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Authors: Helen Stringer
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intention of being afraid of a bunch of scraggy black birds, no matter how big they were.
After a few moments of this, one of the birds spread its glistening blue-black wings and took off. The others followed, and for a moment Belladonna could see them sweeping through the autumn air. She went back to her table and picked up her bag.
Why on earth would Elsie be afraid of a bunch of birds? She trailed out of the lunch room and dawdled along to the library. And if Elsie was safe, why was she still afraid?
She sat down at a long table and pulled some homework out of her bag, but it was no use. All she could think of was red doors, ravens, and what on earth Aunt Deirdre and Miss Parker had been talking about. She took out her French exercise book and opened it with every intention of getting a head start on the next day’s work, but something made her turn back the pagesand look at her doodles. The endless sketches of doors marched across the pages. She had known that they were red, even though she’d only drawn them in pencil, but now she knew what the squiggle in the middle of each tall paneled door was.
It was the number seventy-three.
A Ham Sandwich
T HE AFTERNOON SEEMED to drag on forever. Belladonna kept glancing at the clock above the classroom door and sneaking peeks at her watch, but each time it seemed that only five minutes had passed. How was that possible? How could things go quite so slowly? She sighed and fidgeted and didn’t hear a word that anyone said all afternoon.
As soon as the final bell sounded, she grabbed her bag, raced to the cloakroom, snatched her coat, and headed out into the cold afternoon.
The black birds were still in the trees at the end of the football pitch, but she paid no attention to them. She just wanted to get home and talk to Aunt Deirdre. She had spent enough time wondering what was going on and knew that until she could get her aunt to talk to her about what was happening, she’d continue to have this lost-at-sea feeling.
She strode through the streets purposefully,determined not to stop, but when she reached the newsagent’s, she hesitated for a moment, then dashed inside for her Parma Violets. She almost picked up the newspaper, then remembered that she didn’t need one. The thought made her stop. There was a strange feeling in her stomach and tears suddenly sprang to her eyes. They really weren’t there any more. She thought of her parents’ faces, smiling as she came home from school, or stern when she failed to do her homework or clean her room. Were they really gone forever this time?
A single tear rolled down her left cheek. She blinked her eyes and wiped it away with her hand. This would have to stop. If she was really going to find out what was going on, she couldn’t start crying every time she thought about her Mum and Dad. She sniffed and wiped her eyes again, and as they came back into focus she noticed that the front-page story in the
Chronicle
was about a terrible train crash that had happened that afternoon. The pictures looked dreadful, all knotted steel and crushed carriages. Belladonna paused and picked up the paper. For some reason she thought she ought to buy it after all. She ran back to the counter and plunked down a few coins, then hared off again down the street.
She slowed down when she passed the launderette; perhaps Mr. Baxter would still be there. He always seemed such an “almost ghost,” nowhere near as corporeal as her parents or Elsie. Perhaps he would still be waiting to wave to her through the window.
He wasn’t. All she could see was broken-down washers and dryers and curling notices about washing powder and fabric softener and how the management wasn’t responsible if someone came in and stole your clothes, but if you even thought about dyeing the living room curtains in one of their machines, the consequences would be too terrible to contemplate.
She picked up her pace again and in five minutes was bursting
After a few moments of this, one of the birds spread its glistening blue-black wings and took off. The others followed, and for a moment Belladonna could see them sweeping through the autumn air. She went back to her table and picked up her bag.
Why on earth would Elsie be afraid of a bunch of birds? She trailed out of the lunch room and dawdled along to the library. And if Elsie was safe, why was she still afraid?
She sat down at a long table and pulled some homework out of her bag, but it was no use. All she could think of was red doors, ravens, and what on earth Aunt Deirdre and Miss Parker had been talking about. She took out her French exercise book and opened it with every intention of getting a head start on the next day’s work, but something made her turn back the pagesand look at her doodles. The endless sketches of doors marched across the pages. She had known that they were red, even though she’d only drawn them in pencil, but now she knew what the squiggle in the middle of each tall paneled door was.
It was the number seventy-three.
A Ham Sandwich
T HE AFTERNOON SEEMED to drag on forever. Belladonna kept glancing at the clock above the classroom door and sneaking peeks at her watch, but each time it seemed that only five minutes had passed. How was that possible? How could things go quite so slowly? She sighed and fidgeted and didn’t hear a word that anyone said all afternoon.
As soon as the final bell sounded, she grabbed her bag, raced to the cloakroom, snatched her coat, and headed out into the cold afternoon.
The black birds were still in the trees at the end of the football pitch, but she paid no attention to them. She just wanted to get home and talk to Aunt Deirdre. She had spent enough time wondering what was going on and knew that until she could get her aunt to talk to her about what was happening, she’d continue to have this lost-at-sea feeling.
She strode through the streets purposefully,determined not to stop, but when she reached the newsagent’s, she hesitated for a moment, then dashed inside for her Parma Violets. She almost picked up the newspaper, then remembered that she didn’t need one. The thought made her stop. There was a strange feeling in her stomach and tears suddenly sprang to her eyes. They really weren’t there any more. She thought of her parents’ faces, smiling as she came home from school, or stern when she failed to do her homework or clean her room. Were they really gone forever this time?
A single tear rolled down her left cheek. She blinked her eyes and wiped it away with her hand. This would have to stop. If she was really going to find out what was going on, she couldn’t start crying every time she thought about her Mum and Dad. She sniffed and wiped her eyes again, and as they came back into focus she noticed that the front-page story in the
Chronicle
was about a terrible train crash that had happened that afternoon. The pictures looked dreadful, all knotted steel and crushed carriages. Belladonna paused and picked up the paper. For some reason she thought she ought to buy it after all. She ran back to the counter and plunked down a few coins, then hared off again down the street.
She slowed down when she passed the launderette; perhaps Mr. Baxter would still be there. He always seemed such an “almost ghost,” nowhere near as corporeal as her parents or Elsie. Perhaps he would still be waiting to wave to her through the window.
He wasn’t. All she could see was broken-down washers and dryers and curling notices about washing powder and fabric softener and how the management wasn’t responsible if someone came in and stole your clothes, but if you even thought about dyeing the living room curtains in one of their machines, the consequences would be too terrible to contemplate.
She picked up her pace again and in five minutes was bursting
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