We were all members of a gang, and six of us had begun the day playing tag on the corner of Rosie’s street while we waited for her to come out.  It was a golden morning, the first of the summer holidays, and we were all giddy at being free from the drudgery of school and the dark, musty classroom.

            At last Rosie appeared, wearing a dress two sizes too big, and pushing a very old, very high, black pram.  So high she could hardly see over the top of it and her head kept bobbing around the sides as she steered it down the road.  At the sight of the pram, we greeted her with a chorus of loud moans and groans.

            “I ‘ave to bring our Annie,” she declared, while Annie, rocking backwards and forwards, beamed at us from the depths of the old-fashioned pram.

            “Ya always ‘ave to bring ‘er!” said Joey Blenkinsop, his carrot-red head bobbing with exasperation, “she spoils our fun!”

            We all nodded in agreement.  Joey was reckless and that, coupled with a vivid imagination, made him the undisputed leader of our gang; and we kids tagged along wherever he chose to go.

            “But… if I don’t bring ‘er,” began Rosie, gazing at him tearfully, “me mum won’t let me play out at all!”

            Joey hurriedly looked away and began scuffing the toe of his sandal against the curb, blood rushing up from his neck till his freckled face matched the colour of his hair.  We all nudged each other, grinning and winking, for we knew that Joey was sweet on Rosie and whenever she turned on the “waterworks” he always gave in to her.

            “Oh well,” he mumbled at last, not looking at anyone, “if you ‘ave to, you ‘ave to.”      

And that was that! The matter was settled.           

            “She’s rockin’ again!” yelled Sammy Jones, pointing to the swaying pram which was in danger of tipping up and depositing Annie onto the hard pavement.  “She’s always doin’ that.  Why?”

            “I don’t know,” said Rosie, lunging to grab the handle as it swung up in the air, “you should see ‘er in ‘er ‘igh chair.  One of these days she’ll go right over and split open her bonce!”

            We all stood in a circle round the pram eyeing Annie with a mixture of disgust and curiosity, while she, undaunted by our stares, was busily trying to ram her tiny index finger up Willy Rankin’s nose.

            “Gerroff!” he yelped, leaping away from the pram.

            At this we all fell about in a fit of laughter, Annie joining in loudly while Willy just stood and scowled.  Poor Willy, never a day went by without fun being poked at him.  But he was different from the rest of us and we never could figure out why he insisted on being a part of the gang.  He was timid and, as he was always scared of getting hurt, he didn’t like sport or games.  But maybe he felt he had to keep trying to be one of us, as to be completely on the outside would have been much worse.

            “What’re we gonna do today?” asked Sally Wainwright, shaking her head to make her blonde curls dance in the sunlight.

            “Hey, remember the fun we ‘ad last year pinching apples from Farmer Plumley’s orchard?” said Sammy, “Lets do it again!”

            “Don’t be silly!” said Sally scornfully, “the apples will be sour.  Everyone knows apples aren’t sweet till harvest time!”

            “Brain-box!”

            As he said this, Sammy gave her a punch.  Sally punched him back – hard.  Surprised and knocked off balance, he paused for a second then went to hit her again, but she stood and glared at him.

            “Go on, I dare ya!” she yelled, “I’m not afraid of you Sammy Jones!”

            “Anyway, my dad says that’s stealing,” said Jenny, wincing from remembered pain when her dad had smacked her bottom after catching her hiding apples under her bed.

            “Gerroff, the farmer ain’t goin’ to miss a few moldy apples!”

            “My mum says that if everyone pinched apples, the farmer wouldn’t have any left to sell!” added Willy.

            “Listen to Mr. Smarty-pants,” jeered Sammy, turning and heading towards Willy, who hastily backed off.  Just then Joey stepped quickly between them.

            “We’ll go up to the bridge on Poverty Lane to watch the trains,” he pronounced, “that’s what we’ll do.”

            “Oh goody” said Willy, pulling a scruffy notebook from the back pocket of shorts that had seen better days.  “Maybe I’ll get some new numbers.”

            “You and your silly train spottin!” scoffed Sammy, giving Willy a hard shove.

            Willy sidled around behind Joey; a familiar look of dread mixed with hate making his face pinched and pale.  Sammy, right arm raised, fist in a ball, moved to follow but Joey planted himself firmly in front of him.

            “Leave off Sammy!” he ordered,” now come on, let’s get goin’!”

He set off up the road, Willy trailing behind, leaving Sammy moodily kicking pebbles.  Rosie followed, pushing the pram with Annie bouncing even harder, gurgling with joy at being once more on the move.

            We were a strange and motley group; skinny and underfed with ill fitting, shabby clothes.  But it was wartime with rationing, and as we were all the same and couldn’t remember anything different, it didn’t matter.

            We chattered and laughed as we made our way along leafy lanes bordered by tall hedges, where purple foxgloves peeped out and long grass swished as our feet passed through it.  Soon the boys were showing off to impress the girls by turning cartwheels or walking on their hands; Joey’s grey-once-white underpants showing through the frayed seat of his dungarees every time he turned somersault.

            Jenny and Sally skipped along with their arms around each other’s waists; Sally’s dress, having seen many summers and only fitting where it touched, was riding up under the pressure of Jenny’s arm.

            “Hey Sall-ee, I can see yer yeller drawers!” yelled Sammy.

            Sally’s pink tongue flashed as she threw him a brief look of disdain over her shoulder.

            We began the long climb up the hill of Poverty Lane, each taking turns to help Rosie push the pram.

            “’ere,” said Joey, staring thoughtfully at the apple trees to our left, “remember when old ‘Itler dropped that bomb in Plumley’s orchard, few months back?”

            “Yeah, and it made a dirty big ‘ole,” said Willy, “and it’s still there, only it’s got grass growin’ over it now.”

            “Me dad said ‘e never could understand why ‘Gerry’ would waste bombs on a little country place like this,” continued Joey, “’e said they usually only bomb things like factories and docks and railways and such like.”

            “But we ‘ave a railway right ‘ere!” said Jenny, fear making her eyes as wide as saucers.

            “Well don’t you worry,” said Joey, putting his arm around her shoulders, “me dad said it’ll all be over but the shoutin’ soon.”

            “When the bombers were comin’ over, me and me Mum laid under her and me dad’s bed and sang “The Campbells are comin’ hurrah, hurrah!” said Rosie.

            “Why?” asked Willy curiously.  Rosie shrugged.

            “I don’t know, it was mum’s idea.  She said it would help”.

            Jenny had a puzzled look on her face.  “I wonder why they called it Poverty Lane?” she asked.

            None of us knew why.

            “Me dad said that we all live in ‘poverty lane’!” said Rosie with a grin.

            We all thought the joke was good, but long after we had stopped giggling, Joey was still rolling around, holding his stomach, his face screwed up with pretended laughter.  Rose turned beet-root red.

“Aw come off it Joey,” said Sammy, “it wasn’t that funny!”

            At length, arguing loudly over who should push the pram, we struggled to the top of the hump-backed bridge which spanned the railway line.  Rosie anchored the wheels of the pram at an angle to the curb to prevent it taking off down the hill;  it being so ancient that any brake it had possessed was now just a memory.  She joined us as we leaned over the grey-stoned parapet, eagerly waiting for a train to appear.

            “Do ya think we’ll have long to wait?’ asked Willy, peering up the line.

            “Nar,” said Joey, “there’s usually one sometime about now.”

            To pass the time away we made up silly jokes and played “I-spy”, but presently we spotted a distant puff of smoke on the horizon and a call of “whoo-hoo” came whistling through the stillness of the clear summer morning.

            “It’s the train, it’s comin’!” shouted Willy, his notebook and pencil stub poised as he shook with excitement.

            Soon we could see the train lumbering and puffing down the track towards us like a huge, angry monster, starkly black against the green of the surrounding countryside.  The driver looked up at the bridge and all six of us waved wildly and shrieked our hello’s above the clamour of hissing steam.  He waved back, his teeth gleaming white in his grimy face as he grinned.  All the while Willy was laboriously writing down the engine number before the train disappeared under the bridge.

            All too soon it entered the small tunnel beneath our feet, the smoke from its chimney enveloping us in a familiar sooty cloud which went up our noses and stung our eyes.

            “Come on!” yelled Joey, diving across the road.  He wanted to beat the train and be the first to spot it as it emerged once more into the sunlight.

            But as it came out at the other side, it belched more smoke over us than before and we all collapsed, coughing.  By the time the air had cleared, the train was no more than a speck in the distance, its song of ‘diddly-dum, diddly-dum, whoo-hoo’ getting fainter and fainter.

            As silence settled around us once more, Willy turned the pages of his book, carefully checking all the numbers he had collected.

            “I think I’ve got that one already.”  He said with a glum face.

            “Oh Willy, you always say that,” sighed Sally, rolling her eyes to the heavens, “I don’t know why you play the silly game anyway!”

            “Well I like it and anyway one day I’ll spot a number that no one else ‘as, and then I’ll be important and rich and you won’t be able to laugh at me anymore, so there!”

            “Gerroff, no one gets rich from train spottin’.” Said Sammy scornfully, snatching the book from Willy, and running off with it down the hill.

            “Give me back my book, Sammy Jones!” cried Willy.

            “Come and get it!” yelled Sammy, waving the book in the air.

            Willy went halfway towards him then stopped, tears of fear and frustration sliding down his cheeks.

            “You wouldn’t dare bully me if my dad was ‘ome!” he shouted.

            “But your dad ain’t is ‘e?” said Sammy gleefully, “and ‘e won’t be for a long time.  Not ‘til the war is over.  So, do ya want yer book back or don’t yer?”

            “Aw, c’m on Sammy, give ‘im ‘is book!” yelled Joey.

            Sammy eyed Joey for a minute, then a wicked grin lit up his face.

            “I tell you what, ‘e can ‘ave it back if ‘e pays a forfeit!”

            “What sort of forfeit?” asked Willy, his heart sinking to his boots.

            Sammy cast around in his head for something really difficult, then his eye landed on the abandoned pram.

            “Let’s see ya run down the ‘ill with the pram!” he said at last, “If ya do it then ya can ‘ave yer book back.”  He stuffed the book down his sock.

            Willy looked up and down the hill then at the pram, his face was deathly pale.

            “You’re scared, aren’t ya?  Cowardy-cowardy-custard!” Sammy sang as he danced around Willy.

            Willy was scared but he desperately wanted his book.  He swallowed hard.

            “No I’m not,” he said, suddenly defiant, “I’ll do it!”

            “I’ve got an idea,” said Joey, “we’ll all take turns a-piece to see who can do it the fastest!”

            “But that will spoil the forfeit!” said Sammy.

            “No it won’t,” Joey said, “not if Willy goes first.”

            Sammy took some persuading, but when he finally agreed, we positioned the pram at the crest of the bridge and Willy, taking hold of the handle, prepared himself for flight.  Suddenly he thought of something.

            “Hey, ‘ow will we know who does it the fastest?” he asked Joey.

            “Hmm, I ‘adn’t thought of that,” he said, frowning over the problem while we all watched him expectantly.  Then his face lit up.  “I’ve got it, someone will ‘ave to count as each of us takes our turn!”

            “I will, I will!” shouted Jenny, jumping up and down with eagerness, pigtails on the move again.

            So now the instructions were completed, and Willy was tensely waiting for Joey to give the signal for the race to start.

            “Ready, steady – GO!” shouted Joey.

            Willy launched the pram over the brow of the hill, the wheels and his legs gathering momentum.  Behind him, the gang was shouting encouragement and above their noise he could hear Jenny’s voice chanting ‘one-and-two-and’, but with the wheels turning faster, hedges and trees shooting past in a blur, and Annie bobbing around with glee, suddenly - the pram began to feel heavier, then to weave from side to side, going much faster than Willy could run; and his lungs felt as if they would burst.  Finally, though his legs were galloping fifteen to the dozen, it was no good – he just had to let go!

            From the top of the hill Rosie screamed, but helplessly he watched, as free at last, the pram took on a mind of its own.  With Annie leaping like a jack-in-the-box, her tiny face alive with delight, it hurtled on down the hill, till suddenly – as a bird swoops into its nest – it swan dived into the ditch at the side of the lane and upended.  The last glimpse we had of Annie, before the pram landed on top of her, was of her and the covers being catapulted into the long grass.

            One by one, we kids at the top of the hill had stopped our raucous shouts and lapsed into stunned silence.  Then Rosie set off down the hill at a gallop.

            “Me baby sister!” she wailed, visions flitting through her imagination of what would happen when she had to tell her mum.

            Followed closely by the rest of us, she arrived at the ditch, then we all stood, staring transfixed, as the wheels of the pram spun crazily in the air; each one of us scared of what we would find underneath.  Finally, Joey turned the pram over and Rosie snatched up the covers.

            There was Annie, hair mussed up, face bright red, but grinning from ear to ear!

            “’Gen!” she demanded, holding out her podgy little arms.

            “Oh crumbs,” sighed Rosie, “she’s alright!”  Then she rounded on Sammy in anger, “it’s all your fault Sammy Jones, you and your teasing and bullying!”

            “Well, you didn’t say we couldn’t do it!” he yelled back.

            With a sullen face, Rosie hauled the pram out of the ditch .and unceremoniously dumped Annie and the covers back in it.

            Somehow the sun and fun had gone out of the day, so in subdued silence, except for Annie’s protests, we made our way back to the corner of Rosie’s street.