Doodlebug Summer Read Online Free Page B

one of the sort that didn’t glide…’
    Yes, I know. We all heard it.
    â€˜Is Martin—’ I can’t ask.
    â€˜He’s all right,’ Mum says. ‘He was injured, but the hospital says he’ll be OK.’
    â€˜What about their mum?’
    â€˜She’d gone to see her sister.’
    â€˜That’s good, isn’t it. At least the boys have got their mother.’
    It’s the sort of thing you have to say, but it doesn’t help a lot. Last time Mr Freeman was here, he drew a picture of a battleship on a spare bit of wood and gave it to Ian. He used to whistle through his teeth while he worked. The tip of his little finger was missing because of an accident with a circular saw, and he said he never even felt it when it happened.
    I’m going to think about him sawing wood and whistling, I’m not going to think about their garden after the doodlebug fell, there’s no point, it won’t make anything better.
    â€˜His poor wife,’ says Mrs Potter.
    Why doesn’t she shut up?
    I break away from Mum and pull the back door open. Out in the garden I rage at the sun in the blue sky, furious with God, orfate or whatever it is. Why should a nice man like Mr Freeman be killed when horrible people like Hedge are walking around, perfectly OK? It’s not fair. If I could choose, Hedge would have died instead. I run all the way to the back fence where the poplar trees used to grow, and thump my clenched fists against its splintery wood because I am so angry.

4
What Now?
    I love the swing in our garden, especially on a warm, sunny day like this. Dad got Hedge to rig it up as a present for Ian’s birthday, but Ian doesn’t like it much, he says it makes him feel wobbly. I’m too big for it really, I have to hold my feet out in front so they don’t catch on the grass, but I don’t mind. The ropes are good and long, and when I get it swinging really high, I lean back with my arms and legs straight, and the plum tree leaves and bright bits of sky zoom one way and the other until I’m almost dizzy. Then the rocking slows down until I work it up again. This summer, with nothing much else to do except watch out for the flying bombs, I’ve spent ages justswinging. Today’s a Saturday and I’m home from school, so that’s what I’m doing right now, gently rocking to and fro.
    It’s September now, but the autumn days are still lovely. For some weeks, the sky’s been strangely quiet and empty except for birds flying and twittering. The doodlebugs have stopped coming. When Hedge was here on Saturday he said the workers who have to build them in Holland are mucking them up so they don’t work any more.
    I was going to ask how he knew that, but Mum nodded and said, ‘Sabotage. It’s very brave of them, isn’t it. If they were caught doing it, they’d be shot.’
    I’m glad I don’t live in Holland. The war’s no fun here, but at least the Germans haven’t marched into our country and occupied it. It would be awful to have them walking around in those uniforms with swastikas on the sleeves, shooting people who don’t do as they’re told.
    Mum’s not sure the doodlebugs really have stopped. She still won’t let me go out of the house alone, and it’s no use hoping I can go and meet Pauline. I can see how she feels,I suppose. There’s nowhere to shelter on the common. We’d be out in the open if anything happened.
    I wonder if our tree’s all right. Hedge says there’s a big, new crater on the common where a doodlebug blew up three weeks ago, and he’ll know because he lives near there. I’m not going to ask him about the tree, though. He’d never understand, even if I could explain which one I meant. Trees to him are all the same, just things to prune or chop down.
    It was awful when he cut down the poplar trees. Dad asked him to because the