daubing a large black cross over it. Ellen had retaliated by concealing some blue paint in her hands as the bell rang for playtime, and the moment they got outside she’d grabbed Sally’s plaits and smeared the paint on to them.
A sudden hush fell over the playground, all the children as taken aback as Ellen by Sally’s statement. Silently they grouped themselves around the two girls, expecting a real fight to start.
But Ellen just stood there staring at Sally, utterly confused by what she’d just heard. Her mother was home on the farm, just as she always was.
Sally’s parents owned the grocery shop in the village, and her appearance confirmed that they were rich by local standards. She wore a pleated skirt, and unlike the many cheap ones in the playground that had no depth to the pleats and lost them altogether after a few washes, hers swung with style. Her red hand-knitted cardigan coordinated perfectly with her skirt, and the blouse beneath had a lace-trimmed collar. Her socks were snow-white and knee-length, shoes patent leather bar-straps. She had an air of supreme confidence, along with blonde hair and blue eyes, and few people noticed her mean, narrow lips and tightly pinched nose.
Ellen, by contrast, was a ragamuffin. Her curly red hair rarely saw a good brushing, her grey pinafore dress had a badly sewn patch by the hem, and the jumper beneath it which had once been pale yellow was now matted and a dirty ivory colour. She wore plimsolls on her feet, and knee-socks that hung in festoons around her ankles.
Yet Ellen was popular with both adults and other children, for she had a sweet nature and a sort of glow from within. Her teacher, Mrs Palstow, said she was a rewarding pupil, always enthusiastic and eager to learn. Few people ever really noticed her shabby clothes – she was after all a farmer’s daughter, and there weren’t many parents in the area who could afford to deck their children out like the Trevoises could.
‘You’re the one who’s mad, Sally,’ one of the older girls called out. ‘I saw Ellen’s mum just this morning, or do you think I saw a ghost?’
Sally puffed out her chest and folded her arms defiantly. ‘Don’t any of you know?’ she asked, her eyes scanning her audience. ‘That isn’t her real mum; she only got hooked up with Mr Pengelly after Ellen’s mum killed herself. She killed her baby too.’
There was a gasp from all the children. Even the boys who had previously carried on with their games of tag and leap-frog came closer, picking up that they were missing something shattering. ‘I heard my mum and dad talking about it,’ Sally said proudly. ‘They said she was mad, and if she hadn’t thrown herself off the cliff she would have been taken to the loony bin.’
At this Josie Pengelly, Ellen’s younger sister, pushed her way through the crowd. The girls were as alike as two peas in a pod, only two and a half years between them and two inches in height.
‘You’re a liar!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m going to tell my dad what you said and he’ll come round and knock your dad out. So there.’
‘Shut up, Nosy Josie,’ Sally said. ‘You don’t know anything about this, you weren’t even born then. Ellen isn’t even your real sister.’
‘She is,’ Josie screeched at the older girl, running forward to batter her with her fists. ‘You’re a nasty, lying, stuck-up cow.’
At that point Mrs Palstow appeared in the playground. She had observed something going on from the staff-room window, and remembering that Sally had ruined Ellen’s painting, guessed she was taking her revenge. When she saw Sally’s blue-stained plaits she decided justice had already been done, so she blew her whistle for the children to return to their classes.
All of them moved into line with the exception of Ellen. She was left standing alone, looking stunned. The rest of the children filed into school but still Ellen remained where she was.
‘Go and wash your hands please
A sudden hush fell over the playground, all the children as taken aback as Ellen by Sally’s statement. Silently they grouped themselves around the two girls, expecting a real fight to start.
But Ellen just stood there staring at Sally, utterly confused by what she’d just heard. Her mother was home on the farm, just as she always was.
Sally’s parents owned the grocery shop in the village, and her appearance confirmed that they were rich by local standards. She wore a pleated skirt, and unlike the many cheap ones in the playground that had no depth to the pleats and lost them altogether after a few washes, hers swung with style. Her red hand-knitted cardigan coordinated perfectly with her skirt, and the blouse beneath had a lace-trimmed collar. Her socks were snow-white and knee-length, shoes patent leather bar-straps. She had an air of supreme confidence, along with blonde hair and blue eyes, and few people noticed her mean, narrow lips and tightly pinched nose.
Ellen, by contrast, was a ragamuffin. Her curly red hair rarely saw a good brushing, her grey pinafore dress had a badly sewn patch by the hem, and the jumper beneath it which had once been pale yellow was now matted and a dirty ivory colour. She wore plimsolls on her feet, and knee-socks that hung in festoons around her ankles.
Yet Ellen was popular with both adults and other children, for she had a sweet nature and a sort of glow from within. Her teacher, Mrs Palstow, said she was a rewarding pupil, always enthusiastic and eager to learn. Few people ever really noticed her shabby clothes – she was after all a farmer’s daughter, and there weren’t many parents in the area who could afford to deck their children out like the Trevoises could.
‘You’re the one who’s mad, Sally,’ one of the older girls called out. ‘I saw Ellen’s mum just this morning, or do you think I saw a ghost?’
Sally puffed out her chest and folded her arms defiantly. ‘Don’t any of you know?’ she asked, her eyes scanning her audience. ‘That isn’t her real mum; she only got hooked up with Mr Pengelly after Ellen’s mum killed herself. She killed her baby too.’
There was a gasp from all the children. Even the boys who had previously carried on with their games of tag and leap-frog came closer, picking up that they were missing something shattering. ‘I heard my mum and dad talking about it,’ Sally said proudly. ‘They said she was mad, and if she hadn’t thrown herself off the cliff she would have been taken to the loony bin.’
At this Josie Pengelly, Ellen’s younger sister, pushed her way through the crowd. The girls were as alike as two peas in a pod, only two and a half years between them and two inches in height.
‘You’re a liar!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m going to tell my dad what you said and he’ll come round and knock your dad out. So there.’
‘Shut up, Nosy Josie,’ Sally said. ‘You don’t know anything about this, you weren’t even born then. Ellen isn’t even your real sister.’
‘She is,’ Josie screeched at the older girl, running forward to batter her with her fists. ‘You’re a nasty, lying, stuck-up cow.’
At that point Mrs Palstow appeared in the playground. She had observed something going on from the staff-room window, and remembering that Sally had ruined Ellen’s painting, guessed she was taking her revenge. When she saw Sally’s blue-stained plaits she decided justice had already been done, so she blew her whistle for the children to return to their classes.
All of them moved into line with the exception of Ellen. She was left standing alone, looking stunned. The rest of the children filed into school but still Ellen remained where she was.
‘Go and wash your hands please
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