Four Children and It by Jacqueline Wilson
All four Edwardian children looked puzzled.
‘You’ve never heard of McDonald’s?’ Smash said incredulously. ‘Don’t you have fast-food places?’
‘What’s fast food?’ said Cyril.
‘Meat in buns, and doughnuts, and pizzas, and fried chicken and chips. They’re all yummy,’ said Smash. ‘Look, come back with us and try some.’
‘Oh, yes please!’ said Jane. ‘Let’s go and ask the Psammead right this minute.’
‘But – but as we’re in the past, I wonder, shouldn’t we take a look around? Maybe go into the nearest town and see all the differences? Imagine what great marks we’d get for a history project,’ I said.
They all looked at me as if I was mad – except Anthea.
‘You are such a sad swotty little nerd,’ said Smash.
I blushed, feeling foolish.
‘No, you’re not, whatever that means,’ said Anthea. ‘I like to get good marks too. I love history – and English, but I’m pretty useless at algebra, and hopeless at Latin too.’
‘Goodness! Well, you must be much brainier than me, because we don’t even study algebra and Latin at my school,’ I said.
‘I don’t even have a school at the moment,’ said Smash. ‘They keep expelling me. It’s totally cool.’
‘Aren’t your mother and father in a terrible bate about it?’ said Cyril.
‘You bet,’ said Smash cheerfully.
‘Don’t you mind upsetting them?’ said Robert.
‘Look, they don’t mind upsetting me. They just want to get rid of me. I hardly ever see my own mother and my dad’s away heaps,’ said Smash. ‘You have no idea what it’s like being a modern child. You don’t know how lucky you are.’
‘Well, our father is away a lot on business and Mother is often ill and has to go abroad, but we’ve managed not to get expelled,’ said Cyril. ‘Perhaps you should do lessons at home like a little kid.’
‘I’m not little,’ said Smash, giving him a shove on his shoulder.
He happened to be washing his cake down with a cup of tea at that precise moment.
‘Ouch! I’ve practically scalded myself! Stop that!’
‘Well, you stop insulting me,’ said Smash, and gave him another push.
‘Look here, if you were a boy I’d fight you for that,’ said Cyril.
‘Go on then! I’d like to see you try,’ said Smash.
‘I can’t fight girls,’ said Cyril.
‘Why not?’ Smash demanded.
‘Well, it wouldn’t be gentlemanly,’ said Cyril.
Smash laughed unpleasantly. ‘You are so pathetic. Girls can fight. See!’ she said, and she thumped him hard in the chest.
‘Right, that’s it! You need teaching a lesson, girl or not!’ said Cyril.
‘Oh, please don’t, Cyril, she’s just being aggravating on purpose,’ said Anthea. ‘And watch the tea things, for goodness’ sake!’
Cyril stood up and raised his fists.
‘Stand up and fight like a man then,’ he said to Smash.
‘No! Don’t, Smash. Oh please don’t be so silly,’ I said, but of course she didn’t listen.
She punched Cyril and he punched her, not really fiercely, but it was enough to make her stagger. She punched him back and then suddenly they were rolling around on the floor, wrestling with each other.
‘Oh, I say, stop it, Cyril. She’s our guest!’ said Anthea.
‘Stow it, Squirrel,’ said Robert.
‘Oh dear, she’s getting hurt. I can’t bear it,’ said Jane, and she threw herself at her brother to try to stop him. She got thumped herself and screamed.
‘Oh, Jane, I’m so sorry!’ said Cyril, sitting up and giving her a hug.
‘Come on, you can’t stop fighting. Nobody’s won yet,’ said Smash.
‘Poor Jane!’ said Anthea, rushing to her. ‘Don’t cry, darling.’
‘Look, never mind Jane, I got hit heaps of times and I’m not crying,’ said Smash.
‘No – well, good for you,’ said Cyril. He helped Jane to her feet. ‘So sorry, Jane, though it really was your own fault, you know.’
‘So, have I won the fight?’ said Smash.
It had been clear to all of us watching that Cyril was winning. I’m sure it was clear to Cyril too, but after hesitating a second he held out his hand. ‘Yes, well done, Smash, you’ve won the fight.’
‘Hooray!’ said Smash, shaking his hand and then strutting round the room. ‘I told you girls can fight. I’m an absolutely champion fighter.’
The rest of us sighed.
‘What?’ said Smash. ‘Come on then, you lot. Let’s go to see the Psammead and whizz back to our time. I want to show you all sorts of stuff. Wait till you see my Xbox, Cyril, and my computer and the television. We can watch Sky Sport. Which football team do you support?’ She chatted away to Cyril nineteen to the dozen all the way to the sandpit, clearly trying desperately to impress him, even though she’d been about to punch his face in five minutes ago.
‘If you don’t mind my saying, your sister’s very strange,’ Robert said to Robbie.
Robbie screwed his finger against his forehead. ‘She is seriously loopy, I agree. But she’s not my real sister, thank goodness. That’s Rosalind. She’s a totally ace sister.’
I was so touched I nearly hugged him, but didn’t want to embarrass him in front of the others. I always worried that I was a very irritating boring older sister, always fussing about things and trying to keep us out of trouble.
‘Psammead? Are you there, Psammead dear?’ said Jane, down on her knees in the sand.
‘Will it be our Psammead or theirs?’ said Robert.
‘I think it will be the same Psammead. I think there’s only one of it, and it can pop up any time it likes, a bit like Doctor Who,’ I said.
‘Oh yes, wait till you see our television – you’ll absolutely love Doctor Who, Cyril, especially the stone angels. They are seriously creepy,’ said Smash.
‘I don’t like them one bit,’ said Robbie. ‘We don’t watch when they’re on, do we, Rosalind?’
‘Oh, I might have known!’ said Smash. ‘You two are such sad little wimpy babies. Hey, Psammead, where are you? You haven’t got stuck in a time warp, have you?’
‘Don’t!’ I said. But then I thought about it. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad being stuck in the past. I seemed to fit in here. Nobody minded if I liked reading or playing pretend games. I could even play dolls without anyone laughing.
‘There you are, dear Psammead!’ said Anthea, uncovering his cross little creased face. It seemed to have just as many lines, even though he was more than a hundred years younger here. ‘We are so sorry to disturb you, but could we possibly see what it’s like in the future, with our new friends? We’d like it most awfully.’
‘Though it’s lovely being here too,’ I said dreamily. ‘In fact I wish I could live here forever.’
‘Oh, Rosalind, be careful!’ Anthea cried.
I saw the Psammead wriggle right out of the sandpit, its bat ears flapping. It looked directly at me with its eyes on stalks and then started puffing up. I couldn’t believe I’d been so foolish – especially after Smash had made the same stupid mistake.
‘No! No, I didn’t really mean it! It wasn’t a proper wish!’ I said, but the Psammead took no notice.
It puffed up even further. Then suddenly I saw a dark tunnel and the others were all sucked into it, whirling round, spinning head over heels. I screamed, flailing around, trying to catch hold of Robbie and Maudie, but I could no longer see them in the terrifying darkness. Then the light came back and I found myself on my knees in the sandpit – but I was totally alone.
‘Robbie? Maudie? Smash?’ I shouted.
No one answered.
‘Anthea? Jane, Cyril, Robert? Oh please, someone hear me!’ I shouted again.
The sandpit stretched out in every direction at the bottom of the gravel pit. I had no idea where the Psammead was. I scrabbled in the sand, hurting my
‘Psammead? Oh please, I didn’t mean that wish, not really and truly. I don’t want to be here in Edwardian times, not forever.’
I tried to tell myself that I only had to wait until sunset and then I’d be whizzed back to my own time, but I couldn’t be sure of that. I’d read The Phoenix and the Carpet, the sequel to Five Children and It. In that book the children’s cook wished to stay on a tropical island forever – and she did. She didn’t mind at all, because the natives on the island mistook her white cap for a crown and made her their queen, and later on in the story a kindly burglar came along and he got to be their king, and he stayed forever too, sunset after tropical sunset.
‘Please, Psammead, you know I didn’t really mean it,’ I said, digging frantically for him in the sand. ‘I’m so sorry. I know I should have been more careful. I simply wasn’t thinking. Look, leave me here till sunset if you must, just to teach me a lesson, but please, please, please let me go back to my own time then.’
There was still no sign of the Psammead, not a paw, not an ear, not even a whisker. I knelt there in the sandpit for a good half-hour, begging the Psammead to take pity on me. Then I started wondering if it had hurtled into my time with the others and was now in its sandy pit in Oxshott woods. I started to panic, but I was sure Robbie would wish me back as soon as he could, though the Psammead had made it extremely plain it was only prepared to give us one wish per day. Maybe I’d have to wait till tomorrow.
I took a deep breath and wiped my eyes with the hem of my T-shirt. I feel a bit of a fool admitting it, but I’d been crying quite a lot.
‘Pull yourself together, you idiot,’ I told myself fiercely, standing up and brushing the sand off as best I could. ‘Of course you’ll get back to your time soon enough, so make the most of things now. Go and have a look around the village. See what sort of shops they’ve got. Look out for all those ponies and traps. Make a long list of all the differences you can spot. Come on, this is your big opportunity, Rosalind Hartlepool. Don’t be a total wimp.’
I started walking briskly up the hill, out of the gravel pit. There was no point trying to find my way back to the house because I knew for a fact Anthea, Jane, Cyril, Robert and the Lamb weren’t at home – and everyone might be in a fuss wondering where they were.
I set off down a lane instead. My neck prickled when I heard the clop of horses’ hooves behind me. I turned, and there was a man in a cart wearing a funny cap, flicking the reins at an old nid-nodding horse. I scuttled to the side of the lane and watched it go past. It was like stepping into the pages of a history book.
‘What are you staring at, you young varmint?’ the man shouted.
I was stuck for any kind of answer.
‘You’re up to no good, I’ll be bound,’ he said. ‘Little ragamuffin!’
I thought he was incredibly rude. It wasn’t my fault I was stuck in the wrong kind of clothes, with a rip in my jeans and sandy smudges all over me. I chose to ignore him and walked on haughtily.
I was at the edge of the village now. The houses looked pretty normal, little huddled-together terraces of red brick. They seemed especially bright, because the houses were all newly built. The street got wider and busier, edged with strange curly street lamps. I stared around at the people passing by: an old lady with a shawl and a skirt down to her ankles; a younger lady in a blouse with great puffy sleeves and a hat sitting sideways on her hair; two children running along in pinafores, bowling a hoop. They looked just like people in a period television film, but their clothes were faded and more crumpled. I stared, fascinated, until one of the children put her tongue out at me.
I stuck my tongue out at her, and she giggled.
‘Hello! That looks fun,’ I said, pointing to her hoop. ‘Can I have a go?’
She shrugged, so I took that as a yes. I tried bowling the hoop. It wobbled around a lot at first, but I soon got the hang of it, though it seemed a bit of a pointless occupation.
‘Hey! What are you doing with my Jessie’s hoop? How dare you!’ A very cross-looking woman came bursting out of a house, actually shaking her fist at me.
‘I’m just playing. I’m sorry. Don’t be cross!’ I said, but she took hold of me and started slapping me about the head. I couldn’t believe she would be so hateful. She was really hitting me. I’d never been smacked in my life before and it felt awful.
More women came out of their houses to see what was going on, but no one tried to rescue me.
‘He tried to steal our Jessie’s hoop, the dirty little stranger!’
‘Looks like a gypsy to me. You have to watch them, they’ll steal anything.’
‘Look at the length of his hair! Who’s he trying to look like, Little Lord Fauntleroy?’
They all burst out laughing. I tried to seize my chance and run for it while they were distracted, but the slapping woman clung on to me. I struggled, and one of my flailing arms hit her hard in the chest.
She screamed, doubling over. Someone else seized hold of me and pinned my arms behind my back.
‘He’s got the temper of the devil! Better call for the police. Did you see the way he flew at her?’
‘No, please, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. Please let me go,’ I begged, but the little gang of women marched me along the road.
‘Now then, what’s all this?’
A policeman rounded the corner, wearing a very large helmet and a tunic buttoned right up to the neck. All the women started talking at once, pushing me towards him.
‘Oh, please, officer, it’s all a terrible misunderstanding. Of course I didn’t try to steal that little girl’s hoop. I was just trying to play with her. She didn’t mind in the slightest,’ I gabbled, but he wouldn’t listen to me.
‘You come along with me, you young off-scouring! I’ll teach you to frighten all these respectable ladies and their children! Don’t you worry, ladies, I’ll take care of the dirty little tyke.’
He took hold of me by the ear and pulled me along the road in a manner that was both painful and horribly humiliating. I started crying again, and he gave me an extra tug on my poor throbbing ear.
‘Stop that caterwauling! Bear up like a little man,’ he commanded.
‘But I’m not a little man, I’m a girl!’ I wept.
‘Then what are you doing in those rum clothes?’ he said. ‘You’re up to no good, boy or girl. You come with me.’
I got dragged all the way to the police station and pulled inside. Everything seemed such a crazy nightmare. I fully expected to be thrust in a cell, maybe even shackled to the wall – but instead he sat me down in an ordinary room with a table and chairs.
‘Now then, stop your snivelling. Make a clean breast of things and tell me the truth,’ he said.
‘But I am. I truly didn’t try to take that little girl’s hoop. It’s all been a misunderstanding. I’ve never stolen anything in my life!’
‘A likely story! Now tell me your name, laddie, and where you’ve come from. The truth now, or I’ll get really severe with you.’
‘My name is Rosalind Hartlepool and – and I live most of the time with my mum in Stoke Newington in London, but I’m visiting my dad in Oxshott in Surrey,’ I started, trying terribly hard to tell the exact truth, without thinking of the consequences.
‘So what are you doing in Kent then, hm? You’ve been travelling around a lot. Are your folks gypsies?’
‘No, my dad works in an accounts office and my mum works in a bank,’ I said.
‘So shall we send for one or t’other of these fine folks of yours?’ said the policeman.
‘I wish you could, but – but it’s not possible,’ I sobbed.
‘No, it’s not possible, because they don’t exist, do they? You’re clearly a beggar or a thief, up to no good in our village, stealing from little children and lying your head off now you’re caught. Well, there’s only one place for you, little lad or lass. That’s the workhouse, where they’ll work you hard, clothe you decent and learn
‘Oh no, please! Look, I’m not really a stranger here. I know the family in the White House, they’re special friends of mine. There’s Anthea and Jane and Cyril and Robert and the Lamb!’
‘I’m not interested in your stories of strange kiddies and their livestock. Now you’d better come along with me.’
‘I do know them. You just have to ask at the house,’ I said.
‘What’s the surname of this family then?’
‘I – I don’t know – but I swear I know them. Just ask Anthea. Oh, wait a minute! I don’t think she’ll be at home just now, or the others – but you could try Martha, their nurse, I’m sure she’d remember me.’
‘Oh, stop your babbling. It’s getting on my nerves. Come along with me.’
‘Don’t take me to the workhouse, oh please, don’t! It’s a terrible place,’ I cried.
‘Ah, so you’ve been in one before, have you?’
‘No, but – but I’ve seen the show Oliver, where that poor little boy begs for more gruel.’
‘Stop carrying on! You don’t get gruel nowadays. You get a nice bowl of porridge for breakfast with a mug of cocoa, and good bread and mutton and tatties for your dinner. The casual ward opens at six, so we’ll hurry you along and you’ll be in time for a good supper.’
I had no choice. I had to go with him.
‘But, please, don’t pull me by the ear. It hurts so,’ I begged.
‘You’ve got two ears. I’ll pull you by the other one,’ he said, but he was only grimly joking. He took me by the arm and elbow and steered me along the way, through the village. Here was my chance to observe typical Edwardian shops, but I was in such despair I could hardly take anything in until we reached the portals of a big stone building.
The policeman tapped on the large knocker, keeping a tight grip on me with the other hand. A thin matron in a long apron opened the door and peered at me, her eyes narrowed.
‘Another young lad up to no good?’ she said.
‘Well, he says he’s a girl. I’ll leave you to ascertain whether he’s lying or not,’ said the policeman.
The woman sniffed as if she didn’t much care if I were one or the other; it was all the same to her.