Free Pack Up Your Troubles by Pam Weaver

five- to seven-year-olds had any idea what ‘an issue of blood’ meant, but she was surprised to see that the children listened enraptured. Apparently Jane was a gifted storyteller. One more chorus, this time one relating to the story itself, ‘ Oh touch the hem of His garment and thou too shalt be whole …’ and Sunday school was over. At the end of the session, as they said their goodbyes, Jane produced a box of sweets. Each ‘good’ child, namely the ones who had sat still while they’d had the story, was allowed to take one. Connie permitted herself a wry smile. Clever old Jane. No wonder the children sat still and listened.
    ‘There’s a dance at the Assembly Rooms on Saturday,’ said Jane as they were leaving. ‘A few of us from the village are going. Sally Burndell comes. You know her, don’t you?’
    ‘She works part time in our shop,’ Connie nodded.
    ‘Do come to the dance,’ said Jane. ‘They’re great fun.’
    A couple of days slipped by but at the earliest opportunity, Connie climbed upstairs to the attic with a torch. It was hot and musty but she’d only been there for about ten minutes before Gwen came to see what she was doing.
    ‘It’s chock-a-block up here, Mum!’ Connie gasped. ‘I had no idea we had all this junk.’
    Her mother looked a little surprised too. ‘I suppose it’s years of saying, “Oh … put it in the attic for now”,’ she smiled. ‘What are you looking for anyway?’
    ‘My old school books,’ said Connie. ‘I’m teaching Kez to read.’
    ‘Try that box over there,’ said her mother.
    The first of the boxes contained an old photograph album. Connie flicked through and smiled. The box Brownie had recorded so many happy occasions but it was a shock to see her father’s face again. Out of respect for her new husband, her mother had moved his pictures up here when Clifford came into the family. She turned a page and there was Kenneth. Her heart missed a beat and she sighed inwardly. He looked about twelve. He was bare-chested and wearing short trousers. His fair hair was tousled and he had obviously been looking for something in the pond. He was proudly holding up a jam jar tied with a string handle and something lurked in the water. She stared at her long lost brother and wished he was here. Memory is selective, she knew that. She’d forgotten the times when they had been at loggerheads, or the times when he’d thumped her for getting in his way. All she could recall were the picnics on the hill and her mother reading them endless stories, or fun and laughter at the beach and being pushed on the swings until she was so high it was scary. She ran her finger over Kenneth’s face and slipping the photograph from its stuck-down corners, she palmed it secretly into her pocket.
    Her mother was rummaging through a different box. ‘These are all books,’ she said.
    Putting the album down, Connie went to join her. Her mother had found an old school book but it looked very babyish. Connie didn’t want to embarrass Kez because she knew that she wouldn’t bother to practise if the book looked like it was for a child. In the end she chose two of her own books to take. Grace Darling’s Tales , a book she had been given by an aunt when she was about nine. It had two girls in swimsuits on the front cover. They were standing on the rocks with their dog. It was a bit more advanced than Connie would have liked but it was a start. The other book was her all-time favourite when she’d been a girl. She’d bought the Stories from the Arabian Nights for thruppence in a jumble sale. Connie knew she would enjoy hearing the stories again; The Porter and Ladies of Baghdad, Caliph the Fisherman and Ali Baba, who adorned the front cover. She’d always loved the romantic illustrations of the men in their flowing robes and dark smouldering looks. Now she and Kez could begin her long uphill journey to literacy.
    As they pushed the box back against the wall, it was hindered by