imagination get the better of you, sweetheart.â Sounds like Iâm in a fight with my own imagination. Alice Makin in the blue corner; her imagination in the red. Will it get the better of her in tonightâs big fight? Ding, ding, round one. Come out boxing.
When we get back to school after the holidays Reggieâs not there. I wonder if heâs going to come back at all. But after a couple of weeks he turns up. Funny, itâs as if heâs never been away. Our friendshipâs a favourite old jumper.You might not wear it for a while, but when you put it back on itâs just as comfortable as when you last wore it. And you know youâre still going to be wearing it when all the other jumpers, the ones you thought youâd wear for ever, you donât like any more.
I never did get a chance to ask Reggie about the fireworks. I suppose he must have found them. Thatâs what he must have meant when he said they were âkind of just thereâ. Or maybe he did pinch them. You never know. But not being able to find any leftover cases was really strange. Most likely the wind blew them away.
Anyway, Iâve been too busy to think about that. Weâve got some good news. Mum is going to have a baby. And Iâm really busy at school: Sister Bernadette has asked me to write a play. She wants our form to put it on at the end of the summer term, for the junior school down the road. It seemed a bit of a scary idea at first. I wasnât sure I could do it. But then I had this great idea: Iâd try to write a play about Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson and how they get called in to investigate a mystery in Nursery Rhyme land.
I told some of the others and George Morgan asked if he could be Sherlock Holmes. I think he thinks Holmes is like one of the detectives in the comic books he reads and heâll get a gun. Then Veronica found out George was going to be in it and suddenly decided she just had to play Watson. Interesting. Sheâs good, though. I told Mum. She said, âIâm not surprised, sheâs a proper little actress, that one,â in that funny kind of way she has when sheâs sayingone thing, but really means something different.
Iâve known Veronica Silk and George since we were in the Infants together at Saint Maryâs. George used to sit behind me. One day while we were doing Art, I heard this snip and felt a tug at my hair. Heâd cut a lump of it off. Veronica said he did it because he liked me. It made me wonder what he would do if he didnât like someone. But heâs all right really. I wanted him and Reggie to be friends. George tried, but Reggie didnât. He wasnât rude or anything, just . . . well, distant, I suppose.
I sometimes feel Reggieâs got something he really wants to say to me. To get off his chest. And everyone else is just getting in the way. I asked him about it once. He just shrugged.
And so the months go by. Winter snow melts. Time warms its hands by the light of the morning. In school we daydream through lessons, play street games in alleys, hide and seek times, sing songs without names, with words without end. Run in and out of days, make friends with a smile, enemies with a look.
âAlice, you in there?â
Iâm working on the play in the old air-raid shelter when I hear Reggie scrambling across the bomb site. We usually prop a bit of wood over the opening to the shelter, but itâs such a nice day I didnât bother. Itâs nice and light in here, what with the big holes in the canvas roof.
At first I donât answer. Once I start on a story I canât getthe characters out of my head and Iâm always thinking about whatâs going to happen to them.
âAlice?â
âYeah, Iâm here.â
Flash barks at the sound of my voice. They both appear at the opening. âWhat you d-doing?â
âIâm writing the play for school.â
Flash pushes in
When we get back to school after the holidays Reggieâs not there. I wonder if heâs going to come back at all. But after a couple of weeks he turns up. Funny, itâs as if heâs never been away. Our friendshipâs a favourite old jumper.You might not wear it for a while, but when you put it back on itâs just as comfortable as when you last wore it. And you know youâre still going to be wearing it when all the other jumpers, the ones you thought youâd wear for ever, you donât like any more.
I never did get a chance to ask Reggie about the fireworks. I suppose he must have found them. Thatâs what he must have meant when he said they were âkind of just thereâ. Or maybe he did pinch them. You never know. But not being able to find any leftover cases was really strange. Most likely the wind blew them away.
Anyway, Iâve been too busy to think about that. Weâve got some good news. Mum is going to have a baby. And Iâm really busy at school: Sister Bernadette has asked me to write a play. She wants our form to put it on at the end of the summer term, for the junior school down the road. It seemed a bit of a scary idea at first. I wasnât sure I could do it. But then I had this great idea: Iâd try to write a play about Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson and how they get called in to investigate a mystery in Nursery Rhyme land.
I told some of the others and George Morgan asked if he could be Sherlock Holmes. I think he thinks Holmes is like one of the detectives in the comic books he reads and heâll get a gun. Then Veronica found out George was going to be in it and suddenly decided she just had to play Watson. Interesting. Sheâs good, though. I told Mum. She said, âIâm not surprised, sheâs a proper little actress, that one,â in that funny kind of way she has when sheâs sayingone thing, but really means something different.
Iâve known Veronica Silk and George since we were in the Infants together at Saint Maryâs. George used to sit behind me. One day while we were doing Art, I heard this snip and felt a tug at my hair. Heâd cut a lump of it off. Veronica said he did it because he liked me. It made me wonder what he would do if he didnât like someone. But heâs all right really. I wanted him and Reggie to be friends. George tried, but Reggie didnât. He wasnât rude or anything, just . . . well, distant, I suppose.
I sometimes feel Reggieâs got something he really wants to say to me. To get off his chest. And everyone else is just getting in the way. I asked him about it once. He just shrugged.
And so the months go by. Winter snow melts. Time warms its hands by the light of the morning. In school we daydream through lessons, play street games in alleys, hide and seek times, sing songs without names, with words without end. Run in and out of days, make friends with a smile, enemies with a look.
âAlice, you in there?â
Iâm working on the play in the old air-raid shelter when I hear Reggie scrambling across the bomb site. We usually prop a bit of wood over the opening to the shelter, but itâs such a nice day I didnât bother. Itâs nice and light in here, what with the big holes in the canvas roof.
At first I donât answer. Once I start on a story I canât getthe characters out of my head and Iâm always thinking about whatâs going to happen to them.
âAlice?â
âYeah, Iâm here.â
Flash barks at the sound of my voice. They both appear at the opening. âWhat you d-doing?â
âIâm writing the play for school.â
Flash pushes in
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