Spiderweb by Penelope Lively

drive the combine sometimes, too. They wouldn’t need any lessons. Just for Michael to pass the test and they’d be away. Get an old banger and off.
    Sometimes they talked about this. It was Peter who had the ideas – what sort of car they’d get and how they’d beef it up – and Michael who said, ‘Yeah! Yeah – that’s right, that’s what we can do!’ It was usually like that. Peter thought of something and Michael joined in and then they did it together. Or just talked, in the case of this car. Winding each other up – we’ll get a Golf GTI … no, a Honda.
    When they got to Minehead she parked the car and made for the bank. They were to go to the supermarket for some stuff and then meet her at the café. They saw her head off down the street – that swaggering walk, full steam ahead so people had to get out of her way, stopping at the zebra, impatient, to look back for Gran shuffling along behind. As soon as she was out or sight they went into Woolworth s for an ice-cream.
    There were boys from school there, a whole bunch of them. Nudging and muttering. Not that they gave a shit. All those people at school were rubbish, like she said.
    They met up at the Pick ’n’ Mix. ‘Going to the fair?’
    So there was a fair, was there? Shooting galleries. The boys thought of this.
    Now they were sniggering, that lot from school. Whispering. Got to get back to their mum – that’s what they’d be saying. Fuck them. Fuck the lot of them.
    They could beat them at shooting any day, given the chance. They were good at shooting. They’d shot pigeons with their father. Shot them dead and seen them fall.
    ‘We’re going down there now.’ Grinning fit to bust, beginning to move off.
    ‘Suit yourself,’ Michael said. ‘We’re not bothered.’ He nodded at Peter and they made for the video display and stood there as though they were trying to decide what to get. When they looked round the others were gone.
    But they were pissed off now, thinking of the fair, thinking of that stupid lot from school. Then Peter said, ‘We could do one now.’
    ‘We got to get back to meet her.’
    ‘We can do it quick.’
    They had to buy a lighter because they’d not brought one. Then they went down to the front and had a look round. At one end there was no one about. They weren’t longer than a few minutes. It was an easy job.
    They were a bit later than she’d said they were to be when they got to the café and she let them have it, of course. Where’ve you been? What do you think you’ve been doing? D’you think I’ve got nothing better to do than sit around waiting for you?’ And they’d left out two of the things on the list for the supermarket.
    But they didn’t care by now. They didn’t care about her slagging them off so half the town could hear. They didn’t care about those other boys or the stupid bloody fair.
    She said, ‘And what are you so pleased with yourselves about, I’d like to know?’
    In the car she said it again. ‘I’m talking to you, Michael. I’m asking you a question. And you, Peter.’
    They looked out of the window, mouths slammed shut. They were at the roundabout now, on the outskirts of the town, in a knot of traffic. A police car whooped past, going the other way. Somewhere, they could hear a fire engine. They were cock-a-hoop, riding high. Stuff them, that lot from school. Stuff her, too. She thought she knew everything. Well, she didn’t, did she?

Chapter Five
    Dogs are to be found in the
Yellow Pages,
like everything else, Stella had discovered. The Animal Rescue Centre was at the end of a long winding lane, tucked into a hillside, and announced itself with a cacophony of barking which advanced and receded behind the hedgebanks as she drove onwards and upwards.
    The place was run by a Miss Clapp, a huge woman in overalls, herself faintly dog-like – some stolid dependable St Bernard perhaps. She interviewed Stella in a room overflowing with sacks, tins of dog food and rusty