Free The Runaway Summer by Nina Bawden Page B

she had said she wouldn’t, but because people creeping in was something she had been afraid of when she was a little girl.
    Knowing this, Mary felt mean, but only for a minute. There was no more time to think about Aunt Alice. She had promised Simon to meet him at nine, and it was nearly that already.
    She stood on the landing and listened. Stirring music rose up the stair well, followed by the sound of gunfire. Aunt Alice would not want to watch, Mary knew, she hated noisy war films, but she would sit with Grandfather all the same, in order to wake him when he dropped off to sleep because he hated to miss anything. And the film would last about an hour and a half …
    Mary crept down the stairs, out of the front door, and into the gusty dark.
    Simon was waiting by the bathing hut. He said, ‘I though you weren’t coming.’
    â€˜I had to wait till the film started. Have you got him?’
    From the dark shadow between the huts, a darker shadow emerged. Mary giggled. ‘He doesn’t show up in the dark like you do.’
    â€˜The whites of his eyes show more, though,’ Simon said.
    Krishna was shivering. Mary took his hand and it felt cold and damp.
    â€˜If we run he’ll get warm,’ she said, but Simon shook his head.
    â€˜Just walk natural. It’s better.’
    It was more alarming, though. Once up on the promenade they seemed so exposed. Naked, like shelled crabs. The line of houses facing the beach showed only an occasional light: anyone could be watching from a dark window. And side turnings could shelter policemen … Mary longed to take to he heels and run, and she knew from the way Simon looked around him, that he was scared, too. Only Krishna seemed calm.
    As they approached the pier, he said in a clear, penetrating voice, ‘Is it far to London, from this town?’
    â€˜I don’t know how many miles,’ Mary whispered. ‘It’s about two hours on the train.’
    â€˜I should like to go to London now,’ Krishna said. ‘My Uncle is in London. He was to meet me at the airport.’
    â€˜Shut up ,’ Simon said. ‘Look …’
    Just beyond the pier, a long, black car was parked at the side of the road.
    â€˜Police,’ Simon said. ‘No, don’t stop. Keep walking.’
    Mary felt as if her legs were bending under her. She clutched Krishna’s hand.
    Simon said suddenly and loudly, ‘Do you know about the monk who was frying chipped potatoes?’
    â€˜No,’ Mary said. She thought it seemed an odd time for jokes.
    â€˜Well. This other monk came up to him and said, are you a friar? And he said no, I’m a chipmunk.’
    It was an old joke, and it hadn’t been very funny when new. All the same, Mary laughed politely, and Simon laughed too. They were drawing level with the car, and Mary could see the nearest policeman’s face, a pale blur turned towards them.
    â€˜Up here,’ Simon said, and they turned up a side street. It was narrow and winding; as soon as they were round the first bend Simon said, ‘ Run now,’ and Mary and Krishna ran until he burst between them, breaking their clasped hands, and wheeled them into an alley.
    The alley was full of dustbins. Mary stumbled against one, hurt her knee, and said crossly, ‘What a time to make jokes!’
    â€˜I had to do something. There was that policeman, looking out of the car. So I told a joke, and all he saw was just three kids, telling jokes and laughing. It was a sort of camouflage.’
    Mary rubbed her knee. Were they really looking for us?’
    â€˜Not for us, just for someone. My Dad was in, supper time, and he says they caught the boatman out in the Channel and found out he had three passengers. He didn’t say anything about a boy, so they’re looking for another man.’
    Krishna said, ‘Why did we run? My foot hurts …’
    He was leaning against the wall by the dustbins, one leg