Free The Amazing Mind of Alice Makin by Alan Shea Page A

with milk.’
    I start to swing higher. Lean backwards. Lean forwards. Backwards. Forwards.
    â€˜Never thought of that, Norm.’
    The wind wakes up. Who’s for a joy-ride? Buzzes around my ears. Faster, Alice. Faster. Forwards and back. Higher and higher. I lose my stomach. Find it. Norman starts to work up too. But we’re not together. He’s up. I’m down. I call across as we pass, ‘Tell you one thing.’
    He calls back; I can tell by the way his voice wavers that he’s losing his stomach too.
    â€˜What’s that?’
    â€˜It’s a good story.’
    He smiles.
    â€˜Thanks, Al.’
    â€˜Better than some of mine.’
    â€˜Al?’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜D’you reckon if we went too high we’d go right aroundthe top bar and get wrapped up in the chains?’
    â€˜Dunno. Want to try?’
    â€˜No, I get sick if I go too high.’
    â€˜What if you have to parachute out of an aeroplane when you join the army?’
    â€˜I’d just pull me balaclava up so I couldn’t see.’
    â€˜Fair enough. Look, I’ve got to go now, Norm. Reggie’ll be waiting for me.’
    â€˜Here, Al?’
    â€˜What?’
    I’m starting to slow down. It feels nice. Not leaning back or forward. Just sitting. The wind slows to a lullaby.
    â€˜D’you reckon Mr O’Cain might be an escaped German prisoner of war?’
    Norman’s still swinging too. We’re in tandem now.
    â€˜Don’t think many Germans would be called Mr O’Cain, Norm.’
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜It’s Irish.’
    â€˜Is that why he talks funny?’
    â€˜It’s called an accent, Norm.’
    My swing stops. Norman stops his by scuffing his shoes in the dirt. I get off. I get the feeling he doesn’t want me to go.
    â€˜Want a quick game of picksmeup and dropsy?’
    We used to play picksmeup when we were little kids. I haven’t played it for years.
    â€˜Long as it’s quick.’
    I go over to the old roundabout and start pushing. It’s big and heavy but once it gets going it soon picks up speed. Norman looks for a small stick. Old lolly sticks are best. He joins me. Helps push.
    â€˜Ready?’
    â€˜Few more pushes; let’s get it going really fast.’
    The roundabout comes to life, whizzes round, blurring the world against the background of the trees.
    â€˜Go.’
    We both jump on. Me on one side, Norman on the other. Crouch into a sitting position on the running board. It’s not easy to hear, what with the wind whistling and the roundabout creaking. Norman calls out, ‘Dropsy.’
    Somewhere out of my sight, he drops the stick on to the ground. Next he jumps off and runs around clinging on to the roundabout and pushing as if his life depended on it, while counting to ten. As the roundabout spins around at breakneck speed I have to spot where the stick is, lean out and pick it up before he gets to ten. You have to be really careful. If you lose your grip you can get shot off and end up with a sore backside.
    He’s pushing fast. I look for the stick, see it near some leaves, but before I can get my fingers to it I flash past. The roundabout whizzes. Five-six-seven. I’ve spun back to where the stick is. I reach out. Eight-nine. Grab it. Shout out, ‘Picksmeup. One-nil lead.’
    Norman jumps on the running board. Crouches. I drop the stick.
    â€˜Dropsy.’
    I jump off. Start pushing as hard as I can and start counting.
    â€˜Here, Al.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Know what you were saying?’
    â€˜About what?’
    He gets the stick too quickly. ‘Picksmeup-dropsy.’
    He jumps off. I jump on.
    â€˜My story.’
    â€˜Hold on, not so fast. What about it?’
    â€˜You said it was a good story. Mr O’Cain said it was a bunch of lies.’
    I see the stick, pick it up.
    â€˜Picksmeup. Ouch.’
    â€˜You all right?’
    â€˜Scraped me