining.’
‘It isn’t at the back of Saint Philip’s,’ said William.
The sky was clear, but behind the church and across the plain there was a cloud that made the seagulls white against it, and the weathercock on the church was golden.
‘Snow’s not that colour,’ said Stewart Allman. ‘Snow’s not black. You’re daft.’
‘It’s still last goes,’ said William.
‘I tell you what,’ said Stewart Allman. ‘You lie on top of me, and I’ll steer, and we’ll get a fair old baz up with that weight.’
‘No,’ said William.
‘Are you frit again?’
‘It’d squash your gas mask.’
‘Mardy!’ said Stewart Allman, and ran down the hill, pushing the sledge in front of him. When he could run no faster he dived on and was away.
As he reached top speed, just before the hump, the left hand runner began to squirm. Even William could see the movement. Stewart Allman tried to brake, but couldn’t, and he lost direction by putting both toes down. The runner cracked, and the sledge lifted into the air sideways, and Stewart Allman rolled with it so that the sledge was between him and the gatepost. William heard the crunch and the smash and was already running. The shrapnel chimed in his pockets.
‘I’ve bent me incendiary,’ said Stewart Allman. ‘Whatever made you think that was a sledge?’ He held the splintered boxwood dangling together on lengths of tin. ‘Two wrecked in one day’s not bad, is it? Shall you be coming after tea?’
‘How can I, now you’ve bust me sledge?’ said William.
‘Oh, there’ll be plenty tonight,’ said Stewart Allman, ‘never fret. And it’s a bomber’s moon: should be good.’
‘I’ll have to see,’ said William.
‘Play again, then?’ said Stewart Allman.
‘Play again,’ said William.
William left his sledge on the pile of other broken sledges and set off for the village.
Grandad’s house was at the bottom of Lizzie Leah’s, and it was a measured mile from the house to where he worked. William tried to pace it, one thousand seven hundred and sixty strides, but his stride wasn’t a yard long and the snow packed under his clogs, and the wind came with the blizzard out of the cloud.
The worst part of sledging was always after. The flakes melted in his balaclava, and he had to keep sucking the chinpiece to keep it from rubbing sore. His mouth tasted of sweet wool. He drew his hands up inside his jacket sleeves, but his khaki mittens were wet. His trousers chafed below his knees, and his sock garters were tight. Each kneecap was blue.
The air raid siren sounded the alert. The alert often went during the day, although the bombers came only at night.
William crossed the village street in frog-hops and giant-strides to reach the grid above the ironmonger’s cellar where Grandad worked. He made it: one thousand seven hundred and sixty yards, jumps and strides.
William stood on the grid. He could see Grandad’s bench below, and the silver gleam of his hair.
William sniffed the drop off his nose. He was cold. He dragged his feet sideways across the grating, to free his clogs, but all he did was to push loose snow onto Grandad’s window.
‘Oh,
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