Sitting half way up the Witches Hat, Billy Thomas was trying to comfort the young couple. They had tried to climb down the Hat, but had become stuck after a slip on the shale had left the young lady with a badly gashed leg.
Billy and his friends were on their Boxing Day trek and had been walking along gossamer trails, the hoar frost thick on the ground. A weak sun hung sulkily in the sky. He was always thankful to escape the aftermath of family Christmas Day.
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Billy Thomas was excited. His parents were going to a posh dinner in Swansea, this meant he was going to sleep in his grandparents’ house. A rare treat, they went there every Sunday for tea but rarely did he stay.
Carrying his bag of clothes he set off, his mam’s warning ringing in his ears to behave. Nan was waiting at the door and ushered him in, hugging him. She smelt of lavender and she was tiny – Billy was almost as tall as her – and she reminded him of a small bird.
Grandad was ensconced in his armchair; he had a ruddy complexion thickset with hands like shovels. ”Alright our Billy.”
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As the bell rang young Billy Thomas barged his way out. Racing off he headed into the woods above the school Megan’s words echoing in his head: ”I’m sorry Billy we can’t be friends anymore.”
She had just walked away from him.
Gasping for breath he threw himself onto the floor. What had he done? He and Megan had been like brother and sister. They had played together for as long as Billy could remember.
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Billy Thomas stomped up the lane, kicking anything in his path, muttering away to himself, frustration written all over his face, every muscle tensed. She had been right again. Even when he made gestures behind her back, she knew. It wasn’t fair. Everyone else got away with things, but not him. She caught him every time.
Plonking himself down on the river bank, he gave vent, screaming at the top of his voice, ”My mother is a witch,” over and over. Behind him, a gruff voice asked what his problem was. Turning, he saw old Mr Morris stood behind him, dressed as usual in clothes that looked too large, a wrinkled face like the bark on the trees, a flat cap, but eyes that were clear and bright. Billy didn’t know him that well, but he always had a couple of pennies when the boys went round with penny for the guy and carol singing. Embarrassed at being caught, Billy grunted. The old man then motioned him, ”Come and walk awhile and tell me your problem, bach, I may be able to help.”
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Friday afternoon and Billy Thomas was daydreaming of all the things he and the gang had to do over the weekend. He was jerked back to reality by a piece of chalk hitting him squarely on the forehead. Mr. Jenkins was bellowing at him, ”Pay attention boy. ”
A knocking at the door and a head poked around. A groan rippled around the class. It was Nitty Nora who had come to look for nits; always bad news. No one wanted the pink note telling their parents they had nits.
One by one they trudged into the hall for inspection. Nearly all of the class had pink notes. Disaster! Nora came into class declaring an epidemic and sent them all home. The boys huddled together, scratching as they walked, knowing their plans would come to nothing, each knowing what the weekend held.
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