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Bobbie
dropped
her
slate
.
It
cracked
just
across
the
little
green
mark
that
is
so
useful
for
drawing
patterns
round
,
and
it
was
never
the
same
slate
again
.
Without
waiting
to
pick
it
up
she
bolted
.
Mother
caught
her
in
the
hall
feeling
blindly
among
the
waterproofs
and
umbrellas
for
her
garden
hat
.
"
What
is
it
,
my
sweetheart
?
"
said
Mother
.
"
You
do
n't
feel
ill
,
do
you
?
"
"
I
DO
N'T
know
,
"
Bobbie
answered
,
a
little
breathlessly
,
"
but
I
want
to
be
by
myself
and
see
if
my
head
really
IS
all
silly
and
my
inside
all
squirmy-twisty
.
"
"
Had
n't
you
better
lie
down
?
"
Mother
said
,
stroking
her
hair
back
from
her
forehead
.
"
I
'd
be
more
alive
in
the
garden
,
I
think
,
"
said
Bobbie
.
But
she
could
not
stay
in
the
garden
.
The
hollyhocks
and
the
asters
and
the
late
roses
all
seemed
to
be
waiting
for
something
to
happen
.
It
was
one
of
those
still
,
shiny
autumn
days
,
when
everything
does
seem
to
be
waiting
.
Bobbie
could
not
wait
.
"
I
'll
go
down
to
the
station
,
"
she
said
,
"
and
talk
to
Perks
and
ask
about
the
signalman
's
little
boy
.
"
So
she
went
down
.
On
the
way
she
passed
the
old
lady
from
the
Post-office
,
who
gave
her
a
kiss
and
a
hug
,
but
,
rather
to
Bobbie
's
surprise
,
no
words
except
:
--
