Bawden The Runaway Summer

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ISBN: 978-0-571-30945-0
Verlag: Faber & Faber
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 176 Seiten

Deeply unhappy at the recent divorce of her parents, Mary is sent away to live by the sea with her distant grandfather and the detestable Aunt Alice. Feeling abandoned, without even the company of her beloved pet cat Noakes, the summer looks set to become one long stretch of unendurable loneliness. But suddenly she is dragged, half unwittingly, into a situation that will force her to come to the aid of others more vulnerable than herself. So begins her runaway summer, as she sets about helping Simon, the son of a local policeman, and a young illegal immigrant boy arrived from Kenya, frightened and all alone. The Runaway Summer was first published in 1969 to typically universal acclaim. It is, in the words of the Times Educational Supplement, an 'unputdownable gem of a book. The tale is beautifully constructed in diamond-hard language.'

Nina Bawden is one of the most admired and engaging writers of fiction for children and has written more than fifty books. Born in 1925, she was educated at Oxford and completed her first novel the year after gaining her degree. She is the author of such classics as Carrie's War and The Peppermint Pig, and has won the Guardian Fiction Award and the Phoenix Award as well as being commended for the Carnegie Medal. Described by the Daily Telegraph as 'without question one of the very best writers for children', she divides her time between London and Nauplion in Greece.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Bawden, Nina

Leseproben

ONE

‘I wish I could do something really bad …’

MARY WAS ANGRY. She had been angry for ages: she couldn’t remember when she had last felt nice. Sometimes she was angry for a good reason—when someone tried to make her do something she didn’t want to do—but most of the time she was angry for no reason at all. She just woke in the morning feeling cross and miserable and as if she wanted to kick or break things.

Aunt Alice could make her angry just by being there, with her rabbity face and grey hair in a bun and the little tuft of spiky beard on her chin that waggled when she talked; and her teeth that made a clicking sound at mealtimes, and her stomach that sometimes made a noise in between—a watery suck and gurgle like the last of the bath running out. And when she tried to make Mary do something she didn’t want to do, it made Mary so cross that she grew hot inside.

This morning, Aunt Alice wanted Mary to wear her woollen vest. It was such a lovely July day, with the wind blowing and the small clouds scudding, that Mary had been in a better mood than usual when she came down to breakfast. She had even eaten her porridge because she knew her grandfather believed it was good for her. When he saw her empty plate, he had beamed over his newspaper and said, ‘Well, it looks as if our good sea air is giving you an appetite at last,’ and seemed so pleased, as if in eating a plateful of porridge Mary had done something quite remarkably good and clever, that she wondered what else she could do. She thought she might say, ‘I think I’ll go down to the sea and skim stones after breakfast,’ because she knew this would please her grandfather too: he worried when she did what he called ‘moping indoors.’

And now Aunt Alice had spoiled everything by asking Mary if she had put on her woollen vest!

‘That jersey’s not thick enough for this treacherous weather,’ she said, looking nervously at the window as if the weather were a dangerous dog that might suddenly jump through it and bite her.

Mary scowled and felt her face go solid and lumpy like a badly made pudding.

‘It’s not cold,’ she said. ‘And I’m hot now. If I put my vest on, I’ll be boiling to death.’

‘There’s quite a wind out. It’s blowing up cold. I know I’m wearing my vest! Just between you and me and the gatepost!’

Mary looked carefully round the room. ‘I don’t see any gatepost,’ she said.

Aunt Alice laughed in her high, silly way—not as if she were amused, but as if she were trying to apologise for something.

‘It’s just an expression, dear. Haven’t you heard it before?’

‘I’ve heard it all right, but I think it sounds potty,’ Mary said. ‘And I just hate those horrible old vests. They’ve got sleeves! Sleeves and buttons! I expect you knew I’d hate them, that’s why you bought them for me!’

She stabbed her spoon into her boiled egg, and some of the yolk spattered out.

‘Oh Mary,’ Aunt Alice said in a sad, fading voice. Pale eyes bulging, nose twitching, she looked like a frightened rabbit.

Mary knew her Aunt was frightened of her, and this made her more bad tempered than ever. It was so ridiculous for an old woman to be frightened of an eleven year old girl.

She said bitterly, ‘No one else in the whole world wears vests with sleeves and buttons.’

Aunt Alice said, ‘Oh Mary,’ again. She sounded as if she were trying not to cry. Grandfather put down his newspaper and looked at her. Then he smiled at Mary.

‘My dear child, someone must wear them or the shops wouldn’t stock them, would they? It’s a case of supply and demand. No demand, no supply.’

For a second, Mary almost smiled back at him. It was, indeed, quite difficult not to smile at her grandfather, who looked, with his round, rosy face, and round, blue eyes, rather like a cheerful, if elderly, baby. He was bald as a baby, too—balder than most, in fact: the top of his head was smooth and shiny as if Aunt Alice polished it every day when she polished the dining room table. Usually, just to look at her grandfather made Mary feel nicer—a bit less cross, certainly—but now, after that first second, she felt worse, not better, because she saw that his blue eyes were puzzled and that he was playing with his right ear, folding the top over with his finger and stroking the back with his thumb. This was something he only did when he was thinking hard or worried about something, and Mary knew he was upset because she had been rude to Aunt Alice. Although this made her ashamed and miserable underneath, it made her angry on top.

She said, ‘But children don’t buy their own clothes, do they? They just have to wear what grown-ups buy for them, horrid, prickly old vests and beastly skirts if they’re girls. They don’t have any say, they just have to do what they’re told.’

A lump came into her throat at this dreadful thought and she swallowed hard and glared at Aunt Alice.

‘Children don’t have any say in anything. They have to wear what they’re told and eat what they’re given and … and … live where they’re put. It’s not fair.’

The lump seemed to have gone from her throat and settled on her chest, like a stone.

Aunt Alice made a funny noise, midway between a gasp and a sigh.

Grandfather said, ‘Mary, since you don’t seem to want any more to eat, perhaps you’d like to leave the table and go upstairs for a while.’

He spoke gently and reasonably, as he always did, whatever Mary had said or done. Sometimes she wished he would shout at her instead: his being so nice, made her feel nastier, somehow.

She got down from her chair and left the room without another word, but as soon as she had closed the door, she stopped to listen. She knew that people always talked about you, once you had gone.

‘Oh Father, it’s all my fault.’

‘Nonsense, Alice.’

‘Of course it is!’ Aunt Alice sounded crisp, almost indignant. She liked to think things were her fault, even things that couldn’t possibly be, like bad weather or a train not running to time. ‘I just can’t manage the poor child,’ she said. ‘I blame myself.’

‘I know you do. I wish you wouldn’t.’ Grandfather spoke quite sharply for him. ‘Alice my dear, try not to worry. It’s natural that Mary should be a bit difficult, in the circumstances. She’ll settle down, given time. She’s a good child, underneath.’

Mary gritted her teeth and stumped upstairs. She wasn’t good underneath. She was bad. She was so bad that everyone hated her except her grandfather, and he only didn’t hate her because he was differently made from other people and didn’t hate anyone.

Mary went into her bedroom and scowled at herself in the looking glass. ‘I hate you, too,’ she said, aloud. ‘Pig.’ She doubled her fists on either side of her jaw and pushed up the tip of her nose with her little fingers so that the nostrils showed. Now you even look like a pig! An ugly, horrible pig.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Only when you pull that face at yourself.’

Mary turned and saw Mrs Carver, who came to help Aunt Alice in the house on Wednesday and Friday mornings. She was a little, thin woman with a thin, pale face that looked thinner and paler than perhaps it actually was, because it had so much red hair frizzed out all round it.

Mary said crossly, ‘You shouldn’t come into people’s rooms without knocking. It’s rude.’

‘You’re a fine one to say what’s rude and what isn’t.’ Mrs Carver grinned, showing big, square teeth that seemed too big for her face, rather as her hair was bright for it. ‘I was going to make your bed. You can give me a hand, since you’re here.’

‘Why should I? It’s your job, you’re paid for it,’ Mary said, and then caught her breath. This was really a very rude thing to say, and she knew that red-headed people were supposed to be quick tempered.

But Mrs Carver only looked amused. ‘True,’ she said, and twitched off the bedclothes. In spite of being so thin and small, she seemed strong and very energetic, darting round the room in a series of short, sharp rushes, rather like a terrier; snatching at blankets, picking up Mary’s clothes. Mary stood by the window and watched her. When the room was tidy, Mrs Carver said, ‘Your Auntie was talking about having the room painted up for you. What colour do you fancy?’

Mary looked out at the garden, not answering.

‘Come on, now.’ Mrs Carver said. ‘You must have some idea. What about a nice yellow? Would you like that? Your Auntie wants you to have a colour you’d like.’

‘She can paint the room black if she likes,’ Mary said. ‘I don’t care. I shan’t be here long.’

‘Won’t you?’

Mary said quickly, ‘My mother’s gone on holiday and my father’s had to go to South America, on business. He’s gone to Chile.’

‘I know.’ There was a funny look on Mrs Carver’s face, as if she knew something else, too. Something that Mary didn’t know. She decided that she hated Mrs Carver.

She said, ‘I don’t suppose you know where Chile is!’

‘I went to school once.’

Although Mrs Carver smiled as she said this, Mary could see she was beginning to be angry.

‘Well, then,’ Mary tossed her head. ‘If you know where Chile is, you know it’s a long way away, don’t you? And costs a lot of money to...