World War Dragon!

Trousers

Marion stood outside the stable and stuck two fingers in her mouth to whistle for Methel, her favourite horse. But instead of the mare, Patch the stable master came out. He crossed his arms and frowned at her.

'A young lady shouldn't whistle like that.'

'Oh yes?' Marion raised her eyebrows. 'So how should I do it?'

'A lady shouldn't be a-whistling at all, by rights. She should be quiet like...' Mr Timms eyed Marion soberly, 'even if she does think she's in charge and right all the time.'

Marion groaned inwardly. Mr Timms was a Jolly Decent Fellow Who Deserved Respect. Her Father's words. But to Marion he was Mr. Leather Patch, or Patch for short. Marion was in the habit of calling grown-ups by a signature item of clothing, if only in her own head. And Patch suited Mr Timms to a T. He had a lot in common with the ragged, greasy old leather patch sewn onto the elbow of his jacket.

Marion cleared her throat.

'Perhaps I should sing the highest note I can, instead.' And she let loose a long, quavering A-sharp. Patch grimaced. Marion was not the best of singers. In fact, Miss Townsend - the music mistress - said she sounded like a cat who'd caught the wrong end of a hot poker

So it was fortunate Methel chose that very moment to answer her call. The mare cantered towards Marion, lovely white mane flowing out behind her. Marion rested her forehead against Methel's noble grey one, enjoying the warmth of her moist breath.

'She's in pain, that old mare,' Patch muttered.

Marion glared at him. 'Methel is not in pain. If she was, I would see it in her eyes.'

Marion picked up her picnic basket, gave another defiant, unladylike whistle and before Patch had a chance to say anything more, she had mounted Methel and they were off, girl and horse, to her favourite place, the Fairy Mound. A grand name for a little boil of a hillock crowned by stunted trees.

When they got there the low-lying cloud that had made the sky as grey as sodden newspaper had gone. The sun had broken through and a splash of rainbow scuffed the sky above the rolling hills.

Marion laid a hand on Methel's velvety nose. 'See, girl? That's got to be a bit of luck, don't you think?'

Methel's real name was Methuselah's Rainbow but Marion had to call her Methel because she couldn't get her mouth around such a knotty cluster of syllables. Methel had been maimed in a race and was going to be shot by her owner, a friend of her father's. Marion had begged her Papa to take the horse into their stables instead. Ever since then, they had been the best of friends, and you could hardly even see Methel's limp any longer. Frankly, it was a good thing she was lame. Otherwise, she might have been sent off to France, like all their other poor horses. I

Marion laid the basket down in front of the sycamore. Its branches held the beginnings of the treehouse her brother Charlie had promised to build for her. At the moment though, it was just a wooden platform with a ladder leaning against it.

Marion had once taken the Ruthers children up here. She smiled at the memory. Judy and her younger brother Tommy often came up to the Blount estate with their father, a labourer from the town who worked on their farm.

Mama had told her she was not to play with common children, like Tommy and Judy, but Marion had often sneaked out to find them. One morning that summer, she had climbed with them to the top of the tree. There, they had a view of Aspect Wood and Goodrich castle, a large lump of crumbling grey amidst a clumsy splash of dark green a good couple of miles away.

"I'm quite sure there are fairies there," Marion told Judy. "Real ones. This summer holiday, I'll take you and Tommy camping there to find them."

Judy's blue eyes shone. "Real fairies?"

Marion had told her fairies were shy little beasts, but they would certainly do their best to spot one.

But even when she said it, Marion had that sinking feeling she wouldn't be able to do anything of the kind. Mama would never let her go camping with a labourer's children. Why did she never think before she promised these things? It was like thoughts just tumbled out of her mouth, like slop from a bucket.

Marion sighed and shook the memory away. She opened the picnic basket, taking out a few sugar lumps for Methel. As the horse chewed in her usual slow way, Marion scaled the first few rungs of the ladder, swinging the picnic basket up ahead of her.

Once she had clambered onto the platform, she laid out the plaid blanket, poured herself a glass of ginger beer and set out her favourite lemon curd rolls. She bit into one and smiled. Marion was sure if you could eat yellow velvet hit by a frosty sun, this was what it would taste like.

She crammed the whole roll in her mouth and curd spurted out over her chin. Precisely the sort of thing that would have Mama calling her a filthy little pig.

'Perhaps a filthy little pig is what I am,' Marion said loudly, wiping the curd away with her sleeve. 'Oink, oink,' she snorted, with a laugh.

'Sounds more like snorin' than oinkin' to me.'

Marion jumped so hard she tipped her entire glass of ginger beer over the blanket. She quickly lay down on her belly and peered over the edge of the platform.

Gazing back up at her was quite the strangest-looking old woman she had ever seen.

A tiny hat was perched at a rakish angle on a nest of frizzy white-blond hair. She wore a buttercup yellow gown, with frills at the elbows and a long, elegant V of a neckline. But she was much too stout for it. Over her shoulder was slung a battered, tanned leather satchel. Most extraordinary of all, beneath the gown, she was wearing a pair of men's trousers.

Marion knew some women who were working in the munitions factories had started wearing trousers, but surely to goodness they wouldn't wear gowns over the top of them?

Trousers! That's the name for you, thought Marion.