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Authors: Lindsey Barraclough
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kitchen.
It was going to be boiling hot. The edges of the puddles down the Chase were cracking as they dried.
Pete and I thought we’d chance going down to Mrs. Eastfield’s to see if Cora and Mimi came out. Pete was pretty sure they’d most probably been turned into chickens, but I told him to leave off.
We didn’t want to get too close, so if Mrs. Eastfield was with them, we could hide in the triangle of trees or scarper quick before she saw us.
Luckily we only waited about ten minutes, discussing the camp but then thinking it wasn’t a good place after all — too near Guerdon Hall really — when we heard Cora’s voice. She was shouting at Mimi.
We peeped out first to make sure Mrs. Eastfield wasn’t there, then came out from the trees.
Mimi was wobbling on one leg while Cora poured water out of her boot, yelling that she was stupid. Mimi lost her balance and put her wet foot down in a big patch of mud. Cora shouted even louder and slapped her arm. Mimi started crying.
“Someone’s in a bad mood,” I whispered to Pete.
“Got a booter, then?” he called out.
“Yeah, she flippin’ well has!” Cora shouted back. “Auntie got us boots, but Mimi’s are too flaming big.”
“She didn’t do it on purpose,” I said.
“Well, I ain’t had no sleep, and I’m up to here with her!” said Cora, who frankly did look a bit tired.
She pulled the corner of an envelope out of her skirt pocket. “Look, I didn’t post this letter on Tuesday because we went down the church, so don’t let me forget to do it today.”
“Is it the letter about you going home? I still don’t know why you’ve got to go back when you’ve only just come.”
“I told you — Mum ain’t at home and Dad’s got to work.”
“So who’s going to look after you when you get back?”
Cora stared at the ground. “I don’t know,” she muttered. “I suppose I could make sure Mimi was all right.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to stay here until your mum comes home?”
She pushed some water around a puddle with the toe of her boot. “Auntie Ida’s too busy to have us,” she said.
“Why didn’t you go to sleep? Was it the rain?”
“No. Doesn’t matter. Stop asking me things.”
“Do you want to come down to the church first?”
“Yeah, but best be quick. Auntie’ll go mad if she knows I ain’t posted the letter.”
“Don’t like it down there,” Mimi sniffed. “Don’t like it. That church thing. Auntie said not to go.”
“Oh, just shut up, will you? You’re a flippin’ pest,” said Cora, pulling her roughly.
“We thought those words,
Cave bestiam,
might be in Latin,” I said.
“I don’t know about Latin,” Cora said. “How do you know about it?”
I plumped out my chest, then said casually, “Everything at church is in Latin. We all talk Latin, you know, every Sunday, like the Romans — well, most Sundays. Sometimes it’s difficult to go because it’s three miles to Daneflete, and there aren’t many buses, specially on Sunday. You can wait and wait and you might as well have walked it. It’s all right in the week because we go up the lane and there’s a school bus picks us up at the top, but it’s hard for Mum to get us all to church, specially now with Baby Pamela, and then if she does manage it, the old ladies turn round and tut-tut at her if the children make a noise.”
“So why doesn’t your dad take you, then?” said Cora.
“Because he’s a heathen,” said Pete.
We’d got to the old gate.
“Trouble is,” I told her, “every Monday morning first thing, Sister Aquinas asks who’s been to church on Sunday, and if you haven’t been, she makes you stand up in front of the whole class for an hour. It’s blinking awful, I can tell you, really embarrassing. Nobody else has to do it as much as me.”
“Why don’t you just say you’ve been even if you haven’t?” asked Cora.
“Flippin’ heck!” cried Pete. “Lie to a nun? That’s definitely
It was going to be boiling hot. The edges of the puddles down the Chase were cracking as they dried.
Pete and I thought we’d chance going down to Mrs. Eastfield’s to see if Cora and Mimi came out. Pete was pretty sure they’d most probably been turned into chickens, but I told him to leave off.
We didn’t want to get too close, so if Mrs. Eastfield was with them, we could hide in the triangle of trees or scarper quick before she saw us.
Luckily we only waited about ten minutes, discussing the camp but then thinking it wasn’t a good place after all — too near Guerdon Hall really — when we heard Cora’s voice. She was shouting at Mimi.
We peeped out first to make sure Mrs. Eastfield wasn’t there, then came out from the trees.
Mimi was wobbling on one leg while Cora poured water out of her boot, yelling that she was stupid. Mimi lost her balance and put her wet foot down in a big patch of mud. Cora shouted even louder and slapped her arm. Mimi started crying.
“Someone’s in a bad mood,” I whispered to Pete.
“Got a booter, then?” he called out.
“Yeah, she flippin’ well has!” Cora shouted back. “Auntie got us boots, but Mimi’s are too flaming big.”
“She didn’t do it on purpose,” I said.
“Well, I ain’t had no sleep, and I’m up to here with her!” said Cora, who frankly did look a bit tired.
She pulled the corner of an envelope out of her skirt pocket. “Look, I didn’t post this letter on Tuesday because we went down the church, so don’t let me forget to do it today.”
“Is it the letter about you going home? I still don’t know why you’ve got to go back when you’ve only just come.”
“I told you — Mum ain’t at home and Dad’s got to work.”
“So who’s going to look after you when you get back?”
Cora stared at the ground. “I don’t know,” she muttered. “I suppose I could make sure Mimi was all right.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to stay here until your mum comes home?”
She pushed some water around a puddle with the toe of her boot. “Auntie Ida’s too busy to have us,” she said.
“Why didn’t you go to sleep? Was it the rain?”
“No. Doesn’t matter. Stop asking me things.”
“Do you want to come down to the church first?”
“Yeah, but best be quick. Auntie’ll go mad if she knows I ain’t posted the letter.”
“Don’t like it down there,” Mimi sniffed. “Don’t like it. That church thing. Auntie said not to go.”
“Oh, just shut up, will you? You’re a flippin’ pest,” said Cora, pulling her roughly.
“We thought those words,
Cave bestiam,
might be in Latin,” I said.
“I don’t know about Latin,” Cora said. “How do you know about it?”
I plumped out my chest, then said casually, “Everything at church is in Latin. We all talk Latin, you know, every Sunday, like the Romans — well, most Sundays. Sometimes it’s difficult to go because it’s three miles to Daneflete, and there aren’t many buses, specially on Sunday. You can wait and wait and you might as well have walked it. It’s all right in the week because we go up the lane and there’s a school bus picks us up at the top, but it’s hard for Mum to get us all to church, specially now with Baby Pamela, and then if she does manage it, the old ladies turn round and tut-tut at her if the children make a noise.”
“So why doesn’t your dad take you, then?” said Cora.
“Because he’s a heathen,” said Pete.
We’d got to the old gate.
“Trouble is,” I told her, “every Monday morning first thing, Sister Aquinas asks who’s been to church on Sunday, and if you haven’t been, she makes you stand up in front of the whole class for an hour. It’s blinking awful, I can tell you, really embarrassing. Nobody else has to do it as much as me.”
“Why don’t you just say you’ve been even if you haven’t?” asked Cora.
“Flippin’ heck!” cried Pete. “Lie to a nun? That’s definitely
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