Peggy's Letters by Jacqueline Halsey

lift the front of the pram to get it out of a rut. Luckily there’s still no sign of Fred.
    As fast as he can, Spud hands me the pieces of shrapnel. I fill the shopping basket on the back of the pram, then pack other pieces in blankets along the side and around Tommy’s feet.
    Tommy thinks it’s a great game. With hoots of giggles he picks up anything within reach and drops it over the side.
    â€œStop it, Tommy.” He’s getting dirty and wet. I’m getting dirty and wet. How am Igoing to explain all this? There’s going to be another row. I know there is.
    â€œSpud, that’s enough. It’s going to be too heavy to push.”
    â€œJust one more bit,” he says, and hands me a thing that looks like a baked bean tin with wings. It just fits on top of the pile.
    â€œThat’s it. Let’s go.”
    Spud heaves on the front, and I push on the handle until the pram is through the mud and on the road. Rain is bouncing off the pavement, and Tommy is beginning to whine.
    â€œLet’s hurry. I’m getting soaked.” I’m also beginning to wish I hadn’t suggested Grandad’s shed. I could be at home, warm and dry.
    We walk faster. Rain is running down my hair into my eyes, and I can hardly see where I’m going. Nearly there. Just have to pass the bombed-out post office and turn up our road.
    Looking up, I see a man limping toward the pram.
    â€œGrandad!”
    He comes up to the pram.
    â€œPeggy! What on earth? Stand back, both of you!” Grabbing my arm, he yanks me away from the pram. He points to the winged tin can.
    â€œThat’s a bomb!” he yells.

14
    My whole body goes tight, and for a moment I can’t move. My baby brother is sitting in a pram next to an unexploded bomb, and I’m the one who put it there.
    Tommy is struggling to get out. He doesn’t understand what’s going on, but he’s frightened just the same.
    â€œLet go of me, Grandad. We’ve can’t leave Tommy sitting there.”
    â€œStay back, I’ll get him,” orders Grandad.
    He goes to the pram and pulls at Tommy. He doesn’t know anything about prams and baby things.
    â€œGrandad, he’s strapped in. Let me do it. I’ve un-clipped him hundreds of times.”
    Grandad steps aside “Be very very careful,” he says. As if I need telling.
    â€œUp, up,” demands Tommy.
    â€œI know Tom-Tom. Soon have you out.” He needs a hug, but there’s no time. The clip is buried under the shrapnel.
    â€œLet’s sing a song, Tommy.”
    â€œWe haven’t time for songs,” yells Grandad.
    â€œIt’s raining, it’s pouring, the old man is snoring,” I sing in a crackly voice.
    The hood is going to have to come down even though Tommy will get soaked. He’s cold, and now he’s going to be wet. The singing doesn’t help. His whimpers turn to loud yells.
    â€œGet rid of this, Spud.” I hand him a piece of shrapnel, and he throws it down the dip that was once a post office.
    â€œBe careful,” yells Grandad again. “We don’t know what kind of fuse is in that thing. It could go off any minute”
    One by one, without jogging the mainpile, I pass out bits of metal from the side of the pram.
    â€œDon’t cry, Tommy. Not long now.”
    At last the clip is clear. My fingers are wet and slippery, and they won’t stop shaking. I push and push with all my strength, but the clip won’t open.
    â€œHurry,” yells Spud.
    â€œIt’s jammed. It won’t move. Spud, try the other one.”
    Tommy is bawling louder than ever. Grandad is telling me to be careful for the millionth time, and Spud is yelling too.
    I can’t think.
    â€œYou’re doing good, girl,” says Grandad softly.
    My heart is pumping so hard I can hardly breathe. Stay calm, I keep telling myself.
    â€œStuck, stuck,” cries Tommy.
    â€œI know, Tommy. I