The Girl from Hard Times Hill (2 page)

We had reached the railway bridge, and there was nobody around. I tugged Pam's sleeve. ‘I've got something important to tell you.'

‘What is it?' Pam turned and gazed at me anxiously. ‘Is it something awful?'

‘You always think it must be something awful!'

But when I told her the news about Dad, she gave a huge grin. ‘Fabby-fantastic-scrumptious-delicious!' (That's what we say when we're really pleased about something.) We did the little clapping game (‘ip dip a la ba da dutch cheese santa ma, santa ma alabada, sham!') that we do when we're happy, and then Pam said, ‘Thank goodness! I was afraid you were going off to Germany and I'd never see you again.'

‘Well, there's no danger of that.'

‘Good, because I want us to be best friends forever.'

‘Me too!'

We linked arms and sang our favourite song. It's one I learnt from Nana – she often sings it when she's doing housework. It's silly, but we like it.

‘Joshua, Joshua
,

Nicer than lemon squash you are
.

Yes, by gosh you are
,

Joshu-oshu-a!'

As we finished, a train came roaring up and we waited on the bridge until it was underneath and the steam came swooshing up through the gaps in the walkway, and then we screamed with laughter and ran on, arm in arm.

The Hill is a great place for roller-skating. It's a very smooth, steep road, and most importantly it only goes to the old Baptist Chapel so there are rarely any cars. Everyone who has roller skates likes to go there and do races. At the bottom there's a steep turn, and you have to be pretty skilful not to overshoot and land up in the blackberry bushes on the corner.

I love skating. I get asthma, which means I'm no good at most sports because I get out of breath, but that doesn't seem to matter on roller skates. Sometimes I go so fast I can feel the wind in my hair and I wonder if there are sparks flying from the wheels of my skates.

That evening I
almost
beat Pam's brother Tom, who is the roller-skate champion of our neighbourhood. Almost, but not quite. I
definitely
beat Pam, though she said a stone caught in her wheel. Pam is my very best friend, but she's not perfect – it's amazing how a stone sticks in her wheel every time she doesn't win!

Something really
did
catch in my wheel though, on my final race. I felt something jam, and then I heard a snap and my left foot was going all wrong. ‘Look out!' I yelled to Peter Reece, who was racing me, and I veered across the road and landed with a thump on the grass next to the blackberries.

‘Megan's hurt!' yelled Pam dramatically, and came rushing over to see if I'd broken anything.

‘I'm alright,' I said gloomily. ‘But look at my skate!'

A wheel had come off, and worse still, the metal holding it in place had snapped right through. We all tried but none of us could fix it.

‘I'll get Grandpa to take a look at it,' I said, as we all set off for home.

It was one of those afternoons when you'd rather be doing anything but sitting in school. It was cold for one thing, but Miss Bulmer had decided it wasn't cold enough to light the classroom fire. In front of me was a piece of lined paper with
Essay Topic: My Walk In the Countryside
, written across the top. What a stupid topic! We never went for walks in the countryside in our house. But that wasn't what was bothering me.

The fact is, the more time passed, and the more excited everyone became about seeing Dad, the less sure I felt. Nana had reassured me at the time. But now … It was
ages
since I'd seen him. Sometimes
I could hardly picture what he looked like. He was always joking, I remembered that. At least, everyone was always telling me that he was a great joker. But did I really remember? Or did I just think I did?

Shirley looked like Mum, everyone said so, and of course she had lived out in Germany, so Dad knew her really well. And everyone loved Barbara, with her dimples and ringlets (not that I could understand
why
, when she so often smelled of nappies and sick). But me … I was the ugly duckling of the family. And whenever I peered into the mirror, and saw my sandy hair scraped into two plaits, my freckled nose, and slightly crooked teeth, I didn't have the feeling that I was going to turn into a swan any time soon.

‘Time to finish up, now,' said Miss Bulmer.

I jumped and quickly glanced at the clock. Twenty past three! How did that happen? And my paper was still as blank as when I started.

Ann Evans gathered all the essays and took them to the front. Then all the girls took out their knitting for ten minutes, and the boys drew, while Miss Bulmer read to us. It was a really dull book – nothing like as exciting as
Five on a Treasure Island
, or the other Famous Five books, which I had been getting out of the library. Also, I hate knitting squares, even if it is
for refugees, and I don't see why the boys are allowed to draw instead.

But worse was to come. As the school bell began to clang, Miss Bulmer said in a stony voice, ‘Megan Hunt and David Levenson, a word, please.'

My stomach lurched. When Miss Bulmer holds people back, it usually means trouble.

Pam wiggled her eyebrows at she filed past. I gave a tiny shrug. Trevor Pritchard murmured, ‘Davy and Megan, up a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G – ' and then he saw Miss Bulmer's eye on him, and he shut up, sharpish.

I trudged up to Miss Bulmer's desk and stood next to Davy, waiting. The essay papers were piled on her desk. I could see the wooden ruler that she uses for rapping knuckles. She's never rapped my knuckles, but there's always a first time.

It seemed to take forever for everyone to leave. Then Miss Bulmer took her steel-rimmed spectacles off and polished them.

Miss Bulmer is quite old. She should have retired from teaching, people say, but because of the War, and all the evacuees, she stayed on. Now the War is over, but Miss Bulmer is still here. Some people say it's because she's discovered she enjoys torturing children too much to give it up.

Miss Bulmer picked up my essay – or rather, my blank piece of paper.

‘Country walks don't appeal to you, evidently, Megan?'

‘I'm sorry,' I whispered. I was sure I was going to get the ruler now.

‘You will have to do a lot better than this – ' she was making such a sour face, just as if she were sucking a lemon, that I almost missed what she said next – ‘if you are to have a chance of winning a place at grammar school.'

I was so surprised that I didn't know what to say.

‘Well?' Miss Bulmer snapped.

‘But – I'm not going to the Grammar,' I gasped.

‘Is that so? And I had thought it was the examiners who would decide that, once you had taken the Eleven Plus exam.'

‘I meant, I'm not clever enough.'

Miss Bulmer sniffed. ‘I am a better judge of that!' She made it sound like an insult. ‘Of course you will have to apply yourself. But there is time.'

Then Miss Bulmer turned her attention to Davy. ‘
You
, David, do work hard, but you sometimes get nervous during tests, I've noticed. So you need to practice too.'

She told us about some extra work she wanted us to do. We both nodded.

‘Good,' said Miss Bulmer. She looked at us hard. ‘I hope you both understand what an opportunity this is. If you do go to grammar school, it could change the course of your lives.'

We nodded obediently. But as we left the classroom, I realised I had no idea what she was talking about. Grammar school! I knew where the Girls' Grammar was – I'd walked past it from time to time with Nana, when we went shopping in town. I'd seen the girls coming out the gates, in their ugly pleated skirts and silly straw hats. Big girls, with piles of books under their arms. I didn't see what was so great about that.

The only other thing I definitely knew about grammar school pupils was that they learnt Latin. I had asked Grandpa about Latin once (there were Latin words written over the door of the library) and who spoke it, and he had said, ‘A lot of dead Romans'. That didn't sound very useful to me.

‘Well!' I said to Davy, as we walked across the playground. ‘That was a surprise!'

Davy just smiled.

‘Wouldn't you rather just go to the Secondary, like most people?'

Davy shook his head. I was going to ask him more, but as we walked out of the gates, Pam jumped out from behind a tree.

‘Surprise!'

‘Eek!' I squeaked.

‘You've been
ages
! How mean of old Bully-Bulmer to keep you back! After all, you usually write loads and loads.'

I opened my mouth to explain, then shut it again. For there was one thing I knew for sure about grammar school – whether or not I was bright enough to get in, Pam would definitely never go. She's usually near the very bottom of the class.

Pam was looking at Davy. ‘What did she keep
you
back for, Mr Clever Clogs?' Pam was smiling, though. It's not Davy's fault he's clever.

‘It was about trying for the Grammar School,' replied Davy in a soft voice.

‘Oh, you'll be sure to get in,' Pam said. ‘Rather you than me!'

‘Why's that?' I asked quickly.

‘It's awful. I know all about it. My cousin's friend goes there.' As we walked up the street, past children playing skipping games, hopscotch or bouncing balls against the wall, Pam ticked off her points on her
fingers. ‘One: too much homework. Hours and hours of it, I've heard. Two: too many posh boys – or girls. They all speak with silly voices like this: “
Taime to have your tae, my dear!
” Three: it's so far to go – you'd have to get the bus each day. And worst of all, I'd miss all my friends. Thank goodness,' Pam finished cheerfully, ‘
I'm
not clever enough to go!'

I
was
going to tell Pam the truth. Honest I was. She's my best friend and best friends don't have secrets. But I hesitated, searching for the right words, and unfortunately Davy chose this moment, of all moments, to change his clam-like ways.

‘Miss Bulmer thinks Megan could go to the Grammar.'

Pam turned to look at me, her mouth round with astonishment.

‘I was as surprised as anything – ' I began, but Pam interrupted.

‘You
pig
, Megan! You mean pig! You weren't even going to tell me! And then off you go to the lah-didah Grammar School! I'll never forgive you! Never! I wish you
had
gone to Germany!'

She turned and took off, almost trampling two little kids who were crouched in the gutter with their marbles. Pigtails bouncing, she went flying up the hill.

Davy said anxiously, ‘I'm sorry, Megan.'

‘You just keep your nose
out
of my business in future!' I snapped. Then I ran after Pam.

I was quite despondent as I trudged up Hardy Hill later that afternoon.

I'd caught up with Pam, but she wouldn't listen. She just kept turning her back on me. Then she burst into tears, and when I tried to put an arm round her, she shoved me away. Finally she marched off, saying she was going to join the other kids roller-skating. She knows perfectly well that my roller skates are still broken.

So that was that!

All the way home, I kept thinking how unfair life was. It's not as if I
wanted
to go to the mouldy old
Grammar. And then I had a brain-wave. Who said I had to go? There's an exam that you do first, called the Eleven Plus. Miss Bulmer had said Davy and me would both need to work really hard to pass it. Well, what if I didn't do well enough? If I didn't try hard in the exam, then nobody, not even Miss Bulmer, could do anything about it.

I suddenly felt a lot more cheerful.

I was so deep in these thoughts that it took me a few moments to notice that the front door of our house was standing wide open – which it never does. And when I poked my head inside and called, ‘I'm home!' nobody answered. But I could hear an absolute babble of voices from the back of the house.

My heart gave a big thump. Grandpa and Nana aren't as young as they were. A heart attack – an accident...

I started down the hall.

But when I arrived in the kitchen, it was to find Nana laughing; Grandpa smiling too, where he stood leaning against the mantelpiece; and Shirley chattering nineteen to the dozen. Meanwhile Barbara, like Mum, was clinging to the tall blond man who was standing in the middle of the room, dressed in the blue-grey Royal Air Force uniform.

My dad.

For what felt like a long time (though it could only have been a minute) nobody noticed me. I just stood in the doorway, fidgeting, and watching Mum rocking back and forth on my dad's chest, her face wreathed in smiles, and Barbara crowing cheerfully as she held on to my dad's little finger.