Flora spotted movement in the corner of her eye a moment before a blinding flash erupted below the den’s entrance. The blast knocked her to the ground. For a moment she felt nothing, before the ringing in her ears faded to reveal the kids screaming. Their anguish brought cut through her mind.

‘Quick, run for the bolt!’ shouted Flora as she struggled to stand. Their shrieking intensified, piercing the den. She’d never heard anything like the high-pitch screams. It chilled her to her core, resonating through her skull. Then, as her eyes came into focus, every muscle and fibre in her body froze. One of the Twins was howling, his face bright with blood. His mouth stretched wide, blood dripping from his nose and lips, eyes white, fixed on the limp body next to him. There was no doubt about the fate of

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The exposure of the open-sided floor was a shock. Behind them, in the jumble of collapsed beams, lay their tiny bolt hole, now invisible among the chaos of the partially collapsed tower block. Just a few steps in front was a vertiginous drop. Jagged concrete teeth stretched towards them from the jaws of the city, its hazy breath obscuring their roots.

Flora struggled to catch her breath, her mind reeling. She had to keep going—be strong— if any of them were to survive. They had most of their gear, some food, and water...

‘We forgot the water!’ she exclaimed aloud, burying her head in her hands, before quickly recoiling. Peeling her fingers away, she looked in horror at her hands. They were coated in the sticky blood of the Twin. Small chunks of concrete stuck to her palms, and now to her face. She tried to wipe herself clean as a sense of panic simmered in her belly.

Ratter, who was crouched next to her, caught her eyes. A decision passed wordlessly between them. In an instance he turned and hurried back towards the exit from the den.

‘Be careful!’

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As the tension ebbed from her body, Flora realised her feet were freezing cold from standing on the concrete floor. Now that the bird had paused its insistent ringing but didn’t seem to want to leave, she suggested to the others that they got ready for the day as usual.

Flora hurried back to her bedroll, anxious to ensure the shell was well hidden from the kids. She wrapped it in a hoodie and tucked it carefully into her backpack. There was something freaky about that bird; it was too smart. Every time that Wings or another of the kids tried to creep up on it, the bird jumped to a higher perch out of reach, but as soon as their backs were turned, it returned to the alarm pole. And, why now? First the freaky dust ripples and the appearance of the giant shell, now this weird bird.

Flora had a distinct feeding that the birds beady eyes were still

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Flora woke in an instant, heart hammering in her chest. Their alarm was sounding! An urgent ringing pierced the air as the exposed metal pipe near the den entrance was struck repeatedly. She shed her coats and jumped up, legs bent ready for action, a blade clenched in her trembling fingers. Flora glanced briefly to her sides and found all five kids cowering in the gloom behind her, their frightened eyes staring towards the bright entrance. If it wasn’t one of them, then who was ringing the alarm?

Squinting into the light she spotted motion, something moving in rhythm with the alarm. She took a tentative couple of steps forward. Now she could see more clearly. Still only a silhouette, yet clearly not a person. It was

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Flora woke with a strange feeling, her senses tingling. Something had changed, shifted, in the night. She couldn’t even remember falling asleep. A vague memory plagued her that she’d been disturbed in the night.

She lay motionless for a while, listening acutely. Her bun was thrumming and she began to massage it with two fingers. The only sounds were the breaths of the sleeping kids and the dripping of water. Flora opened her eyes, still heavy with sleep. It was still dark, but the moon was bright behind the haze, casting deep cool shadows across the den. The familiar patterns of collapsed and teetering concrete beams and steel joists provided a welcome reality. One of the kids cried out; a bad dream. She laid still, wrapped against the cold in a pile of coats and blankets, gathering her thoughts.

Finally, she mustered the energy to rise, but only because she needed the can. She stood, shivering in the cold, took a step, then froze.

Strange patterns stretched away from her across the central space. Regular curved ripples, like a shell dropped into one of the drinking pots.

They spread outwards as perfect ridges of dust, drawing her eyes towards the epicentre where there was no dust at all. There, something else glowed in the moonlight.

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The road stretched into the distance, fading into the yellow haze. The Shell Man felt the city was now in striking distance, but he could never let his guard down. This section was narrow and foreboding, constrained between two high walls of twisted metal, made of vehicles cleared from the highway during the Before. It was the perfect place for an ambush, yet he also knew there were few who would dare threaten him.

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‘There were once five great dragons who ruled the world,’ began Flora hesitantly. The kids sat around her, transfixed. She plucked five precious coloured glass fragments from a pocket in her coats, ready to hold up each in turn. Blue is for Water, red for Fire, green for Earth, yellow for Air, and the largest and brightest shard of all, purple, for the greatest dragon of all.

‘Water lived in the oceans but they sometimes swam into the mouths of rivers, and even upstream until they couldn’t squeeze their bodies in any further. They never felt any desire to sun themselves on a pebbly beach.’

Flora passed the glass shard to Spider Girl, who held it up to the meagre light at the den’s entrance. Blue light danced across her face, reminding Flora of the day she found a huge pile of coloured glass. They were in the ruins of a strange building. It must once have been huge, standing tall above all other buildings during the Before. It didn’t have beams of concrete and steel like others, but blocks of stone, elegantly curved or shaped in perfect squares. She’d even found some fragments with strange carvings which looked like parts of birds and animals.

‘Fire,’ continued Flora, ‘lived where the sun baked the Earth and

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The five pack horses laboured up the faint path which zigzagged towards the ridge. It had been twenty days since Shell Man had left comforts behind at his warehouse near the coast. He had already traded six packs of shells. Even so, it had been a long and gradual ascent from the sea as the caravan carried a larger load than usual towards making his fortune in the inner zone. While close to the sea he was paid, not in ammunition, but in fresh food, including bread loaves, leather shoes, winter coats and hay for the horses. He still had plenty to trade in the city.

He always gave the lead mare the lightest load. A small bell tied to her leather panniers tinkled quietly in rhythm with her gait. Her energetic pace encouraged the caravan up the trail, not that he drove them hard, they were too precious

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Her return at dusk was greeted by noisy chatter. Most of the kids had lost count of how many days Flora had been away, but Ratter had scored the four days and nights diligently on the concrete above his bedroll.

The kids knew the water would soon be sweet again and there might even be other treats in store. As Flora entered the den they gathered tightly round her as the light faded. To her amazement, Spider Girl was among them, a smile beaming across her face. Letting go of Wings’ hand, she walked gingerly towards Flora and embraced her, squeezing her waist in a bear hug.

Flora looked down and stroked the little girl’s blond hair, secretly wondering who she should be thanking for the miracle. She exchanged a happy smile with Wings who seemed to have grown yet again, her lanky body and spindly legs almost raising her green eyes to the level of Flora’s.

First the kids wanted to see how many shells the trade had yielded. They didn’t ask how she was, but then they didn’t know the ordeal she suffered every time she made a trade. All they knew was

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READ ME: sic hunt arbores is a serialised novel being simultaneously written and shared by author Gabriel Hemery on Substack during 2026. Short extracts are free to view, but full content is only available to paid subscribers. Thank you for your support and encouragement.

How to find content

All content from the serialised novel can be found under READ ME, visible as a separate tab on the desktop version (but not in the mobile app - click on link instead). See also the Index of Chapters below.

New content

I aim to publish at least one new chapter every week, typically on a Thursday. Check back regularly to look for updates, or your check your inbox if you’ve subscribed.

The first chapter was released on 1st January 2026.

Index of Chapters (so far)

BOOK I ~ FLORA

• Flora

• Shell Man

• Shells

• Death Valley

• Dragons

• Into the City

• Ripples

• Alarm

• Bird

• Flee

• Refugia

Few knew the safe route from the sea. None had mastered the trade like him. He knew that once he was far enough inland and the coast was out of sight, far away from the other beach collectors, he could be more bold, although there was always dual dangers from the desperate and the ignorant.

It was perpetually a surprise that others hadn’t stumbled across the same lucrative trade, but then, if they’d tried, he would have made it his business to make sure they fell hard and were buried six feet under. Or left for the corvids.

His trade satisfied all his personal needs, granting him safe passage to scattered communities, from the big city to those up in the hills.

Shells for shells. Such a simple trade, yet so effective now that his army of young scavengers had helped to create quite the arsenal. A day’s walk inland, he had amassed a whole team of

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Human

*

Homo sapiens var. twitcheri

I hadn’t slept much, but that’s me all over. Still a small kid really, especially when it comes to a new ‘toy’, so I’d spent half the night too excited to sleep. Top of the range, that’s what I’d saved towards for 18 months, even passing up the annual trip to the Fens with the club. She was a Leioptico ATX85 spotting scope; the model with the 85mm objective lens and 25-60 zoom. No one else in the club had one like it, and for a while at least, there would be some satisfying envy alright.

I set up my tatty, old hide on the edge of the heath in the freezing cold. It must have been before 4am, as even Turdus merula—sorry, that’s the blackbird—hadn’t yet kicked off the dawn chorus. I chose a spot in the heather, about 15m away from a group of silver birch. Once perched on my canvas stool, I set her up on the tripod, and got my notebook ready on my knee, leaning forward to peer through her stunning optics for the first time. At that moment, I felt happier than I could remember.

‘Wow,’ was my first reaction. I could make out the pale stems of the birch trees, and even the lenticels on their dark branches, thanks of course to the ultra-low-light optics. I’d literally just had that thought, panning slowly a couple of metres to the right, when I saw him. You couldn’t make this up, you really couldn’t. His camouflage was impressive, but I could see him, sitting there motionless, his back to me. Bubo bubo; no doubt about it, as there’s nothing as large or impressive. Fancy, a Eurasian eagle owl in these parts. The sighting would cause a twitchery sensation.

He sat motionless, so I used the opportunity to make some fine adjustments to the scope. I must have observed him for longer than I realised, because there was a little light in the sky when he moved for the first time. Two Lullula arborea behind me had just started a vocal warm-up with a series of their familiar descending phrases; the wood lark’s one of my favourite birds. The owl rotated his head to face my way, blinking his deep amber eyes. I zoomed in to maximum (x60). The image was breathtaking, bringing him so close that his facial disc now filled my viewfinder. He seemed to be peeping at me, winking with one eye. Then, with a jerk of his head he turned to look fully at me; and I mean, straight at me, with an incredible focussed intensity. He knew me to be there, watching him, and now he glared into my eye. A chilling shiver went through me.

The billowing of the fine filoplumes around his eyes dizzied me, washing memories to and fro; of childhood sand and little waves, running and splashing, circling gulls sharing my ham sandwiches with their curled dry edges. Then, I was on a craggy island, hot chocolate poured from a flask, an open bird book in my hand, transfixed by the view through my first pair of binoculars. I watched as a huge murmuration of starlings swirled overhead, and a peregrine dived beyond the dizzying cliff edge. Now it was dusk and I watched in awe as manx shearwaters emerged beneath my feet, from the earth itself. I began to be drawn towards the setting sun, slowly flying out towards the horizon, into the amber orbs of Bubo bubo.

Still he did not blink, and still I fell, tumbling like Icarus.

Eurasian eagle owl

*

Bubo bubo

Black pupils gripped the pink dawn, and my little hide, in 
Two molten orbs swirling orange and golden fire, under 
Unblinking tweed bristle feathers frowning, over 
Filoplumes stirred by the breeze, around 
Razor bill tearing an impossible whisper in the void.

We flew together along the edge of the heath. I enjoyed stretching my chest muscles after sitting still for so long. An exhilarating rush of cold ruffled my feathers. My wing tips were impossibly distant. So much power, controlled by the tiniest of movements. We kept to the shadows of the heathland edge, banking round an isolated group of Scots pines deep in an ocean of heather, before racing down a forest ride, and into a clearing.

She hadn’t seen us with her little black eyes; chestnut fur, cream chest, long tail. A pulse of adrenaline surged through my talons. A fast approach; a twist of the tail, legs outstretched, parachute wings. Pine branch giving, swaying. A squealing, rigid muscle, desperate thrashing,

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‘Blossoming, aren’t you girl!’ He’d said it like it was a compliment. So, the tender lumps on her chest, the regular cramps and leaking blood, were personal achievements, milestones to celebrate? But then, it was true, she was still alive—the oldest kid she knew in Cofantreo City.

Flora was lost in her thoughts but remembered to duck under the concrete parapet and its jagged maw of protruding rebar at the entrance to the den. She’d grazed her head on it twice in as many days, miscalculating her height. Each time the blood matted her waist-long hair, staining the blond curls and making them crisp when it dried. Her legs ached at night. Growing pains—that’s what they called them. At this rate she’d soon need to go on all fours to enter.

‘What’s up?’ she called into the gloom, neither expecting, nor receiving, much of a response. A shuffle from Spider Girl’s corner disturbed the rhythm of water drops falling from the ceiling, resounding in the drinking pots. A constant reminder to keep living; the heartbeat of a city where the stinging rain never ceased.

An outsider once told her she’d heard of a Spider Girl from Before, one that could climb and swing from buildings using magic rope she kept under her arms. Flora had told them that their Spider Girl couldn’t do that. Ratter had given her the name when she started keeping a spider in a little box, tucked inside her coat, next to her blade. The outsider had ruffled Flora’s hair and laughed, but she hadn’t thought it was funny. Not then. Especially not now.

Flora stepped forward confidently, avoiding the first of the pots on the ground as her eyes adjusted to the dimly-lit cavern, though she didn’t need to see to know where she was in the den. ‘Spider, you there girl?’

She was exactly where Flora had left her, propped up against a beam, her coats, hair and skin the same dust-grey as her surroundings. Wings was with her, holding her hand, looking anxious and exhausted. Flora reached out and squeezed the little girl’s arm. ‘She’ll come round,’ she reassured Wings in a whisper she almost believed herself.

Spider Girl’s eyelids opened, startling white among the grey, blinking once. A flicker of recognition registered before her eyes closed again. Tears began to run down Spider’s cheeks, rivulets of precious moisture washing away the dust.

Flora bent down to touch her forehead. It was burning hot. These pills she’d risked her own life for had better work. They couldn’t get anyone to examine her, not here, not in the den. No-one from outside was allowed to know about the den.

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From Tall Trees Short Stories, vol21. © Gabriel Hemery

If you Missed Part 1: Under-Dog, read it here

PART 2: TOP-DOG

Mr Frederick Ash?’ The priest stood in the doorway, a prayer book in one hand, his broad hat in the other, peering into the gloom. He was unusually tall, and had to stoop as he entered, only to remain doubled-over, holding back his retching as he stumbled down the short flight of stairs.

‘By gad sir, this is a hell, and you must be common with it!’

‘I am very grateful to you for coming Father.’

‘It is the afternoon of the Sabbath, lest you forget.’

A guard entered, carrying a small wooden stool, which he dropped and kicked towards the priest, who had taken no more than two steps further into the cell. An open sewer writhed between priest and prisoner, carrying forth the effluvium of the entire population of Newgate prison.

‘No Father, I have been marking all of the 22 days that I have been held here in the bowels of this place.’

‘Indeed, I imagine you have little else to keep you occupied.’ The priest gathered his black cassock before lowering himself onto the tiny stool, placing his hat carefully upon his mountainous knees. He opened the well-thumbed book and looked across to the man opposite. ‘It is the tradition, on the last Sunday before execution, for a priest to visit the prisoner to deliver religious ministrations.’

‘Father, I wish to speak with you—’

‘Let us pray first, shall we? ‘Remember not, Lord, our iniquities, nor the iniquities of our forefathers; neither take thou vengeance of our sins; spare us, good Lord, spare thy people, whom thou hast redeemed with thy most precious blood, and be not angry with us for ever.’

The priest closed the prayer book with a snap. ‘You will no doubt wish to repent of your sins. It is common by those faced with the ultimate resignation before God, so that his judgement may be just, and your composure secured for—’

‘No father, I do not.’

‘You should repent, Mr Ash, so that you may cast yourself with an entire dependence upon the mercies of God, through the merits of our Saviour and Redeemer Jesus Christ.’

‘Father, I wish not to offend you, for I am a firm believer, but I desire no more prayers.’

‘I think, my son, that you should remember your situation before God, and reach a good temper of mind.’

‘I understand that Father, but I wish first to confess to the truth. This will be the truth, not as it was told in court and the papers, but a truth now hidden by a heinous crime. Afterward, then perhaps you may offer your last prayer.’

The prisoner stood, shuffling into the only spot of light in the cell. For the first time the priest had a good look at him; he was considerably relieved to hear the shackles rattling securely for he was gazing upon a giant of a man. The sleeves of his filthy grey tunic bulged tightly round his arms, while his hands, which grasped onto the chains, would easily throttle a boar. Reports of his violent crime in the papers had caused a sensation, and now here he was, face-to-face with a sylvan version of the grim reaper. One cartoon in The Morning Mail had shown him as such: standing with his tree trunk legs astride the pit of hell, his bloodied two-handled ripping saw in one hand, and his terrifying gaze directed into the eyes of the reader.

‘Give him strength against all his temptations and heal all his distempers. Break not the bruised reed, nor quench the smoking flax,’ invoked the priest.

‘Father, do not fear me, for whatever stories you may have read, I am not that man. I am the victim of a cruel injustice, forged by a cunning evil. I could never imagine the evils that I have been accused of, much less act them out with the people I love.’

The priest held his tongue, taken aback by the eloquence of the brute before him.

‘I had much respect for my under-dog, Billy Evans, and had watched him grow into a strong young man. I would never have treated as him as he described, nor could I imagine the cruelties of which I have been accused. The pig story … I raised my own pigs at home for the table, and until then I cared for them as part of my family. I would never act out such horrors.’

‘Yet, you have been found guilty my son, of a wicked crime. It is not for me to judge you, but I fail to understand any motive for what, you say, are lies.’

‘You may not wish to hear the truth Father, but I already have one foot in Deadman’s walk, so I have nothing to lose in telling it. That young man was so clever and devious, and such were the lies he spun, it will be no wonder when he takes upon the stage.

‘You see Father, Billy Evans was attempting to bribe Sir Richard Grace. He had caught him in the woods mollying with a man. He wrote him a crude note describing what he had seen, and that he would go to the rozzers with it. He said he had a witness too. The sum of his asking was one thousand pounds!’

‘By gads, that’s preposterous! Sir Richards was most upstanding, a married man with a fine country estate, and a respected businessman. He would never … never go mollying—’

‘He was very fearful of the prospect of a 10-year imprisonment, and the loss of his reputation.’

‘But how do you know all this, I mean on what basis do you—’

‘It was me Father, I was Sir Richard’s Under-Dog, his bitch. He was my beautiful … my fortuni lover. He was so handsome. He always wore his long dark ends tied in a ponytail, and I lived for the soft touch of his fambles, the gaze of his sparkling yews. I loved him. And he … he loved to dominate me.’

The priest was agog, barely concealing his curiosity. ‘Was he really, “so”, as you say?’

‘We would meet regularly in the coppices after dark, enjoying our illicit charver. I know you will think this to be unnatural and sinful, but we wished only to celebrate our love, and to shield his wife from the pain of knowing.’

‘If what you say is true, why then did you murder your … your lover?’

‘I did not Father. Imagine instead, if you will, that it was not I who had a fight with Sir Richard, but my wicked accuser. Sir Richard told me that he would offer Billy Evans some money, but not the ridiculous amount he had asked for, and then dismiss him from his employment. I can only imagine that the meeting did not go so well, for when I … I—’

‘Mr Ash, you do not have to continue.’

‘On the contrary Father, you must hear me out … I mean, if you will.’ Frederick Ash wiped his eyes on his sleeve and let out a long tremulous sigh.

The priest adjusted his cassock, and closed his prayer book, clasping it tightly against his chest. It offered a small protective shield against the giant sylvan devil.

‘Often, I would walk to work in the company of Jeffrey, one of the farm hands, who had a tied cottage next to mine, and so it was that morning. The farm buildings were a little past our saw pit, and he was on his way to them, but still in ear shot, when I discovered the gruesome scene. Hearing my shout, he came running back and was a witness to the scene as I discovered it.

‘But no matter Father, all this was said in court, and none was believed. I said only what I saw and had no alibi to preserve me.’

‘Yet Mr Ash, I do not understand why you did not share with the court these things you are telling me? You would receive 10 years for unnatural acts, but surely that would be preferable to the ultimate punishment you face, and justice would be served?’

‘I could never in public tell the truth about Sir Richard. I would serve my years, yet it would tear his family apart. And so, I have kept my tongue.’

‘And what about Billy Evans?’ asked the priest.

‘Ever since the day he discovered us, he started his accursed plotting. He became unbearable to work with, and most disrespectful. I know now that he was very capable of the crime by himself. Forgive me for the details Father, but by standing on the transoms he could have sawn through my lover’s … his dear soft body easily without the need for an under-dog.’

‘And how did he expect to get away with it?’

‘He had no need to clean himself after the crime, nor find an alibi, just recline there and wait to be discovered. He would not only get revenge on Sir Richard, but on me too. It was a crime of hatred to our nature and avarice, in equal measure.’

‘Now that three Sundays have passed, my son, there is no possibility of changing the course of justice,’ stated the priest. ‘Do you want me to make a record of your admissions of truth?’

‘No, Father. By the grace of God, please protect his family.’

The priest waited, as tears fell freely from the stricken man before him.

‘You may perhaps go to the rozzers and mention to them the silver ring which Billy Evans has taken to wearing. A small justice may be done if that despicable man were to be jailed for theft.’

‘Dearly beloved, it hath pleased Almighty God, in his justice, to bring you under the sentence and condemnation of the law. You are shortly to suffer death in such a manner, that others, warned by your example, may be the more afraid to offend; and we pray God, that you may make such use of your punishments in this world, that your soul may be saved in the world to come.’

From Tall Trees Short Stories, vol 21.

Gabriel Hemery. Tall Trees Short Stories, vol21. Woodwide Works, 2021.

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Bird of wonder, you crossed the sea,
Rare passerine, so pleased to perch;
A viewing army, near the church,
Dazzling nature, all focussed to search.
Fellows in ornithology!

Myriad insec…

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From Tall Trees Short Stories, vol21. © Gabriel Hemery

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After resting, Gaia made rain, microfauna, and fungi, to nurture life in the dust and bring forth soil. Small plants came to grow out of the ground, and these bore flowers and fruits, and were pleasing to the eye. Oak was fashioned from the dust of the ground, yet he was the only tree on Earth. And so Gaia caused Oak to become dormant. While he slept, she removed one of his massive limbs and afterward, allowed his bark to occlude the wound. From that branch, Gaia made Ash, to become a companion for Oak. And so it was that Oak and Ash coexisted peacefully side-by-side in the forest.

It came to pass that an orchard sprung from the ground nearby to the forest, and in its sweet meadow pasture there blossomed bushels of Apple, Pear, and other fruitful trees. So fecund was the orchard that many beasts made it their home, including humans, the last creature fashioned by Gaia to walk upon the Earth.

Among the trees, the Apple held all knowledge, given to her by Gaia herself to keep in trust, for she was a favoured tree. All the trees which bore fruit shared their bounties freely among all beasts, but Apple became arrogant. She believed that if her fruit was eaten, her knowledge would be lost to those less deserving, especially humans. Apple let her fruit fall among the hollow shadow of her crown to feed only her own roots. Before long, the other trees began to follow the example of Apple.

Gaia was very angry with Apple, and disappointed with the other trees, for believing that trees were more important than other creatures upon the earth. She commanded that Oak and Ash would lose their leaves and fast for half of the year, becoming naked. And to Apple, she decreed that only via the faecal waste of humans would her seeds be spread upon the Earth. Only Fig had allowed humans and other creatures to feed upon her fruit, even providing a home inside its fruit for the tiniest of Gaia’s wasps. Fig escaped Gaia’s wrath and was allowed to keep her leaves, and humans were grateful to Fig for giving them clothes to wear among the other beasts.

The relationship between the trees and humans was forever changed, and so it was that…

His youthful fingers pressed firmly into a deep crevice between the corky furrows of the old tree’s bark. Shafts of yellow light blazed out between them, before his hand disappeared inside and his wrist sealed the gap, or maybe it was the bark

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I wrote a letter to Mummy yesterday, but I’ve not told her about Rudolf Hess. Not yet. I thanked her for the yellow gingham dress she sent for my 13th birthday. Mrs Price gave me a knife—it’s the best present ever—it says ‘Sheffield Steel’ and ‘Made in England’ on the blade, which folds, and it has a real wood handle. Danny Price showed me how to sharpen it, and some ways of whittling a hazel stick. I think Mummy must be very sad about Daddy because she did not mention him in the letter. She reminded me that I have been in Abergavenny for 18 months. She said all the children from my old school have now been evacuated.

I was picking some pretty little red flowers in Pant Skirrid Wood. I’ve learnt a shortcut and it takes me less than an hour to get there now. Danny told me later it was scarlet pimpernel, just like Sir Percy Blakeney in the Baroness’s book. Imagine! I’d finished pressing some of its flowers in my notebook and just stood up after spending a penny, when the Nazi came down the hill and round a bend in the path. I noticed his boots first because their tops were so shiny, although their soles were covered in the wood’s red mud. Then the two guards appeared with guns slung over their shoulders. I didn’t say anything. I was relieved not to have been caught with my knickers down.

Mummy wrote a funny story in her last letter. She says that they sometimes park a mobile AA battery on the road outside the front gate at home—my real home. Mr Churchill thinks it will fool Hitler into thinking we have twice as many guns. Usually the men knock on the doors, mostly to warn the housewives, but also because they know they’ll get a cup of tea. The last time, they forgot to tell anyone in the street, and when they started shooting at the planes, Mummy jumped so much she fell off her chair. Then she looked out of the window and saw Mrs Hargreaves throw a bucket of cold water over the men. She said Mrs Hargreaves was so angry that she was stamping her feet like she was doing a jig.

Sometimes when Mrs Price is milking the cows and Danny is helping, I sneak into his bedroom. It smells funny. Even though he is 14½, I am taller than him. He’s like a brother I’ve never had, but less annoying, sometimes. Last week, I was looking through the books on the shelf above his bed. He must have at least twenty all lined up. Behind ‘Swallows and Amazons’ I found a book which had been pushed behind the others. It didn’t have a dust jacket, just a dark red cloth cover, stained and tattered, but the gold lettering on its spine was clear to read: ‘Woodlore for Young Sportsmen’ by

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