Johnny Swanson - Eleanor Updale [3]
‘Get out of it,’ she yelled. ‘You’ve no business spying on me!’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Johnny meekly.
Miss Dangerfield lifted her stick and shook it at the letter box.
Johnny pulled away, and let the flap snap shut again. ‘Sorry,’ he cried once more. ‘It’s just that your letter box is so high up …’
But his voice was drowned out by her shouts. ‘Blooming children. Nothing but a menace. And I suppose you’ll leave the gate open as usual.’
He shut it carefully behind him, just as he always did, and ran down the hill.
Back at the shop, Hutch was closing up. ‘I’m chucking out these old biscuits,’ he mumbled, without looking up. ‘They’re stale.’ He scooped a handful of soggy custard creams onto a piece of old newspaper. ‘Interested?’
Johnny sensed from his awkward manner that Hutch felt bad about teasing him earlier. ‘Yes, please,’ he said. ‘I really am sorry I was late.’
Hutch waved Johnny off without another word.
Johnny took his time going home. He would have to go past Miss Dangerfield’s, and he wanted to give her a chance to calm down. He stopped and sat on the low wall of the graveyard to eat the biscuits. He couldn’t help reading the paper they’d been wrapped in. It was last Wednesday’s Stambleton Echo; a boring page, full of advertisements. People were selling old gardening tools, baby clothes, prams and books. Then one advert caught his eye. It was set apart from the others, in a little frame, and said:
Johnny read and re-read the advertisement. The Secret of Instant Height. It was just what he needed. But where would he find two shillings and sixpence? He didn’t even have enough money for the stamped addressed envelope. Still, he tore the advert out of the paper and put it in his pocket. By the time he got home he had made up his mind to do anything to get the money, and to send away to Box 23 for the answer to all his problems.
Chapter 2
THE PEACE MUG
Johnny’s mother, Winnie, was already at home. The front door led straight into the kitchen – the only downstairs room – and as soon as Johnny opened it he could see that she was ironing. She was pressing sheets: crisp white sheets quite unlike the ones they had on their own beds.
‘They’re Dr Langford’s,’ Winnie explained apologetically. ‘They weren’t dry enough to iron while I was there cleaning. Mrs Langford let me bring them home to finish them off. I’d hoped to get them all done before you got here. Tea will be a bit late, I’m afraid.’
‘I thought the Langfords sent all their stuff to the laundry,’ said Johnny. ‘I’ve seen the van outside their house.’
‘If you ask me, they’re having to cut down on that sort of thing since Dr Langford retired,’ said Winnie. ‘Mrs Langford asked me if I would do the bed-linen, and I couldn’t really say no. We don’t want them getting rid of me too. There’s plenty of people looking for cleaning jobs these days. They wouldn’t have any trouble finding a replacement.’
Johnny took one end of a sheet and helped his mother stretch it out, ready for folding. They had to kick the furniture to the edges of their tiny kitchen to make enough space to pull it tight. ‘Are they paying you extra for this?’ asked Johnny, walking forward to hand over his end and pick up the fold at the bottom.
‘Well, I tried hinting,’ said Winnie, ‘but Mrs Langford didn’t seem to want to get the point. I didn’t want to embarrass her – or myself. It must be hard for her. She’s used to better things. She’s from a posh French family, you know.’
They passed the sheet to and fro between them, giggling as one or the other dropped a corner, or wrongly guessed which way to turn next. Johnny thought his mother worked quite hard enough cleaning the Langfords’ house every day without doing their ironing too. But he liked the smell of the clean linen hanging to air in front of the hearth. And it was good to have an excuse for the fire to be lit.
‘How was your day?’ asked Winnie, patting the neat rectangle of folded cloth. ‘It must have been nice to be out of the classroom and up on the field for a change?’
Johnny didn’t tell her about