The Girls from See Saw Lane Read Online Free PDF Page B

Black Jack, and unwrapped it. She concentrated hard on chewing for a bit, then said: ‘Do you want to hang upside down next to me? There’s plenty of room if I shift along a bit.’
    I looked at the railings and tried to imagine what it would feel like. ‘No, thanks,’ I said.
    â€˜Why not?’
    â€˜My legs are too fat, I’d fall off.’
    â€˜You ought to try it.’
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜Because it’s like looking at the world from an upside down sort of place.’
    â€˜I’d just as soon look at it the right way up,’ I said.
    â€˜You don’t know what you’re missing.’
    I did a bit of hopscotch on the pavement to change the subject.
    â€˜I’d better go,’ I said. ‘My dad will be wanting his ciggies.’
    â€˜I’ll call for you later if you like. What number do you live at?’
    â€˜Fifteen See Saw Lane.’ 
    Â â€˜I live at number forty six.’
    â€˜See you later,’ I said and ran down the twitten. I had a little bubble of excitement in my tummy because suddenly the world seemed brighter and happier and more fun. I was halfway down the alley when I heard Mary calling my name.
    â€˜Dottie!’
    I called back: ‘Mary!’ and we continued to call to each other until I was at the other end.
    â€˜Dottie!’
    â€˜Mary!’
    â€˜Dottie!’
    â€˜Mary!’
    â€˜Dottie!’
    We called to each other for the rest of our lives.

Mary’s Diary
    Dear Diery,
    When I grow up I am going to be a famus artist
    I am reely good at drawrin.
    I like my old skool better than my new one.
    The only thing I like about my new one is sittin next to my best friend Dotty Perks.
    The art teecher is bonkers
    so is the gografy teecher.
    Tatty bye diery
    Love from
    Mary Pickles
    Aged 8 and a half ish.

Chapter Five
    M ary Pickles didn’t like school. Well, I didn’t like it much either. In fact, I didn’t know anyone who liked it, except perhaps Betty Baxter who was teacher’s pet and ate sandwiches with the crusts cut off. Mary was really good at art but she didn’t like the art teacher. Miss Philips brought in some tatty old jug from home, stuck a few weeds in it and told us to draw it, then leant back in her chair and read a magazine and ate sweets that she kept in her drawer. Every November we had to do a painting of bonfire night.
    One rainy afternoon I was happily engrossed, using every colour in the paint pots, trying to create something that vaguely resembled a bonfire. I was concentrating really hard on getting just the right mix of colours to shoot up into the night sky.
    By the time I had finished it, I thought it wasn’t half bad; I might have overdone it on the red paint, but Mary had hogged the orange, so I didn’t have much choice.
    â€˜What do you think?’ I said, pushing my masterpiece across the desk.
    â€˜How many times have you drawn that exact same picture?’ said Mary.
    â€˜What are you talking about?’
    â€˜That picture. How many times have you painted it?’
    â€˜I don’t know.’
    â€˜Well, I do,’ she said. ‘You’ve painted it every bloody bonfire night for the last four years.’
    â€˜I suppose I have,’ I said, giggling. ‘What have you painted then?’
    She pushed her paper across to me.
    I stared at the painting and then at Mary. ‘It’s a plate of beans on toast,’ I said.
    â€˜That’s what I had for my tea on bonfire night.’
    Well that explained the orange paint. ‘She’s going to murder you.’
    â€˜Shouldn’t think she even looks at them. I bet that as soon as we leave the room she throws the whole lot in the bin.’
    â€˜Not Betty Baxter’s, she sticks hers on the wall.’
    â€˜Betty Baxter can’t paint for toffee.’
    That really surprised me, because one whole wall in our classroom looked like a Betty Baxter private art