soaked, then she wrung it out and swept it clear of her face. As she walked back towards us, drops of water ran on to her shoulders. She sat down on the rockery and said, ‘If we don’t tell anybody we’ve got to do something ourselves quickly.’ Sue was close to tears.
‘But what can we do?’ she moaned. Julie was playing it up a bit. She said very quietly, ‘Bury her, of course.’ For all her terseness, her voice still shook.
‘Yes,’ I said, thrilling with horror, ‘we can have a private funeral, Sue.’ My younger sister was now weeping steadily and Julie had her arm round her shoulder. She looked at me coldly over Sue’s head. I was suddenly irritated with them both. I got up and walked round to the front of the house to see what Tom was up to.
He was sitting with another boy in the pile of yellow sand by the front gate. They were digging a complicated system of fist-sized tunnels.
‘He says,’ said Tom’s friend derisively, squinting up at me, ‘he says, he says his mum’s just died and it’s not true.’
‘It is true,’ I told him. ‘She’s my mum too, and she’s just died.’
‘Ner-ner, told ya, ner-ner,’ Tom sneered and plunged his wrists deep into the sand.
His friend thought for a moment. ‘Well, my mum’s not dead.’
‘Don’t care,’ said Tom, working away at his tunnel.
‘My mum’s not dead,’ the boy repeated to me.
‘So what?’ I said.
‘Because she isn’t,’ the boy yelled. ‘She isn’t .’ I composed my face and knelt down by them in the sand. I placed my hand sympathetically on the shoulder of Tom’s friend.
‘I’ll tell you something,’ I said quietly. ‘I’ve just come from your house. Your dad told me. Your mum’s dead. She came out looking for you and a car ran her over.’
‘Ner-ner, your mum’s dead,’ Tom crowed.
‘She isn’t,’ the boy said to himself.
‘I’m telling you,’ I hissed at him. ‘I’ve just come from your house. Your dad’s pretty upset, and he’s really angry with you. Your mum got run over because she was looking for you.’ The boy stood up. The colour had drained from his face. ‘I wouldn’t go home if I was you,’ I continued, ‘your dad’ll be after you.’ The boy ran off up our garden path to the front door. Then he remembered, turned round and ran back. As he passed us he was beginning to blubber.
‘Where you going?’ Tom shouted after him, but his friend shook his head and kept on running.
As soon as it was dark and we were all indoors Tom became fearful and miserable again. He cried when we tried to put him to bed, so we let him stay up and hoped he would fall asleep on the sofa. He whined and cried about the slightest thing, and it was impossible to talk about what we were going to do. We ended up talking round him, shouting over his head. While Tom was screaming and stamping his feet because there was no orange squash left, and Sue was trying to quieten him, I said rapidly to Julie, ‘Where shall we put her?’ She said something, and it was lost to Tom’s squeals.
‘In the garden, under the rockery,’ she repeated. Later on Tom cried quite simply for his mother, and while I was trying to comfort him I saw Julie explaining something to Sue, who was nodding her head and rubbing her eyes. As I was attempting to divert Tom with talk of the tunnels he had been building in the sand, I suddenly had my own idea. I lost track of what I was saying, and Tom began to cry loudly once more. He did not fall asleep till after midnight and only then was I able to tell my sisters that I did not think that the garden was a good plan. We would have to dig deep and it would take a long time. If we did it in the day someone would see us, and if we did it at night we would need torches. We might be seen from the tower blocks. And how would we keep it from Tom? I paused for effect. Despite everything, I was enjoying myself. I had always admired the gentlemen criminals in films who discussed the perfect
‘But what can we do?’ she moaned. Julie was playing it up a bit. She said very quietly, ‘Bury her, of course.’ For all her terseness, her voice still shook.
‘Yes,’ I said, thrilling with horror, ‘we can have a private funeral, Sue.’ My younger sister was now weeping steadily and Julie had her arm round her shoulder. She looked at me coldly over Sue’s head. I was suddenly irritated with them both. I got up and walked round to the front of the house to see what Tom was up to.
He was sitting with another boy in the pile of yellow sand by the front gate. They were digging a complicated system of fist-sized tunnels.
‘He says,’ said Tom’s friend derisively, squinting up at me, ‘he says, he says his mum’s just died and it’s not true.’
‘It is true,’ I told him. ‘She’s my mum too, and she’s just died.’
‘Ner-ner, told ya, ner-ner,’ Tom sneered and plunged his wrists deep into the sand.
His friend thought for a moment. ‘Well, my mum’s not dead.’
‘Don’t care,’ said Tom, working away at his tunnel.
‘My mum’s not dead,’ the boy repeated to me.
‘So what?’ I said.
‘Because she isn’t,’ the boy yelled. ‘She isn’t .’ I composed my face and knelt down by them in the sand. I placed my hand sympathetically on the shoulder of Tom’s friend.
‘I’ll tell you something,’ I said quietly. ‘I’ve just come from your house. Your dad told me. Your mum’s dead. She came out looking for you and a car ran her over.’
‘Ner-ner, your mum’s dead,’ Tom crowed.
‘She isn’t,’ the boy said to himself.
‘I’m telling you,’ I hissed at him. ‘I’ve just come from your house. Your dad’s pretty upset, and he’s really angry with you. Your mum got run over because she was looking for you.’ The boy stood up. The colour had drained from his face. ‘I wouldn’t go home if I was you,’ I continued, ‘your dad’ll be after you.’ The boy ran off up our garden path to the front door. Then he remembered, turned round and ran back. As he passed us he was beginning to blubber.
‘Where you going?’ Tom shouted after him, but his friend shook his head and kept on running.
As soon as it was dark and we were all indoors Tom became fearful and miserable again. He cried when we tried to put him to bed, so we let him stay up and hoped he would fall asleep on the sofa. He whined and cried about the slightest thing, and it was impossible to talk about what we were going to do. We ended up talking round him, shouting over his head. While Tom was screaming and stamping his feet because there was no orange squash left, and Sue was trying to quieten him, I said rapidly to Julie, ‘Where shall we put her?’ She said something, and it was lost to Tom’s squeals.
‘In the garden, under the rockery,’ she repeated. Later on Tom cried quite simply for his mother, and while I was trying to comfort him I saw Julie explaining something to Sue, who was nodding her head and rubbing her eyes. As I was attempting to divert Tom with talk of the tunnels he had been building in the sand, I suddenly had my own idea. I lost track of what I was saying, and Tom began to cry loudly once more. He did not fall asleep till after midnight and only then was I able to tell my sisters that I did not think that the garden was a good plan. We would have to dig deep and it would take a long time. If we did it in the day someone would see us, and if we did it at night we would need torches. We might be seen from the tower blocks. And how would we keep it from Tom? I paused for effect. Despite everything, I was enjoying myself. I had always admired the gentlemen criminals in films who discussed the perfect
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