Free What Was Promised by Tobias Hill Page A

what he sees. ‘What kind of foreign are you?’ he asks, and Dora blushes and blusters and laughs.
    ‘What a question! Well, I’m German. And also Jewish.’
    ‘Those are nice names,’ Pond says.
    ‘You think so? Really I’m Isidora. And Solly is really Solomon.’
    ‘Like the king,’ Pond says.
    ‘But you’re clever,’ Dora says. ‘Where did you learn about the king?’
    ‘In books.’
    ‘You have books?’
    ‘Not now,’ Pond says, and takes her hand. He, too, has come to a decision.

3. Autumn
    After school they go out to play: Jem, Floss, Iris and Pond.
    Their numbers make them brave. They’ve come clear across Long Debris, but this is where the Troll bridge is. You can’t play Troll anywhere else.
    The bridge is made of brick and wood. The wood is old railway timber. Once the bridge was bricks and stone, but that was in another time. There’s a field beside the bridge, with chickens in a chicken run and one drayhorse, all ribs and hips, with its nose in a bag.
    The horse is still. A lane goes under the bridge and into the trees, blue as slate in the evening light.
    An old lady with a terrier peers at them as she goes by. Floss smothers a giggle in her fist. Maybe Iris will make her a troll!
    Troll was Jem’s game first. It was his idea, but Floss made the rules. This is how it goes:
    One hides. He goes under the bridge, down in the lane where the echo is. That one’s the troll. The troll calls Who goes on my bridge? Then it climbs up as fast as it can, and it waits. It listens to the bridge: no looking. When it hears a child it jumps out and shouts, Troll! If no one’s on the bridge, the troll has to go back, down in the wet where the echo is. But if anyone’s on the bridge, then they turn into trolls.
    Then all the trolls hide under the bridge. They climb down where the echo is, and they all call out together.
    Who’s the troll?
    Iris is. Her face peers out, a sad imp. ‘I don’t want to be it,’ she calls.
    ‘Well, you are,’ Floss calls back. ‘It’s decided. You have to do it now.’
    It would be better if it was one of the boys. It would be best if it were Pond. Then Floss would win for sure, the way she did before Pond came. And Iris’s a bad troll. She’s too scrawny for climbing, and sometimes she gives up and plays alone with her made-up friends.
    They start. Jem is caught first. Sometimes, Floss thinks, he plays to lose. He just likes them to like his game. He wipes his specs and sighs and climbs down to where Iris is. They whisper for a bit together: then,
    Who goes on my bridge?
    Their voices mix with the echo. It becomes one sound, like that of the markets. It’s all one voice in the end.
    Pond always waits too long. Floss is braver than him. She doesn’t run – that’s a mistake – but she goes first, crafty, crabwise. She’s hardly on the bridge when there’s a splashing and Iris pops up. ‘Troll!’ she shouts, but Floss won’t have it.
    ‘Cheat. You weren’t in the echo place. You have to go back down.’
    Iris does. They start again. This time Pond goes with Floss, but just behind. He shadows her. Floss twists round and glares at him.
    Go away! she mouths, and he backsteps, like a dog, keeping his eyes on her. He’s chicken. He’s just like the people he lives with now, the watchmaker who works in the Lane but never shouts like a real coster, and his wife, who’s even shy of Iris.
    Still, it’s Floss who’s caught.
    Who goes on my bridge?
    It’s just Pond now. He’s so quiet. He waits. He waits. He waits.
    One more crossing and the trolls have lost; but it’s hard when there are so many of them. Jem pokes his head out early, grinning madly. He shrugs and clambers down. He’s getting tall: the climbing is easy for him.
    Who goes on my bridge? the voice says again.
    Pond creeps out. He ghosts forwards. He puts a foot on the timbers. The wind catches a newspaper and it flutters like a broken wing. He’s alright. He’s almost there. He’s so careful.