Free The Outside Child by Nina Bawden Page B

slipping the loop over an iron strut on the bench. “Stay,” she said. “Good dog.” And the little dog sat like a statue, ears up, head cocked to one side.
    The children backed away from the bench, giggling. George whispered something to Annabel and she looked in our direction.
    “Pretend to be busy,” Plato said. “Let’s pick blackberries.”
    High up where they caught the sun, a few berries were ripening, but on the lower branches they were still shrunken and green.
    “Rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb,” Plato said. “That’s what actors say when they’re part of the crowd on the stage and pretending not to notice what’s going on. If you get a stick, you might be able to reach some of the top bits. I’ll keep an eye on your brother and sister.”
    The bushes were covered with dust and smelled fusty. The few berries I managed to reach were sour and pursed my mouth up. “ Yuck ,” I said, spitting. “What are they doing, Plato?”
    I was too nervous, or shy, to look round myself.
    “Nothing special,” he said. “It’s all right, they’re not watching us.” Then, concerned suddenly, “Oh, no …”
    I looked then. They were standing at the wire fence between the clearing and the railway line.
    I said, “They’re just watching for trains. All kids do that.”
    George had sat down. Annabel was stooping over him, pulling at something. George was on his back, wriggling. He disappeared. Annabel looked over her shoulder at her sleeping grandmother. George’s head popped up on the other side of the fence. Annabel sat down.
    “They’re sliding under the wire,” Plato said. “That’s dangerous …”
    Annabel was wearing a skirt. A bit of it must have snagged on the fence. She said, “Oh …” and then a rude word I would not have expected. George was out of sight but I heard him laugh. Annabel tugged her skirt free. Then she vanished too.
    Plato set off at a run. I followed him, my heart jumping. I was afraid he was going to wake the old lady, but he swerved as he passed the bench and made for the fence. Westood, peering through. There was no sign of the children.
    The rails started to hum. We could hear the train in the tunnel. It roared out and banged past, making the fence shake. Plato said, “We’d better see where they’ve got to.”
    He slithered under the wire and held it up for me. There was a narrow path of trodden grass that led down the steep slope towards the dark mouth of the tunnel. There was nowhere else they could hide.
    We stopped at the entrance. There was room between the rails and the black wall for a person to walk, but it would be terrifying to be caught there, I thought, with a swaying train crashing past. I shivered and Plato said, “Some kids enjoy being frightened.” He called out, “Hallo, there,” and his shout echoed hollowly under the curved roof of the tunnel.
    We waited. “Come on out,” Plato said, using his deep, grown-up voice. “Now. This minute.”
    I thought I heard a whisper, quite close. Then silence.
    Plato said, “My father’s a policeman. If you don’t come out, I’ll get him to fetch you. Then you’ll be in real trouble.”
    A few yards away a thin beam of light wavered, enough to illuminate an arch in the side of the tunnel. Annabel came out of it, shining her pencil torch in our faces. “It’s all right,” she said. “It’s not those rough boys.”
    “I’m not scared of any old boys,” George said indignantly. “I’m not scared of anyone.”
    This was so exactly the sort of thing I would have expected him to say that I couldn’t help laughing.
    Plato looked at me coldly. “It’s not in the least funny. They could have been electrocuted. Or run over by a train. You wouldn’t laugh, would you, if you saw someone mashed up in the wheels, torn to bits, just blood and bone, screaming?”
    I said, “Don’t frighten them, Plato.”
    He frowned at me; a frown that was meant as a warning. He said, “It seems someone has to.”
    “We