Ryan froze. He wasn't a fan of dogs at the best of times, and this one was a monster. It was big and obviously strong, with a thick white coat and cold black eyes. As it got closer it opened its slobbering jaws. Ryan found himself staring at two rows of glistening, razor-sharp teeth.

He groaned. Not two minutes off the train and already he'd come face to face with the hound from hell.

Ryan backed away, his heart racing. The dog launched itself into the air, its outstretched claws lunging up at him. He raised his backpack protectively and rammed it between the creature's gaping jaws.

As its teeth sank into the bag, the dog's paws thumped against Ryan's chest and sent him flying through the air. He landed with a heavy bump - at the very edge of the platform.

He looked up at the dog standing over him. Now that it had caught him, it seemed in no particular hurry to finish Ryan off.

"Gooood doggy!" Ryan cooed, optimistically.

He saw the dog's ears prick up, and it turned

and looked round. Then Ryan heard it too - the sound of footsteps echoing from the ticket hall, followed by a man's voice.

"Max!" it roared. "Heel, boy!"

The owner, thought Ryan. At last. But, ignoring the man's yells, the dog lowered its head. The vicious jaws parted. Ryan closed his eyes.

He felt warm breath on his face and with it the stench of rotten meat.

"MAX!" the man bellowed, and Ryan heard him hurrying across the platform.

Ryan flinched as the dog's wet, warm, and very rough tongue lapped at his chin, and up over his nose. He was being tasted.

The next instant, there was an abrupt jolt, and the weight on his chest disappeared.

"Ryan?" he heard. "It is you, isn't it?"

Ryan looked up. Standing there was a tall man with straw-like hair and bright blue eyes. Ryan recognized him from numerous snapshots. It was Uncle Karl - but, unlike his smiling pictures, this real Uncle Karl had a concerned look on his face.

"I'm so sorry," he said, helping Ryan to his feet. "Max doesn't usually behave like that. He must have been very excited about meeting you.

"Ryan looked at the dog. With its wagging tail and lolling tongue, it - he - looked friendly now.

All the same, Ryan was glad that his uncle had a firm hold on his collar.

*Three days earlier it had been Ryan's birthday. Months before that, his parents had promised him an extra special birthday present. He was to stay with his Uncle Karl and Aunt Ingrid.

Ryan had been looking forward to the trip for ages. Most importantly, he would be visiting the country where his dad had grown up, and meeting his dad's brother face to face for the first time. It would also give him a chance to use his German, and maybe even learn to ski.

The journey had been an exciting one; all the more so for going by himself. The plane flight, the train trip, everything had gone without a hitch. And now here he was, only a car ride from Oberdorf where Uncle Karl and Aunt Ingrid lived, in the house where his dad had been born.

"I apologize for not being here on time," said his uncle. "The weather's suddenly turned. It's snowing heavily up in the mountains and the drive down here took longer than I expected."

"That's okay," said Ryan. He looked up at the sky. It was a curdled yellow-grey.

"It's strange," said Uncle Karl, picking up Ryan's backpack. "There was no mention of bad weather on the TV this morning, and our weather forecasts are usually pretty accurate. The snow clouds just seemed to come from nowhere...probably about the time you crossed the border."

They began walking to the station exit, with Max straining at the leash.

"We'd better get a move on," said his uncle as they crossed the car park together. "It'll be snowing down here soon, and it's going to get a lot worse higher up the mountain."

"The way Dad talks, it never stops snowing in Oberdorf," said Ryan.

His uncle smiled. "Your dad always did like to exaggerate. There's always some snow in the mountains in the winter, but that doesn't mean it snows all the time...and we usually get some warning." They reached a large four-wheel drive vehicle. It was the only car in the car park.

Uncle Karl clapped his hand on his nephew's shoulder. "It's good to meet you at last, Ryan," he said. "It's such a shame your father's job seems to take him everywhere in the world - except here! Your Aunt Ingrid is very excited about your visit too," he added. "Let's get home."

Demon's Rock is shrouded in tales of dark forces and tragedy. Bug and Mona think it's superstitious nonsense, until a strange boy turns up with an even stranger tale to tell. Bug and Mona investigate, and are confronted by a truth much scarier than the local legend.

So, apart from Mum's peculiar pets, they were Mr. and Mrs. Extremely Average with their two children: a boy aged twelve (that's me) and a girl, aged ten (my sister, Mona). She's not really called that. Her name's Anna-Mae, but I re-christened her Mona because that's what she was always doing. Moaning. Usually about me.

"Go away," she'd wail. "Quit bugging me!"

Which is how I came to be known as Bug. Almost everyone calls me that now. Parents, friends, neighbours, the lot. Only my teachers ever call me Benjamin.

Anyway, we were bickering away quite normally on a dreary Friday night at the start of October half-term, little knowing that our life was about to be thrown into total chaos.

We'd just finished dinner. Mum and Dad were poring over their latest bank statement. See what I mean about dull? And Mona and me were standing by the dishwasher, arguing about whose turn it was to stack it.

"I did it last night."

"No, you didn't!"

"Yes, I did."

Honestly, it was like the Christmas panto come early. Not very imaginative, as far as arguments go. But then neither of us has what you'd call a good imagination. We never really played fantasy games, even when we were younger. We're both more practical types. Which is important.

We're totally sane, too. Though you might not believe it once you've heard my story. But everything I'm going to tell you is true, I promise. However unlikely, however bizarre it seems and whatever my parents might say, my story is true.

It all started with the shout from outside. A really loud, high-pitched, terrifying scream, which drowned out our bickering."Mum!" it squealed. "Mum, help me! Help me! What's happening?"

Seconds later the back door burst open, letting in a blast of cold air and a swirl of damp leaves that settled on the kitchen floor.

We all looked and there was this lad standing in the open doorway, breathing so heavily it sounded like a dog panting. The lad was white. Not just as in white-skinned but completely, ghostly, ghastly white.

His short, brown hair was stuck up in little spikes, like he'd had some terrible shock. Or maybe he'd just been running his hands through it while it was wet. Very wet. Like the rest of him. So wet that the funny knitted sweater he was wearing was all sort of misshapen, dripping down over seriously naff grey trousers.

His lack of fashion sense intrigued me for about ten seconds until he screamed again. Which sort of distracted me a bit. Not least because Mona screamed in response. Mum and Dad leaped up. The dogs whimpered and scurried under the table while the two cats that had been lying, peacefully, on the floor, hurled themselves on top of the fridge-freezer, backs arched, tails fluffed up.

And the boy...well, he seemed to somehow move forwards and backwards at the same time, still screaming and waving his arms around, as if he didn't quite know what to do.

The wind slamming the door shut behind him made the decision for him, I guess. He pressed his back flat against it, arms outstretched like a squashed cartoon character. Staring at us with wide blue eyes as if we were three-headed space monsters or something.

Somewhere, somehow, in all the noise and chaos, his screams had started to form into words.

"Who are you? What are you doing here? Stop them! Stop them! What have they done to me? I want my mum. Where is she? What have you done with her?"

THE TORTURED WOOD

Chapter 1

It was his first day at a new school and he was beginning to think that the older students who had directed him through the wood had played a trick on him. His family had moved just before Christmas, so Dillon was having to start school partway through the year and he wasn't looking forward to it.

He peered around suspiciously. There was nothing but trees. If this path really was a short cut, he thought, some of the other students would be trampling along it. There'd be the sounds of kids mucking about, shouting, throwing sticks. But it was eerily quiet. Dillon had memorized the map, though, and he knew he was going in the right direction so he carried on warily.

The sun was still lurking behind the ridge on his left, making the clouds glow pink, not yet throwing much light and warmth into the valley of Eastbridge at the edge of the wild moors. Wisps of morning mist snaked through the wood like lost souls. There was a noise like a hiss, followed by a loud squawk. Dillon gasped, unsure where it had come from, but instinctively he looked up. A dark form fell heavily from one of the bare branches and landed with a thud behind him. Feathers drifted down towards him like strips of black paper.

Brushing a piece of the ghoulish confetti from the shoulder of his thick coat, Dillon turned round and stared at the ground. A blackbird lay dead on the path. Dillon shuddered. A sad sigh came out of his mouth as a miniature cloud. He looked up again but saw nothing, no sign of movement in the branches. He tried to tell himself that the bird's fate was probably natural but, even if he was right, it wasn't a good omen. At least the blackbird's body hadn't hit him. That would have been gross.

Dillon didn't know why but this particular tree made his skin crawl. It was stark and angular, large enough to be menacing, yet also somehow sad. Dillon wouldn't have been surprised to hear that, at some point in its history, people had been hanged from its twisted branches. Trembling, Dillon moved out from underneath the lime tree and continued to trudge through the wood in the direction of the school.

Almost at once he halted and let out another gasp, his heart thudding. Down in the wood to the right of the path there was a large man standing totally still, staring furiously up at him. Dillon wasn't sure whether to run or shout for help. Hesitating before he did either, he peered again through the shadows at the startling figure and realized that he'd been tricked again. He was looking at a woodcarving. Luckily, he'd caught on before making a complete fool of himself. The statue of the angry man had been cut from the trunk of a dead oak. There was even a carved dog sitting at his heel. The pet terrier seemed just as vicious as the man himself. Both of them looked so lifelike that Dillon expected them to stride into the distance, but their feet were rooted in the ground.

Relieved, Dillon managed a wry smile as his heart rate slowed. This was probably why the older boys had sent him through the wood. They'd thought he would be scared by the wooden sculpture. Well, they were right. Dillon was expecting them to jump out from behind tree trunks and have a good laugh at his expense but they didn't. He was still alone. Trying to avoid tripping on the bulging roots, he hurried along as quickly as he could. On his first day he didn't want to be late.

He was ready for the second carving. He wasn't frightened this time, but he was fascinated. On the flatter ground to his left, a dead tree was leaning towards the track as if it had been frozen in the act of falling. On the underside of the hefty trunk, another man had been etched. His face was contorted with pain to make it look as if the weight of the tree were crushing him. Dillon decided that the artist who had chiselled this sculpture must be both talented and mad. He didn't know whether he admired the carver's skill or was sickened by the bizarre snapshot of a terrible accident. Probably both.

The face of the man under the falling tree had been fashioned carefully to be grotesque yet realistic. It was twisted sideways so that walkers could get a good view from the track. One of the man's cheeks, a shoulder and a leg melded with the wood so it appeared that the trunk was already crushing him. His agony was perfectly captured but it didn't invite sympathy. Dillon felt that the artist had enjoyed the man's despair.

Forgetting the time, Dillon left the path and walked towards the cruel sculpture. He didn't know how an image could be so repulsive and so captivating at the same time. Slowly, he put out his hand to touch that tortured face, to feel the painstaking detail. He could almost believe that the face would be warm and soft like real flesh but it felt freezing to his fingertips. And, of course, it was rigid. Nothing at all like skin. Dillon didn't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed.

Ballerina Dreams

Poppy's Secret Wish

Ann Bryant

Poppy's biggest wish is to be a ballerina. But her secret wish is that Miss Coralie will pick her to do the exam with her best friend, Jasmine. Poppy's trying so hard in class, but suddenly the door bangs open and in crashes the new girl, Rose. Will Poppy get her secret wish now?

Age: 8+ | Paperback: 198 x 130mm | 112 pages | Price: £3.99 | ISBN: 0746060246 |

3 September 2004

Ballerina Dreams

Jasmine's Lucky Star

Ann Bryant

Jasmine is a talented dancer and her dream is to be a famous ballerina. But she has to hide her ambition from her dad who wants Jasmine to give up ballet and concentrate on schoolwork. Can she change his mind by being the star performer at the end-of-term show?

Age: 8+ | Paperback: 198 x 130mm | 112 pages | Price: £3.99 | ISBN: 0746060254

Poppy and I don't go to the same school, but we do ballet together every Tuesday and we often go to each other's houses. She'll be here in a minute, and Rose isn't coming till a bit later, so that gives us time to work on the dance. But maybe "work" isn't the right word, because ballet is our very favourite thing in the whole world…

"Jasmeen!"

That's my mum calling me from downstairs. She's French, so she speaks with a bit of an accent. I bet I know what she wants.

"I've done it, Maman!" I called back. (I've always called her "Maman". It's the French for "Mum".)

"I can't talk through the door, Jasmeen!"

I went out onto the landing and leaned over the banister. "I've finished it all, honestly."

"Good girl. Papa will be pleased." She broke into a smile and I broke into a shiver. That's the effect my dad has on me. He's away at a doctors' conference at the moment, and I know it's horrible of me, but I like it when he's away. You see, he's very strict - stricter than any of my friends' dads. Even worse than that, he doesn't approve of ballet. He thinks there are much more important things that I should be doing, like homework. I also have a tutor once a week so that's even more homework. Then there's my piano practice that my teacher expects me to do five times a week for at least twenty minutes each time. It gets on my nerves. All I want to do is ballet!

When I'm eleven, Papa says that I'm going to a school called Mansons where the work's really hard. Rose's brother knows someone who goes there and he says you have to take loads of exams and pass them with very high marks and finish up by being a lawyer or a banker or a doctor or a big-chief executive or something.

And that's the problem. I don't want to be any of those things. All I want to be is a ballerina. Papa doesn't know that and, believe me, I'd never ever dare tell him. If he knew, he'd go mad and probably make me give up ballet lessons straight away. He wasn't very happy when it was my ballet exam and I had to have a few extra lessons last term. At the moment, I only have one lesson a week. He doesn't mind that because it doesn't interfere with my homework or the extra work that my tutor gives me, or my piano practice or anything. He doesn't realize how much time I spend practising ballet up in my room.

The worst thing of all is that Papa says I've got to give up ballet when I leave primary school. I used to think that was ages and ages away and that he'd have changed his mind by then, but I'm ten now and I'm scared that time's running out.

Rose is always saying that one of these days she's going to tell my dad a thing or two. I haven't known Rose as long as I've known Poppy, so she's never actually met Papa. Poppy and I have both tried to explain that he's not the kind of dad that you go round "telling a thing or two" to, but Rose doesn't really get how strict he is.

"Poppy will be here in a few minutes, chérie," called Maman. "Is your room tidy?"

I sighed. "Yes, my homework's done and my room's tidy."

"Oh, there she is now!" Maman turned at the sound of the doorbell.

"It's okay, I'll get it." I shot downstairs and got to the door just before her.

Ballerina Dreams

Rose's Big Decision

Ann Bryant

Rose thinks ballet is for wimps. So she's not too happy with her birthday present - ballet lessons! But to her surprise, she finds that ballet is fun after all. The trouble is, she loves gymnastics too, and you can't do both. Rose has a big, big, big decision to take. Will she choose ballet or gym?

Age: 8+ | Paperback: 198 x 130mm | 112 pages | Price: £3.99 | ISBN: 0746060262

Hi! I’m Rose and I’m in a big hurry because I keep putting my leotard on the wrong way. First it was inside out and then back to front. This changing room should have a few more mirrors in it so people can see what they look like when they’re getting changed. Then they wouldn’t make mistakes. In fact, I think I might suggest that to Miss Coralie.

Actually, I know very well I won’t suggest it to Miss Coralie, because no one in this ballet school would ever dream of suggesting anything to Miss Coralie. You don’t talk to anyone during class and you definitely don’t talk to Miss Coralie. When I think back to when I first started ballet two terms ago, I feel quite embarrassed, because I didn’t realize about not talking and I just said anything I felt like saying. I didn’t even want to be at ballet back then. I absolutely hated it. But then I met Poppy and Jasmine and gradually, bit by bit, I found that I quite liked it after all.

I’m not very good at it, but Poppy and Jasmine are giving me extra lessons to try to make me better. Then I’ll be in the same class as them. Well, that’s what they think. Personally, I think there’s about as much chance of that happening as there is of the moon turning purple.

“You’d better hurry!” said one of the girls in my class, pushing open the changing-room door. “Miss Coralie’s going to call us in any minute now.”

I pulled my hair through a hairband and scooped it round into a bun. “Can you save me a place in the line?”

She nodded and went out while I rammed a few hairgrips though the bun, then rummaged round in my bag for my shoes. I don’t even know that girl’s name because, when you only meet up once a week and you’re not supposed to talk in class, you don’t get to know people very well.

The reason I got to know Poppy is because we’re in the same year at school. She was already friends with Jasmine but they kind of let me in, and now we’re all best friends together. I call us a triplegang.

I pushed my hairband on and rushed out of the changing room, taking a quick glance at myself in the mirror by the door. What a mess! I hate my leotard. It’s far too big for me and I look really silly in it. How come all my clothes are too big for me? Well, I know the answer to that. It’s because I always have to wear my big brothers’ old jeans and T-shirts when they grow out of them. I don’t mind that too much, but I feel stupid wearing a leotard that’s too big. I suppose it’s my fault really. I shouldn’t have refused to go with Mum to buy it. It’s just that I was feeling so mad about having to do ballet in the first place that I told Mum there was no need for me to try on the leotard. She could just get one that looked as though it would fit.

“Come in, class,” came Miss Coralie’s strict voice as I squashed into the line in front of the girl who’d saved me a place.

We all started to move forwards in silence. When you get to the door you’re supposed to run in on tiptoe to a place at the barre. I was all ready to do my best running when I happened to look down and notice that I hadn’t tucked the little drawstrings into one of my shoes properly, so I quickly bent down to do it.

Of course that made the girl behind fall into me, so I toppled forwards and didn’t make a very good entrance.

Luckily, Miss Coralie was watching the girls at the end of the barre so she didn’t notice me, but I think Mrs. Marsden, the pianist, did. I saw her frowning in my direction. I put my hand on the barre, then quickly took it off again because you’re not supposed to do that until the preparation, so I concentrated on getting my hands in exactly the right shape, with my little fingers near my legs. Then I stood up straight

in fifth position and said to myself what I always say to myself at the beginning of class. Please let today be the day that Miss Coralie says lovely to me. Twice I’ve had a Good, Rose, and three times I’ve had a nice, but they were all ages ago, and I’ve never had a lovely. Lovely is the very best word that Miss Coralie can say. It means she’s really really impressed. I’d be in heaven if I got a lovely, but these days I just seem to get corrected.

The Misadventures of Danny Cloke

A Turn in the Grave

Bowvayne

When Danny Cloke writes to his favourite author, he ends up bargaining with a ghost to take revenge on his wicked step-mother. But Cyril Spectre's wild magic comes at a price and too late, Danny realizes what it means to take a turn in the grave…

Age: 8+ | Paperback: 198 x 130mm | 176 pages | Illustrations: Black line drawings | Illustrator: Alan Snow | Price: £4.99 | ISBN: 0746060270

Plot 9,345

Under-the-Sod Cemetery

Upon-the-Sod

Wessex

WX1 1SOD

First day of Eternity

Dear Deceased,

The fact that you can read this letter means you are dead. I honestly hope you make a better job of death than you did of life. According to the S.A.I.N.T.s (governors of the Soul And Internal Naughtiness Tribunal), you were the most boring children's writer ever. There's more action and excitement to be found in a soggy cabbage leaf than in your stories.

Your books are used in some classrooms as a punishment tool. "If you don't stop talking, O'Reilly," one teacher said, "you'll have to read a chapter of Cyril Clegg's Skipping to the Sewing-Machine Shop with my Aunt Betty." You have caused children all over the world to get detentions for snoring in class. One unfortunate boy, a ten-year-old called Hank Pavlova, was caught talking in class, and forced to read the entire dreary contents of Plucking Chickens with my Mummykins fifty times. The boy actually went crazy sometime during the thirty-first reading, and for ever afterwards believed he was a chicken.

It all ended tragically when he tried to pluck and prepare himself for the Sunday roast.

Children want wonder and excitement and thrills and scares and magic and adventure and the occasional rude bit, not the steaming cowpats you deliver by the spadeful. The fact of the matter is that the only people who ever bought your books were members of S.L.A.Y. (the Society of Librarians Against Youth), a top-secret organization of child-haters dedicated to squashing the life spark and the joy out of youngsters. S.L.A.Y. deliberately turns them away from the path to Paradise, so that in adulthood they need to find some other, more sinister purpose to feel fulfilled in their lives.

Since that box of frozen fish fingers fell on your head at Al Cheepo's supermarket and ended your miserable life last week, the S.A.I.N.T.s have been in conference deciding on your fate. Here is our decision:

You are cursed to haunt Al Cheepo's supermarket until our Hero Hex is broken. The hex, or magic spell if you prefer, will stop you from climbing the stairs to Paradise until a child is so thrilled with one of your stories that he or she takes a turn in your grave to deliver you a fan letter.

Yours truly,

Saint Bernard,

Department of Boring Books

Called me Kicker for a time – this was day care, the year Gram and Grim took me over – and I had a thing about booting anyone who dared to touch me. Because they were always trying to throw a hug on me, like it was a medicine I needed.

Gram and Grim, bless their pointed little heads, they’re my mother’s people, her parents, and they figured whoa! better put this little critter with other little critters his own age, maybe it will improve his temper.

Yeah, right! Instead, what happened, I invented games like kick-boxing and kick-knees and kick-faces and kick-teachers, and kick-the-other-little-day-care-critters, because I knew what a rotten lie that hug stuff was. Oh, I knew.

That’s when I got my first look at Freak, that year of the phoney hugs. He didn’t look so different back then, we were all of us pretty small, right? But he wasn’t in the playroom with us every day, just now and then he’d show up. Looking sort of fierce is how I remember him. Except later it was Freak himself who taught me that remembering is a great invention of the mind, and if you try hard enough you can remember anything, whether it really happened or not.

So maybe he wasn’t really all that fierce in day care, except I’m pretty sure he did hit a kid with his crutch once, whacked the little brat pretty good. And for some reason little Kicker never got around to kicking little Freak.

Maybe it was those crutches kept me from lashing out at him, man those crutches were cool. I wanted a pair for myself. And when little Freak showed up one day with these shiny braces strapped to his crooked legs, metal tubes right up to his hips, why those were even more cool than crutches.

“I’m Robot Man,” little Freak would go, making these weird robot noises as he humped himself around the playground. Rrrr… rrr… rrr… like he had robot motors inside his legs, going rrrrr… rrrr… rrrr, and this look, like don’t mess with me, man, maybe I got a laser cannon hidden inside these leg braces, smoke a hole right through you. No question, Freak was hooked on robots even back then, this little guy two feet tall, and already he knew what he wanted.

Then for a long time I never saw Freak any more, one day he just never came back to day care, and the next thing I remember I’m like in the third grade or something and I catch a glimpse of this yellow-haired kid scowling at me from one of those cripple vans. Man, they were death-ray eyes, and I think, hey, that’s him, the robot boy, and it was like whoa! because I’d forgotten all about him, day care was a blank place in my head, and nobody had called me Kicker for a long time.

Mad Max they were calling me, or Max Factor, or this one butthead in L.D. class called me Maxi Pad, until I persuaded him otherwise. Gram and Grim always called me Maxwell, though, which is supposed to be my real name, and sometimes I hated that worst of all. Maxwell, ugh.

Grim out in the kitchen one night, after supper whispering to Gram had she noticed how much Maxwell was getting to look like Him? Which is the way he always talked about my father, who has married his dear departed daughter and produced, eek eek, Maxwell. Grim never says my father’s name, just Him, like his name is too scary to say.

It’s more than just the way Maxwell resembles him, Grim says that night in the kitchen, the boy is like him, we’d better watch out, you never know what he might do while we’re sleeping. Like his father did. And Gram right away shushes him and says don’t ever say that, because little pictures have big ears, which makes me run to the mirror to see if it is my ears made me look like Him.

What a butthead, huh?

Well, I was a butthead, because like I said, I never had a brain until Freak moved down the street. The summer before eighth grade, right? That’s the summer I grew so fast that Grim said we’d best let the boy go barefoot, he’s exploding out of his shoes. That barefoot summer when I fell down a lot, and the weirdo robot boy with his white-yellow hair and his weird fierce eyes moved into the duplex down the block with his beautiful brown-haired mum, the Fair Gwen of Air.

Only a falling-down goon would think that was her real name, right?

Like I said.

The Chronicles of Prydain

The Black Cauldron

Lloyd Alexander

The evil death-lord Arawn is once again threatening the peaceful land of Prydain. Taran, the pig-keeper, must find and destroy the powerful black cauldron that creates warriors who cannot be killed as they have no life. Can Taran overcome the huntsman of Annuvin to fulfil his mission and protect Prydain?

“A very fine fantasy adventure with

… a quite compelling magic of its own.

” - Times Literary SupplementAge: 10+ | Paperback: 216 x 135mm | 240 pages | Illustrations: Black line drawings and map | Illustrator: Alison Read | Price: £5.99 | ISBN: 0746060394 |

For Taran, the summer was ending before it had begun. That morning Dallben had given him the task of washing the oracular pig. Had the old enchanter ordered him to capture a full-grown gwythaint, Taran would gladly have set out after one of the vicious winged creatures. As it was, he filled the bucket at the well and trudged reluctantly to Hen Wen’s enclosure. The white pig, usually eager for a bath, now squealed nervously and rolled on her back in the mud. Busy struggling to raise Hen Wen to her feet, Taran did not notice the horseman until he had reined up at the pen.

“You, there! Pig-boy!” The rider looking down at him was a youth only a few years older than Taran. His hair was tawny, his eyes black and deep-set in a pale, arrogant face. Though of excellent quality, his garments had seen much wear, and his cloak was purposely draped to hide his threadbare attire. The cloak itself, Taran saw, had been neatly and painstakingly mended. He sat astride a roan mare, a lean and nervous steed speckled red and yellow, with a long, narrow head, whose expression was as ill-tempered as her master’s.

“You, pig-boy,” he repeated, “is this Caer Dallben?”

The horseman’s tone and bearing nettled Taran, but he curbed his temper and bowed courteously. “It is,” he replied. “But I am not a pig-boy,” he added. “I am Taran, Assistant Pig-Keeper.”

“A pig is a pig,” said the stranger, “and a pig-boy is a pig-boy. Run and tell your master I am here,” he ordered. “Tell him that Prince Ellidyr Son of Pen-Llarcau. . .”

Hen Wen seized this opportunity to roll into another puddle. “Stop that, Hen!” Taran cried, hurrying after her.

“Leave off with that sow,” Ellidyr commanded. “Did you not hear me? Do as I say, and be quick about it.”

“Tell Dallben yourself!” Taran called over his shoulder, trying to keep Hen Wen from the mud. “Or wait until I’ve done with my own work!”

“Mind your impudence,” Ellidyr answered, “or you shall have a good beating for it.”

Taran flushed. Leaving Hen Wen to do as she pleased, he strode quickly to the railing and climbed over. “If I do,” he answered hotly, throwing back his head and looking Ellidyr full in the face, “it will not be at your hands.”

Ellidyr gave a scornful laugh. Before Taran could spring aside, the roan plunged forwards. Ellidyr, leaning from the saddle, seized Taran by the front of the jacket. Taran flailed his arms and legs vainly. Strong as he was, he could not break free. He was pummelled and shaken until his teeth rattled. Ellidyr then urged the roan into a gallop, hauled Taran across the turf to the cottage, and there, while chickens scattered in every direction, tossed him roughly to the ground.

The commotion brought Dallben and Coll outdoors. The Princess Eilonwy hurried from the scullery, her apron flying and a cook-pot still in her hand. With a cry of alarm she ran to Taran’s side.

Ellidyr, without troubling to dismount, called to the white-bearded enchanter. “Are you Dallben? I have brought your pig-boy to be thrashed for his insolence.”

“Tut!” said Dallben, unperturbed by Ellidyr’s furious expression. “Whether he is insolent is one thing, whether he should be thrashed is another. In either case, I need no suggestions from you.”

“I am a Prince of Pen-Llarcau!” cried Ellidyr.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Dallben interrupted with a wave of his brittle hand. “I am quite aware of all that and too busy to be concerned with it. Go, water your horse and your temper at the same time. You shall be called when you are wanted.”

Ellidyr was about to reply, but the enchanter’s stern glance made him hold his tongue. He turned the roan and urged her towards the stable.

Princess Eilonwy and the stout, baldheaded Coll, meantime, had been helping Taran pick himself up.

“You should know better, my boy, than to quarrel with strangers,” said Coll good-naturedly.

Lizzie was packing her valise, ready for her visit to London. Even though she knew how much she would miss Mama, she was looking forward to the journey; to seeing her cousins again and to living for a time in the fine house in Chelsea about which she had heard so much, and which she was sure was a great deal larger than their cottage. Uncle Percy was the owner of a prosperous draper's shop, and the house, so Mama said, was decorated in the most up-to-date style. Uncle Percy was the richest of the three Frazer brothers, and Lizzie didn't mind that, but it had always struck her as somehow unjust that her beloved father should have been the one brother to die young. Uncle Percy was the eldest, and Uncle William was a soldier who had fought in the recent war in the Crimea, and both of them, in Lizzie's opinion, should therefore have been much more likely to leave this earth before their time than her papa, John Frazer.

He had died when Lizzie was only five, from a fever resulting from a bad chill, but even though seven years had passed since then, she remembered her father well, or thought she did. She could summon up memories of walking with him through the woods near their small house, where he would point at the plants and flowers, and tell her their names. If she shut her eyes, she could see a picture in her mind of herself, scarcely more than a baby, sitting on his broad shoulders and looking down at the world, with her head (that was what it felt like) almost touching the clouds.

More and more often lately, Lizzie needed to remind herself of those happy days. Her mother was now married to Mr. Eli Bright, a curate at the village church. He had moved into their cottage, not having a great deal of wealth of his own. Mama explained to Lizzie that now she was married to Mr. Bright, her money and possessions quite naturally became his. This seemed most unfair to Lizzie, and in her opinion Mama's new husband had turned their home into a chilly sort of place, where laughter was frowned on and every kind of comfort denied. Her mother scarcely ever played the piano as she used to, and the lamps seemed to glow with a far dimmer light than they had in the days when Papa was alive. How it was that her mother, Cecily Frazer, who was so lively, pretty and gentle, could find it in her heart to love someone as gloomy, strict and unfeeling as Eli Bright was beyond Lizzie's understanding, and she dared not ask, for fear of reminding Mama of everything she was missing. She resolved not to think about such matters for the moment, but instead to look forward to her journey to London.

Lizzie had decided to take all three of her dresses with her. One was made of blue wool and had lace trimmings at the cuffs and collar. Another was brown serge; Lizzie thought it sadly plain and only suitable for school. Her Sunday dress was moss-green velvet and rather old. She hoped she would not grow too tall for it before it was quite worn out. She was also taking two white pinafores: the ones that had been mended less often than the others. She had chosen a book or two to accompany her on her travels and her Mother Goose Rhymes had a few precious flowers from the garden pressed between the pages.

But now it wasn’t Lily’s bedroom, not any more, and today Polly couldn’t find the energy for proper swinging.

Until last week, she and Lily had come here together – to be by themselves, to talk and giggle and share secrets. Now there was no Lily, no one to share anything, and Polly didn’t even want to look up at the top-floor flat. For nearly a week, the windows had been blank and empty. Today the new people were moving in, and they were going to be duller than dull, she just knew it. It was so unfair!

Polly sat glumly, twisting the swing seat one way, then the other. She dragged her feet on the scuffed bare earth underneath.

She and Lily had been best friends for seven years, ever since Polly and her parents had moved into Number Six, Chelsea Walk. As their mothers were good friends too, Polly and Lily had shared a nanny and attended the same school; they had walked along the Thames Embankment and picnicked in Ranelagh Gardens; they both had piano lessons with Lily’s Aunt Dorothy, who lived nearby. Now Lily’s mother was ill, and the family had moved to Tunbridge Wells, where the healthy air would do her good, Dr. Mayes said. All Lily’s family’s possessions and furniture had been carried out, less than a week ago.

This afternoon, Polly had arrived home from school to find a van parked outside, and boxes and crates being carried in by the very same men, three of them, in flat caps. What a strange job it must be, Polly thought – carting people’s whole lives from one place to the next, swapping people around like books on shelves!

She felt resentful of the newcomers. There hadn’t been time to get used to Lily being gone, let alone to face the thought of new people moving in, putting their own pictures and ornaments where Lily’s had been, making it all different.

“Lily can come to stay, sometimes,” Polly’s mother had said yesterday, seeing her gloomy face. “Tunbridge Wells isn’t that far away. You haven’t said goodbye to her for ever and ever. And there’s still Maurice!”

Maurice! Grown-ups simply didn’t understand. As if Maurice could even begin to replace Lily! Polly glowered at the windows of the Dalbys’ ground-floor flat. Polly’s mother and Mrs. Dalby often had afternoon tea together or sat chatting while they sewed, but that didn’t mean Polly was going to be friends with Horrid Maurice.

He was the worst boy she knew. As she knew very few boys, this was less of an insult than she’d have liked; but she felt sure that even if she knew hundreds and hundreds, Maurice would still be the one she detested most.

If ever he saw Polly and Lily playing in the garden, he used to come out purely to pester them. He was the same age as them, twelve; but as Lily remarked loftily, “He’s only a boy. They always seem younger than girls for their age.” Once, he’d sneaked up behind Polly with a toad he’d found at the end of the garden, holding it so close that she came face to face with it when she turned round, and couldn’t help shrieking with horror. That piercing shriek – she hadn’t known she could make such a sound – had annoyed her as much as it had amused Maurice; she never usually made a fuss about mice, spiders or other crawly creatures. Another time, he had thrown Eugenie, Lily’s doll, high into the branches of the walnut tree, where her long hair had become so firmly snagged on twigs that Polly had to call the gardener to bring a ladder and climb to the rescue.

Why couldn’t it have been Maurice’s mother who was ill and needed the Tunbridge Wells air?

And now a new disappointment! The one hope remaining to Polly was that the new occupants of Flat Three would have a daughter her own age – not, of course, one she would like as much as Lily, because that would be disloyal, but still someone who could fill the friend gap. But Papa had heard that the new people weren’t a family at all, but a pair of spinsters: Miss Cross and Miss Rutherford. Polly wrinkled her nose when she heard the names. She imagined the Misses Cross and Rutherford as elderly ladies, dressed stiffly in black and purple and old lace that smelled of mothballs. Miss Cross would be cross, of course – probably they both would. They’d look down long noses at her and would sniff in disapproval if she played in the garden. They’d be hard of hearing and would cup their hands to their ears if she tried to speak to them, so that she’d have to repeat everything three times. They might even be so deaf as to use ear trumpets. Yet their ears would be sharply tuned to any noise she made on the back stairs or in her bedroom; there would be complaints to Mama and Papa. She knew it! She disliked them already.

“Oh, but this is lovely!” said a voice, close behind her.

Polly turned. Two people had come out of the doorway that led to the back stairs: both young women, dressed alike in navy-blue skirts and white blouses. The taller and thinner of the two was looking this way and that, giving excited little claps of her hands; the other, dark-haired, stocky and hatless, gazed around her as she came down the steps to the grass.

“We could hardly have done better!” the tall one went on. “And look, this tree – lovely shade on a hot day – oh! Hello! I’m so sorry if we startled you.”

They were coming towards her, smiling and interested, as if a girl on a swing were the most exciting thing they could hope to find in a garden. Polly felt annoyed with herself; she could have dodged out of sight behind the blackcurrant bushes, to look and listen without being seen.

Slowly, she got up from the swing seat, and tugged at her skirt. “Only for a moment.” She looked from one face to the other. These two must be nieces, or something, of the old ladies who were moving in; spinsters, of course, wouldn’t have daughters or grand-daughters.

“You live here, do you?” the shorter one asked.

“Yes. Up there, in the middle flat.” Polly pointed to the first-floor windows.

“Then we’re going to be neighbours!” exclaimed the tall young woman, who seemed ready to be delighted by everything. “How marvellous! We must introduce ourselves properly. How do you do? I’m Edwina Rutherford, and this is Violet Cross.” She held out a hand to shake Polly’s. “Do tell us who you are!”

“Oh!” Polly was unable to hide her surprise. “But you’re not – I mean, I thought – I thought you’d be cross and old!” It came out, just like that, before she could stop herself; she blushed at her rudeness.

Miss Rutherford laughed, not seeming to mind. “I feel old, sometimes. Look old, sometimes.” And Polly noticed that her face, under her hat brim, looked pale and drawn, like that of a very ill person who was venturing out for the first time after weeks on a sickbed. “As for Violet –” Miss Rutherford turned to her friend – “Cross by name, kindly by nature!”

“And your name?” prompted Miss Cross.

“Polly. Paulina Elizabeth Genevieve Stubbs, but I’m always called Polly. So you’re really the people moving in upstairs?”

Miss Rutherford laughed. “We really are. We’ve come outside to give ourselves a rest from boxes and dust and decisions. Maybe you could show us around the garden?”

Polly wasn’t sure what to show them that they couldn’t see easily for themselves, but she said, “Yes, of course.” Miss Rutherford made a big show of setting off on a Grand Tour, adjusting her hat, looking round expectantly, and putting her best foot forward.

“Now, Edwina,” said Miss Cross, glancing anxiously at her, “you’re not to go over-tiring yourself. It’s been a long day. You ought to be putting your feet up. The doctor said—”

“I can rest later,” Miss Rutherford assured her. But she took the offered arm, and leaned slightly against her friend as they took a few steps down the garden. Only a few steps, because Polly wanted them to have a proper look at the tree. She stood back to gaze up at it, its cracked bark and the spreading canopy of leaves, and the branch that had the swing’s ropes lashed round it.

“We’ll start here. This tree,” she said proudly, “is a walnut tree. We get walnuts from it in autumn. The Romans, you know, brought walnuts when they came to England, and planted them. This one was grown from a walnut by a girl who lived here years and years ago. And now it’s big enough to swing from!”

“How marvellous!” Miss Rutherford tilted back her head to look at the upper branches. “And how do you know that?”

“Mrs. Parks told me. She’s our cook.”

“Imagine!” said Miss Rutherford. “One little walnut, growing into a tree this size! I shall find a nut in autumn and try to grow a new tree myself. There,” she added, looking sidelong at Miss Cross, “you see what great things can grow from small beginnings! What an inspiration, to look out of our window and see this every day!”

“You got more’n enough inspiration if you ask me,” said Miss Cross, almost crossly.

Polly looked at them with interest. She had thought at first that they might be cousins, but now decided that they couldn’t be related at all; they looked so unalike, and their voices were very different, too. Whereas Miss Rutherford spoke in the clear, carrying tone of most people who lived in this part of Chelsea, Miss Cross’s way of speaking was less refined – the way a servant might speak. Polly liked her friendly directness, but her accent was what Mama called common. Polly wondered if maybe she was looking after Miss Rutherford – perhaps she was a paid nurse, or companion. Miss Rutherford had the liveliest blue eyes, that seemed to dart around taking in everything; but she also looked as tired as a candle on its last sputter. Her skin looked almost transparent, there were shadows under her eyes, and she was so thin that – as Mama would say – a puff of wind would blow her over. And Miss Cross had mentioned the doctor, and resting. Mama saw the doctor quite often, and was supposed to rest each afternoon with her feet up on the couch, but that was because of the new baby that was on the way. That couldn’t possibly be the cause of Miss Rutherford’s frailness.

“Excuse me, Miss Rutherford –” Polly ventured.

“Oh, please – call me Edwina, and Violet, Violet! Miss Rutherford makes me feel like an elderly spinster! You don’t want us to call you Miss Stubbs, do you? May we call you Polly?”

“Yes, of course. Well, er – Edwina,” Polly continued awkwardly, not used to calling grown-ups by their first names, “I hope you won’t think I’m rude, but are you ill?”

“Well, like –” Miss Cross, Violet, began, but Edwina cut her short, fixing Polly with her straight blue gaze.

The Historical

House

Josie Under Fire

Ann Turnbull

It is 1941: London is suffering from the Blitz and gripped by patriotic fervour. Josie finds it hard to understand her brother's decision to be a conscientious objector. But when she moves to a new school and gets drawn into tormenting one of her classmates, Josie learns what it means to stand up for her beliefs.

Age: 8+ | Paperback: 198 x 130mm | 176 pages | Price: £4.99 | ISBN: 0746060327 | 19 November 2004

The bushes in the garden had been hacked back, revealing a surprisingly large space in which spring cabbages and onions were growing. A few daffodils showed tight yellow buds. Josie looked up and saw that every one of the windows was criss-crossed with brown sticky tape.

Her mother opened the gate and they carried Josie’s suitcase up a short flight of stone steps to the front door. Josie glanced down into the basement area and saw sandbags piled against the walls. The windows were boarded up.

“Is that where they shelter?” she asked. At home in Greenwich she and her mother had an Anderson shelter in the garden.

“I think so.” Her mother looked momentarily anxious before she said, in a bracing tone, “You’ll be just as safe here as at Granny’s. Safer, probably. And you’ll be with Edith. You’ll enjoy that.”

“Yes.”

But it would be strange, Josie thought, staying with her cousin. She’d often visited for the day, but never stayed. And although the families had always been friendly it might be different now, because of Ted.

“Do they know?” she asked. “About Ted? Does Edith know?”

“We told Aunty Grace and Uncle Walter. I doubt if they’d tell Edith. And Aunty Grace wouldn’t gossip. The neighbours won’t know.”

No, thought Josie, Aunty Grace was always polite and correct. And if she felt differently about Josie now, she wouldn’t show it. But Edith…?

The bell push was labelled “Felgate”. It was the only one because the tenants of the upstairs flats used the back entrance. Her mother pressed the bell.

The door opened, and Josie’s aunt was there, and Edith beside her, and behind them the grand, high-ceilinged hall with its floor of black and white marble tiles.

Aunty Grace gave Josie her cool kiss that smelled of face powder. “My goodness, Josie, you’ve grown!” she said.

Josie blushed. She seemed to be growing fast these days, and preferred it not to be commented on. She glanced at her cousin, who was also twelve. Edith did look bigger, and her face was less chubby and childish, but she still had that prettiness – dark curls and a dimple when she smiled – that Josie, with her straight fair hair and glasses, had always envied.

Aunty Grace drew Josie’s mother towards the kitchen, where they chatted as the kettle was put on to boil.

Biddy, the Felgates’ little black cat, crept out into the hall, and Edith scooped her up. “Here’s Josie come to see you.”

Josie stroked the cat. Her own pet, a spaniel named Russ, was being looked after by a neighbour in Greenwich, and she knew she would miss him.

Edith smiled at Josie over the cat’s head. “You can come to my school,” she said. “Mummy arranged it with Miss Hallam.”

“Is she your teacher?”

“Yes. There are only two left now, Miss Hallam and Miss Gregory. All the others have joined the Services. And a lot of the girls were evacuated and haven’t come back. We just go in the mornings.”

Josie thought of her school in Greenwich. That was only part-time, too, but it was enough. She remembered the name calling, the way she was shut out of things, the way even some of the teachers had cooled towards her. Surely it would be better here, among strangers?

“Come and have some tea, girls!” Edith’s mother called.

They followed her into the enormous oak-panelled living room with its expanse of carpet in dark floral patterns. Biddy escaped from Edith’s arms and made straight for the hearthrug in front of the fire.

Josie, looking around, remembered that in the past this room had always had tall vases of cut flowers in it, whatever was in season; Aunty Grace had a regular order at the florist’s. Not now. There were no flowers at all, and the pale damask curtains that framed the long windows were half-hidden behind bulky blackout drapes.

On the mantelpiece were several framed family photographs. Josie’s eyes were drawn to one of a smiling young man: her cousin Peter, Edith’s brother. Peter wore flying goggles pushed up over his leather helmet, and a padded jacket with the collar turned out to reveal its fleece lining; the straps of a parachute harness could be seen around his shoulders and hips; and behind him was his plane – a Spitfire. Josie glanced at her mother and saw that she too had seen the photograph.

A fire was burning in the grate, and tea was laid on a low table: china cups, white napkins, even some biscuits. They sat down, and Aunty Grace handed out little rose-patterned plates. Josie immediately felt anxious that she might drop crumbs or say something insufficiently polite. The Felgates were so formal, so stilted in their conversation. And yet Edith, she remembered, had always been a secretly disobedient child, bubbling under the polite surface, much naughtier than Josie once their parents were out of sight. Would she have changed?  “Pass Josie another biscuit, Edith,” Aunty Grace said.

The biscuits were not as good as they looked. They tasted dry; one of those fat-free recipes from The Kitchen Front, Josie guessed.

Nevertheless, biscuits were biscuits, and she and Edith ate several each while their mothers talked about Josie’s grandmother, who had fallen in the blackout and broken her hip. She needed her daughter to come and stay for a few weeks – which was why Josie was here.

Josie sensed Edith’s impatience as she waited for a pause in the conversation. When it came she asked her mother, “May I show Josie our room?”

“Yes, of course, dear. Run along.”

It was a relief to leave. They went across the hall and into the small bedroom that until recently Edith had shared with her sister Moira. Josie had always liked her cousins’ room. It was pretty, with a white-painted dressing table and pink eiderdowns – a proper girls’ room that made her own bedroom at home seem ordinary. Josie’s mother didn’t bother much about the house. She had always worked from home as a freelance journalist, and throughout her childhood Josie had been aware of the disapproval of some of the neighbours: married women were supposed to devote themselves to home and family. Until now. Now it was different, and her mother had told her that even Aunty Grace worked, unpaid, for the WVS.

“You can have Moira’s bed,” said Edith.

“Where is she now?” Josie knew Moira had joined the WAAF a few weeks ago.

“ East Anglia. Mummy’s worrying about her. And about Peter, of course.”

She moved to shut the bedroom door. “Want to see something?”

“What?”

Edith opened the wardrobe and reached deep inside. She brought out what looked like a drawstring shoe bag made of striped sheeting. “Have a look.”

The bag was full of shrapnel from bomb sites. There were several bullets. Josie took them out and weighed them in her hand. They were heavy, dull silver, dented where they’d hit the ground. There was some glass, too, fragments of stained-glass window in deep reds and blues.

“That’s from the Catholic church,” said Edith. “There was a massive hit. All the people sheltering in the crypt were killed. Hilda Rodway – she goes to my school – her cousin was in there.”

Josie brought out some small sheared-off bits of metal – and then a watch with a shattered face, stopped at a quarter past six.

“That’s when the bomb went off,” said Edith. Josie could see that her cousin was particularly proud of this souvenir.

“How horrible.” But there was a fascination about the watch, about the thought of that moment when time stopped for someone. Edith put the things away and hid the bag in the wardrobe. “Don’t tell Mummy. I’m not allowed to collect shrapnel.”

Edith hasn’t changed, Josie thought. She wondered what they would do together in the afternoons, when they weren’t at school. She remembered, from family visits, climbing the walnut tree in the back garden and, in autumn, collecting the nuts, some to be eaten fresh and the rest pickled. In colder weather they had played in the strange, dead-end space at the top of the stairs – a space that had always fascinated Josie.

Edith seemed to guess her thoughts. “Let’s go up to the landing.”

They went into the hall and through the archway to what had once been the grand staircase, the centre of a big house. Now the stairs, although richly carpeted in Turkish red, led nowhere. The girls ran up them, reached a landing, turned the corner and faced three steps that stopped at a blank wall. Beyond that wall, Josie knew, was the first-floor flat.

The Felgate children had always made the landing a play space, though Aunty Grace had worried about them falling downstairs. There were still boxes of Ludo and Snakes and Ladders on the top step, some Girls’ Own annuals, and an open box full of toy soldiers. Aunty Grace had encouraged quiet games here. But sometimes, when Josie visited, Edith would fetch shawls and fans from the dressing-up box in her bedroom, and the two of them would parade up and down the great staircase, pretending to be the Victorian ladies who once lived here. Or the landing would become a stage and they’d persuade the older ones – Peter, Ted and Moira – to put on plays with them. Often, though, they would just sit in the hidey-hole at the top and chat and giggle, which is what they did now.

“Who’s in your class at school?” Josie asked. “What are they like?”

“Clare Barrington, Pam Denham: they’re my friends. Nina Parton; Sylvia Wells; Iris Gray… They’re all quite good sorts except Alice Hampton: she’s peculiar.”

“What sort of peculiar?”

“Oh, teacher’s pet. Brainbox. No one likes her. We’re mixed ages, ten to thirteen, because of the war and doubling up the classes. Part of the school got bombed; we’ve had tons of bombing –”

“So have we!” exclaimed Josie, not to be outdone.

“And we’ve had to go part-time,” Edith continued, “because there’s not enough shelter space for all of us. But Miss Hallam’s nice. And it’s good fun in the air raids. We do quizzes and plays and things.”

It’ll be so much better here, Josie thought. Edith’s my cousin and she’ll be my friend. And no one will turn against me because they won’t know about Ted.

Edith had begun fiddling with the toy soldiers. She took a few out and stood them on the stair. She glanced sidelong at Josie. “Is Ted a pacifist?” she asked.