The Girl from Hard Times Hill (5 page)

I blushed. I knew just how bad my work had been.

‘So, you must
promise
us that you will do your very best in the exam.'

I hesitated.

‘Look at me, Megan,' said Nana sternly. So I lifted my chin and looked straight into her dark brown eyes, and I promised.

As I went back upstairs to bed, I reflected that I would have to work hard at school now. I couldn't break a promise to Nana. I just couldn't. Besides she
would know – she always did. You couldn't lie to Nana.

Still, maybe I wouldn't pass the exam however hard I tried. Most people didn't. And if by some fluke I did do well enough to go to Grammar – well, it would be worth it, to stay here. Pam would understand. After all, I would be able to see her a lot more than if we went to Newcastle.

As for the bit about living with Mum and Dad eventually, I wasn't going to worry too much about
that
. Maybe Dad would find a job right here. If he did, then even if we moved house, I'd be able to spend almost as much time at Nana's as I did now. Anyway, that was months and months away, if it happened at all.

After that, everything sort of got back to normal. Sort of – but not really. For one thing, Nana was firm that I had to come straight home from school and do my homework before I could go out to play. So if Pam and the rest were dawdling, or going round by the allotments or the railway bridge, then I couldn't go with them.

I got into the habit of walking back with Davy Levenson. We would talk about homework, and the books we were reading from the library. Davy had read a lot of my favourite books, and some others too:
Wind in the Willows
and
Swallows and Amazons
. He told me that he sometimes read them aloud to his father, which surprised me. Davy said that his father was always thinking about the terrible things that had happened in the War, and the whole family was always trying to find ways to cheer him up. It was one of the reasons that Davy didn't play out much.

I still liked to play out though, and I'd race through my homework so that I could meet Pam. It also meant I could avoid spending time with Mum and Dad. I was sure they blamed me for not being able to move to Newcastle. I reckoned that was why Dad had never mended my roller skates, either.

Then one Saturday morning, I went to the pictures. I was sitting next to Pam in the sixpenny seats, and the Western had just finished (the cowboys had won, as usual) and in the gap before the cartoon, Pam's brother Tom leaned over and said to me, ‘Was it your dad I saw selling dog food down Victoria Street?'

I was so taken aback, it took me a moment to reply. Then I said, ‘I don't think so. He's an aircraft mechanic.'

‘Well, it looked like him,' said Tom. ‘He was going door-to-door.'

I didn't say any more.
Tom and Jerry
came on, and I was too busy laughing with everyone else. But when I got home later, and almost tripped over some tins of dog food piled up inside the back door, I remembered.

I stared at the tins with a peculiar feeling in my stomach. I'd wanted Dad to find work locally. And there was nothing
wrong
with selling dog food. Of course there wasn't. But I'd always been very proud of the fact my dad fixed aeroplanes. Selling dog food was a bit of a come-down.

It was at that moment that I heard voices from beyond the scullery door.

‘…don't see why we couldn't have gone to Newcastle.'

‘Gwen, you know why, we agreed that Megan's education should come first.'

‘I still don't see why she couldn't just take the Eleven Plus in Newcastle. Or join us later. Anyway, she might not even pass, and who knows if you'll ever get another chance?'

I felt tears stinging my eyes. So they
did
blame me. Dad had given up his new job; Mum had lost the chance of her own home. And it was my fault.

I turned towards the back door. But my foot caught on one of those wretched tins, which fell to the floor with a clang. Before I could escape into the yard, the door opened, and Dad peered through.

‘That you, Megs? Was wondering if there was a specially big mouse clattering about in there. Come on in. In fact, if you've got a moment, why don't you show us what you've been set for your homework this week?'

Dad's eyes were very sharp, but if he'd noticed my tears he didn't say anything. I was glad to bend my head over my homework books.

To my surprise, it really helped, concentrating on mental arithmetic, and I stopped feeling like I was about to cry. Dad turned out to be very good at sums – and very patient too. When we closed the book, he said that we'd practice every day from now on.

Upstairs in my room, though, I felt awful. I was sure, on top of everything else, that he and Mum thought I'd been eavesdropping. And with Shirley sitting in the middle of my rug, playing ‘school' with her dolls, I couldn't even have a quiet cry.

The day before the Eleven Plus, Miss Bulmer said that we weren't to fret or feel nervous, just to come to school after a good breakfast next morning, and do our best. She also said that we shouldn't do any homework that evening, but something completely different. So when Pam came running up, and said there was going to be a big race against the Copperworks Terrace lot over at the Hill that afternoon, I didn't think twice.

‘I can share your skates, can't I?'

‘'Course you can,' said Pam at once. (Sometimes she had been a little reluctant to share, but I guess with
a big contest against the Copperworks Terrace lot she knew we needed every good skater we had.)

We linked arms and ran for the gates. And that was when I spotted Mum through the railings. She was wearing her Sunday best frock and hat, and she had Shirley by one hand.

‘Oh, there you are,' she said, when I came up. ‘I need you to mind your sister.'

‘But I'm just off out with Pam!'

‘Not today you're not. I'm going to meet Dad now off the Cardiff train, and I want you to take Shirley and look after her until your Nana gets back. She's taken Barbara to visit Aunt Ada. Grandpa's still at work.'

‘Oh, Mum!' I wailed. ‘Can't she go with you?'

‘No. Dad and I are going to have a nice afternoon tea – we don't want a grizzling five-year-old with us today.'

‘Neither do I,' I muttered.

Mum pursed her lips. For once she looked quite like Nana. ‘That's enough cheek from you, young lady. You do little enough to help with your sisters. Now, if Shirley's hungry she can have some bread and butter, but no cake until your Nana gets back. And go out with her to the toilet if she needs to go – you know she's scared of the spiders.'

I glowered. But the next moment, I was holding Shirley's sticky hand, and Mum was walking briskly down the street.

‘Why did Dad have to go to Cardiff?' I groaned. ‘I'm going to miss the race now.'

Pam looked at Shirley thoughtfully. ‘Can't we take her with us?'

I paused. I knew perfectly well Mum had meant for me to take Shirley home and look after her there. But she hadn't actually
said
I couldn't take Shirley to the Hill. Besides,
she
was off out with Dad – to a fancy tea shop, too – and they'd never even thought of taking me. So why should I worry?

‘She'll never know,' Pam urged. ‘Come on, Megan!'

So we both grabbed a bewildered Shirley by the hand, and started for the Hill. Pam shouted to Tom to fetch her skates from home when he got his own, and by the time we got to the Hill (Shirley was a bit of a slowcoach) Tom was already there, with a load of other kids from our neighbourhood.

‘Now, you sit here, and don't move,' I told my sister, finding her a nice big stone to sit on.

Shirley gave me an angelic smile. ‘I like watching races.'

‘Don't go wandering off, alright?'

‘Don't worry, I'll help keep an eye on her,' said Pam encouragingly.

It was wonderful skating that afternoon. We raced off against each other, and counted up our wins. I was doing great, though I couldn't help wishing that Pam's skates didn't pinch my toes. I knew I'd have done better in my own skates.

As for Shirley, she watched for a bit, then started collecting pebbles. That seemed a nice, harmless activity so I left her to it.

A bit later, I was sitting at the very bottom of the hill, completely absorbed in watching Tom race Brian Hughes from Copperworks Road. I knew that whichever of them won,
I'd
be racing next. And whoever won that race would be the overall winner. Pam was already out of the contest. She was sitting close to Shirley, and arguing with Mary Black about something: I could hear their raised voices. I held my breath and watched Tom come round the bend…

…And it was at that moment that a scruffy little terrier dog ran onto the road. Somebody said later that it was the dog that belonged to the caretaker at the Chapel. Anyway, he went bouncing out in front of Tom, tail wagging. This wouldn't have mattered so much – but Shirley ran out after him.

Tom was already veering to miss the dog: he went smack bang into Shirley instead. She went flying into the air. And when she landed her eyes were shut and she didn't open them.

I sat with my feet squashed up on the chair in front of me, and my arms wrapped round my knees. All around was a hospital smell of chemicals and disinfectant. Sometimes a nurse or doctor would go past, and normally I would have been interested to watch what they were doing. But today I stared at the clock on the wall. Its hands seemed to move incredibly slowly.

But maybe that was better. At the moment, I didn't know if I wanted time to pass.

My eyes slid to the door a bit further along the corridor. It was shut. Sooner or later, somebody would
come through. Then I would find out. Then I would know, one way or the other, whether I had maimed – or even killed – my sister.

I tried not to think about what had happened, but it kept forcing itself before my eyes. Brian and some of the others had run for help, while I knelt next to Shirley. I could hear Tom saying in a choked voice, ‘It was my fault, if only I'd braked quicker – ' and Pam, sobbing, ‘It was me, I was sitting right by her – I'm so sorry, Megan!' But I knew that neither of them was to blame.
I
was the one who was supposed to be looking after Shirley. It was my fault.

The door opened, and my heart gave a sudden, painful jolt, but it was only a nurse. She didn't even glance at me, just walked briskly up the corridor, her neat blue skirt swishing as she walked. I didn't dare stop her to ask how Shirley was doing.

I wished Nana was here. But she had gone back home to look after Barbara. I could have gone home too, but I didn't want to. I needed to be here, in the hospital, waiting.

Nana had brought me some knitting to take my mind off things, and a cheese sandwich wrapped in greaseproof paper. But I couldn't knit and I certainly couldn't eat.

The door opened. The doctor came out, looking very serious, with his spectacles perched on his nose. Dad followed. He looked dead tired. His good suit, the one he had been wearing on his trip to Cardiff, was all crumpled.

As they approached, I couldn't help it – I started to tremble. Dad squatted down next to me. ‘Megan, they think she's going to be fine. She's sleeping now.'

‘Oh,' I gasped. ‘Oh.' And then I couldn't help it: I burst into floods of tears.

Dad put an arm round me. The doctor patted me on the shoulder. ‘I'll send a nurse with a nice cup of tea,' he said. ‘You mustn't worry too much about your little sister.' Then he moved on up the corridor.

‘Can I see her?' I asked Dad.

‘It was hard enough persuading the Matron to let Mum stay. She's a dragon, that Matron, I can tell you – a real Tartar! But maybe when Shirley wakes up you can pop in for a minute. Or would you rather I took you home?'

‘I want to wait.'

Dad sat down next to me and then got up quickly, rubbing his behind. ‘Ouch – what's that?'

‘It's my knitting needles,' I said. We both laughed, rather shakily, as Dad tucked the knitting needles
away amongst his and Mum's coats and bags. Then he dug around in his pocket and found a rather crumpled cotton handkerchief. I took it and mopped my eyes.

The nurse came over with cups of tea for both of us, very hot and sweet. I sipped mine, and thought about Nana saying, ‘Whatever the crisis, you can't beat a nice, hot cuppa.' That almost made me burst into tears again.

After a while, I said in a smothered voice, ‘It was all my fault.'

‘Well, I don't know,' said Dad. ‘It was partly that dog's fault.'

‘No, it was mine. Mum never said I could take Shirley out.'

‘That's true, Megan. But then again, Mum's been saying it's all
her
fault for letting you be in charge when you're only eleven.'