But Mam had insisted. and they’d been down there for hours in the cold and damp. Why couldn’t they have bunk beds like the ones Mr. Davis up the street made. But Dad was no good at carpentry and all they had were some old dining-chairs with mock leather seats. Her back still ached after sitting bolt upright for hours and the rexine covers were so cold and hard her bum went numb after a bit. And it was impossible to sleep anyway with the pom-pom-pom of the guns going off on Penylan Hill and the drone of the planes overhead.
 They’d probably been on their way to Swansea or Port Talbot – anyway, it hadn’t been Cardiff’s turn last night.  

The gang met on the corner by the ‘dead wall. Myra wondered, not for the first time, why people called it that and the only reason she could think of was that there were no windows or doors in it. It was a good place to meet. In summer the boys drew stumps on the yellow brickwork and played cricket - until Mrs. Edwards came out and shouted at them to "Go away and play outside your own front!" A gas lamp lit the corner when it was getting dark and if they wanted a swing, they threw a rope over one of the ‘arms’.

Denis was waiting on the corner of the street next morning. Peter grinned when he saw him, "There’s your boy friend," he said.
Myra turned on him "He’s not my boy friend. We’ve got something important to talk about, that’s why he’s waiting for me." "What? What’s so important?"  "Never you mind. It’s not for little kids like you." Peter pleaded, but Myra wouldn’t tell him. Especially after he’d called Denis her boy friend! Soppy thing. Ugh!  Denis and Myra talked about last night’s raid, counting how many houses had had windows blown out by the blast, while Peter scanned the ground looking for pieces of shrapnel large enough to boast about to his friends when he arrived at school.
After he’d left them at the turning for Gladstone School, Myra and Denis could talk about the man she’d seen in the lane.

Joan has had a short story published in a
collection, entitled ...

"The Blue Man & other stories from Wales"
the story is called

"The Witch of Bevan Lane"


extract from the book ....

Meryl peeped round the corner of the street at the old woman. She certainly looked like a witch. Grey-white hair hung straight to her shoulders, back bent in two as she leaned on her stick for support. Dark eyes sunk between wrinkled brow and prominent hooked nose gazed down the street in the direction from which the
children usually came.......
 

This book is available from all good bookshops
or direct from Pont Books  - £4.50

To buy a copy direct from the publisher
click on the link below .....
 

http://www.gomer.co.uk