‘He’s right,’ Mum told the few people who could still bear to remain in earshot. ‘He’s absolutely right!’
I made a solemn vow right there and then to change my name, and dye my hair, and join another group. Like everyone else, I started shuffling away, pretending to take a sudden interest in what was happening up at the fence where the snowballers were still grinding away ineffectually at their chosen strands of wire, and an assortment of police officers were standing by, eyeing the rainclouds ominously gathering on the horizon, and patiently waiting to make their arrests.
The snowballers kept up a constant chatter as they toiled away.
‘Could I have a go with your wire-cutters after you’ve finished?’
‘These are no good. I thought I might try yours.’
‘These? These are useless!’
One of the policewomen shifted restlessly, and looked at her watch. It was clear she was dying to get back to the station. Inspector McGee squinted up at the clouds as they rolled steadily nearer. The other officers contented themselves with exchanging meaningful glances while the snowballers hacked away at the wire. It was obvious what they were thinking. ‘Thank God this little lot aren’t defending the country!’ I know because they had exactly the same look on their faces as Goggle-eyes did, except that he, of course, had made a point of saying it aloud, several times, till even Jude got bored with hearing it, and wandered off along the line of snowballers to see who was doing the best. She came to a dead halt halfway along, behind Fish Eyes, like a supermarket shopper who has finally worked out which check-out is likely to be free first, and, sure enough, after a moment there was a rustle of excitement where she was standing.
‘Mine’s coming! I think mine’s coming! Yes!’
And, seconds later, from Grubby Green Jacket:
‘I’ve done it, too! I’m through the wire!’
The first two to succeed punched the air in triumph, and grinned. The police officers sighed, and a couple of them moved forward.
‘Off we go, then.’
‘Right-ho.’
Still smiling proudly, Fish Eyes and Grubby Green Jacket were led off towards the open doors of the blue vans. Everyone else turned their attention back to the fence.
‘Who’s next?’
‘Try the hacksaw.’
‘Press harder!’
‘Don’t press so hard!’
‘How can a strand of wire this thin turn out to be so tough?’
We cheered as, one by one, the snowballers completed their task and were led off to the police vans. Beth’s granny cheated. She let a pregnant woman in pink dungarees do all her cutting for her. All that Beth’s granny did was lay her hacksaw on the broken strand, and claim loudly and dishonestly:
‘I’ve done it! I have cut the wire!’
Graciously, Inspector McGee turned a blind eye to the deception. Pink Dungarees looked far too pregnant to spend long in a police station, and anyway, Inspector McGee knows better than to tangle with Beth’s granny. As usual, she slid her arm in his, and made him escort her personally back to the vans, carrying her comfy peace cushion. Everyone grinned as she hobbled by on his arm. She gets away with it every time. I’ve seen her forcing even the sullen and unpleasant police officers to be helpful and polite as they arrest her. Mum says it only works because she’s so old. Mum says they know she can remember back when they were truly the servants of the people, and not just the paramilitary arm of the state that they’ve become today. Being reminded of how much things have changed makes them uneasy, Mum says, so they treat her properly.
The rain clouds were rolling nearer and nearer, but the advice we shouted to each snowballer was getting better with experience, so the arrests were coming quicker now. Soon there were only three snowballers left at the fence. Flowery Headscarf from St Thomas & St James got the one good pair of wire-cutters. Delaying for only a couple of moments, smiling, while someone from her church group took a photograph, she snapped her strand through cleanly, cheered herself, and then without thinking handed the wire-cutters to the policewoman standing beside her.
‘Hey!’
The last two snowballers looked up from their strands of wire. One was the shy economist to whom, earlier in the day, Gerald Faulkner had been extolling the virtues of food mountains. The other was a student called Ben who once spent a whole bus ride to Edzell airbase trying to help Simon explain decimals to Jude.
‘Excuse me,’ the grey-haired economist said to the policewoman. ‘We need those. These are useless.’
It was the same policewoman who had been looking at her watch. Now she looked at the wire-cutters that had ended up in her hand, and said, exasperated beyond measure:
‘But I can’t give them back now!’
The economist was too shy to argue. He shrugged and turned back to the fence. But Ben didn’t give up so easily. (Anyone who can try and explain decimals to Jude can’t be a quitter.) Pushing his fingers through his hair, he tried to wheedle his way round the officer.
‘Oh, go on,’ he tempted her. ‘We’ll be here hours otherwise. This pair’s quite blunt.’
He took care to glance up at the huge purple cloud that now hung over all our heads.
You should have seen the look on the policewoman’s face. She was in torment. She glanced at her watch a second time, then back at the wire-cutters. You could tell she was kicking herself for allowing her fingers to close round the handles of the stupid things in the first place. And, to make matters worse, one or two heavy drops of cold rain splattered down, threatening all of us still standing waiting, but not those safely seated in the vans, ready to go.
‘But I can’t hand back wire-cutters accidentally in my possession so you can do criminal damage!’
‘We’re going to cut the wire, anyhow. This way we’ll just do it quicker.’
‘Much quicker,’ agreed the economist, still sawing away at the fence, getting nowhere.
The policewoman looked over at her colleague still standing behind the economist, waiting to arrest him. He wasn’t much help to her. He just stared back blankly. So she looked round for Inspector McGee. But he, of course, was still out of sight behind the vans, no doubt settling Beth’s granny on her comfy peace cushion and exchanging hairy old Scottish Ban the Bomb March reminiscences.
Ben shrugged, and turned back to the fence.
‘This will take hours,’ he threatened.
The policewoman suddenly made up her mind. With a flash of decisive thinking that Mum said later was a tribute to her training, she flipped the only good pair of wire-cutters into the grass.
‘Whoops!’ she said. ‘Dropped them!’
The economist and Ben dived together. Ben, being younger and fitter, got to them first. Swooping them up with one hand, he passed her his useless pair with the other.
‘Allow me,’ he said courteously, as though he were simply handing her back the pair she had dropped.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured.
‘And thank you.’
He swung round on the fence. I think his big mistake must have been to go at the wire as forcefully as if he still had the blunt pair he was using before. He certainly did something stupid. I’m sure if he’d been handling them properly, they’d never have slipped like that, and pinched his finger so horribly.
‘Ow! Ow-ow-OW!’
Again the wire-cutters fell in the grass. Sucking his finger, poor Ben jumped up and down, yelping with pain.
‘Ow-ee! It hurts!’
‘Let me see.’ The policewoman looked anxious.
Ben put out his hand and slowly, gingerly, extended his fingers. You could see where the wire-cutter handle had pincered his finger. On either side were the sort of drained patches of squashed skin you know are going to turn straight into massive black bruising as soon as the blood can bring itself to flow back.