Free The Cast-Off Kids by Trisha Merry Page A

They were the only three tall enough to
do this, so I hoped it would help.
    Thank goodness it did. They held the tyre steady, and I was finally able, with all my strength, to lever poor Paul out of the bottom of his dark rubber prison. As I pulled him free, all the
children shouted and cheered, then somebody clapped and the others all joined in.
    ‘I couldn’t get out,’ said Paul. ‘I stuck,’ he announced to the other children, as if it was a badge of courage. He was so hot and sweaty that his ginger hair was
plastered to his head and his face was bright red.
    ‘Poor Pauly,’ I said, lifting the wet wisps of his hair to get some air to his skin, then I pulled off his stripey jumper and put him down on the ground to walk around in his vest
and shorts. ‘That will cool you down.’
    ‘I shouted,’ he said, biting his lips to make sure he didn’t cry. ‘I shouted and shouted.’
    ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart. I never heard you. But we got you out in the end.’
    He just gave a solemn nod then ran indoors with the others, as if nothing had happened.
    I never noticed any noise from the garden. I suppose there was so much space outside that the sound didn’t reach the house. Or maybe I was just used to it. And the
kids’ behaviour (apart from Gilroy’s) was never bad at home, because they were all outside running off their energy, so they only came in for food or sleep through the warmer months.
And in the winter we had our big playroom, with masses to do. As far as I was concerned, the kids were a joy.
    I used to think up new playthings we could make. One day I bought lots of saucepans and lids in a jumble sale for them to clatter and bang. Then the children helped me put rice or dried peas or
even nuts and bolts inside empty plastic containers, stuck together for them to shake.
    I joined in with them one afternoon, to make an impromptu orchestra. There we all were, banging and shaking things, playing in this band and making ‘music’ when Mike came home.
    ‘Bloody hell, Trish!’ he shouted as he came round the corner of the house. ‘Can’t you hear the noise?’
    I stopped and listened to the others . . . and he was right. I had to admit, it was an awful racket. So perhaps we were a bit noisy sometimes.
    Not long after our new neighbours moved in, the husband threw back a ball over the fence, and then another. And half an hour later, the wife came round to our front door with a
third.
    ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Merry,’ she began. ‘But would you mind please making sure your children stop throwing balls into our garden. They break off the delicate petals and new
buds of our roses.’
    ‘Well, I’ll have a word with them,’ I agreed. ‘I’ll tell the kids to throw them the other way.’
    She looked quite shocked.
    ‘I mean towards the end of the garden,’ I explained.
    ‘Oh.’ She gave a little nod, and off she went.
    Two or three days later, she came round and knocked on the door again.
    ‘Mrs Merry. Some of your children are looking through our fence.’
    ‘Yes . . . ?’
    ‘Erm, we like it private. That’s why the fence is there.’
    ‘Right.’ I was trying not to laugh. ‘But it’s a woven fence, so even the littlest ones can see through it.’
    ‘Well, they should know not to look.’
    ‘I’ll have a word with the children about it,’
    ‘Thank you.’ She turned and strode away. What a moaner! It was true that I had seen them all lined up along the fence one day, peeking through, with little Laurel’s bottom
sticking out. In fact, she looked so funny that I went in for the camera and took a photo of her, and another one of all of them. I think I’ve still got those photos somewhere.
    A few days later, a couple of men came into next door’s garden and replaced the fence with a higher one that had stronger overlapping wooden slats.
    ‘They won’t be able to see through that,’ she told me when she saw me.
    Well, that was what she thought. In fact, the kids soon discovered