Free The Outside Child by Nina Bawden

said. “Or a jemmy.”
    “Why don’t you shout over the fence and see if next door have got one?” I was being sarcastic because Plato had sounded so matter-of-fact—as if most people normally carried burglary tools around with them.
    He looked at me, very straight. “I don’t suppose they’d have one, do you? But I’ll try if you like.”
    And he actually got hold of an old plastic crate that was part of the litter around the back door and put it against the fence between the two houses. But the moment he climbed on it, the next door dog started barking.
    It wasn’t an ordinary bark. It was a deep, throaty baying that had a thick, wet, snarling base to it; the barking of a huge, savage hound. And as it barked, it flung itself against the fence, leaping high, so that for a second we saw a wild, rolling, red eye and a great snout, lips drawn back, white teeth flashing.
    One glimpse was enough. Plato tumbled off the plastic crate and we tore down the garden, the dog running beside us on the other side of the fence, thudding against it, leaping and growling. We stumbled down the jungly garden and through the gate to the cinder path. I thought, suppose the gate to the other garden is open!
    I didn’t stop to look. Plato had started gasping. I grabbed his hand and dragged him along with me. Behind us, the dog’s howling grew frantic. I heard the scrabbling of its paws and the crashing of its body against the wooden fence. Then a man shouted. The dog yelped as if someone had thrown something at it, and its barks became whimpers.
    Plato collapsed on a dustbin. When he had gathered his breath, he said, “That was blood-curdling. I don’t know what blood feels like when it’s curdled, but mine’s cold. As if my veins ran with ice.”
    “Milk goes lumpy when it curdles.” It seemed an odd moment to be discussing the meaning of words. I said, “I’m not going back there.”
    “I expect its bark is worse than its bite. It’s probably a soft old thing really. Just wanted to play with us.”
    “I’m not risking it.”
    “It couldn’t get over the fence. Maybe it’ll be shut up next time.”
    “You try, then. If it’s all clear, you can light a bonfire. Smoke signals. Make sure the whole street knows what we’re up to. In fact, we could send every house a round robin letter. Ask if anyone would be kind enough to lend us their front room for the holidays so we can spy on the people in Number 22.”
    I felt despairing. A couple of little kids playing, Plato had said. He had meant that was how a grown-up would see us, but it was what we were :two kids, pretending. I said, “It’s no good. There’s nothing we can do. Let’s go home.”
    He said patiently, “There is one thing. We could simply knock on their door. If your stepmother hasn’t seen you since you were three, hasn’t wanted to see you, then she probably hasn’t seen a photograph of you, either. We could say we were collecting for something. Or looking for sponsors for a walk, or a swim, to make money for charity.” He giggled suddenly and sharply, “For Oxfam. Or for handicapped children.”
    I stared at him and he went red. He said, “I’m sorry. That wasn’t funny. I don’t know why I said it.”
    I was too miserable to be angry. I said, “I didn’t think you’d seen her hand. What do you think happened?”
    “I don’t know. Genetic, probably. Born with it.”
    “Do you think she minds?”
    “I expect so. Like I mind about asthma. You just have to get used to it.”
    “I don’t think having asthma’s so bad.”
    “You haven’t got it. But it isn’t just that. It’s other things, too. Like being ugly and small.”
    I said, “Don’t be silly!”
    He pushed his glasses up on his nose and looked at me sternly. “It’s as I said, you have to get used to it. To being different. Outside.”
    “Outside?”
    “Looking at all the people inside who don’t lose their breath when they run, or wear braces on their teeth, and who