Chapter 2: The sweet shop

Chapter 2: The sweet shop

In 1923, I was seven years old, and I started school. Every day, my friends and I walked about a mile to school, and we went past a sweet shop. And, every day, we stopped and looked at all the wonderful sweets in their jars. Sometimes we had money, and we could buy some sweets.

But there was one problem. A bad woman worked in the shop. Her name was Mrs Pratchett.

Mrs Pratchett was a small, ugly old woman. She never smiled, and she was never friendly. She always shouted at us, “I’m watching you!” or “You have to buy something or you must go away!”

She was also very dirty. Her clothes always had egg and bread and tea from her breakfast on them. Her hands were grey and dirty, and her fingers were black. And she put these dirty hands into the jars of sweets!

Of course, this did not stop us from buying the sweets. But we did not like Mrs Pratchett.

At school, my friends and I found a small place under the floor. We kept our sweets and other special things in it. One day, we found something new there: a dead mouse!

“I have a plan,” I said. “Let’s put it in one of Mrs Pratchett’s sweet jars. She will put her dirty hand in the jar, and she will find a dead mouse!”

“Yes!” my friends said. “We will do it today You must put the mouse in the jar, because it’s your plan.”

“I will ask for some yellow sweets,” my friend Thwaites said. “They are at the back of the shop. Mrs Pratchett will turn and get them. Then you can quickly put the mouse in the jar with the pink sweets in it. It’s the nearest one to us.”

That afternoon, we walked into the shop. We were all very excited. Thwaites asked for his sweets, and Mrs Pratchett got them for him. I quickly put the mouse in the jar with the pink sweets.

Then Mrs Pratchett looked at us with her ugly little eyes.

“Only one of you is buying sweets. I don’t want you all in here!” she shouted. “Go away!”

We ran outside. “Did you put it in the jar?” asked my friends.

“Of course I did!” I said.

I was happy, and my friends were happy, too.

“You were great,” they said.

The next morning, we walked past the shop and saw a message on the door. The shop was closed.

We stopped. The shop was never closed at this time in the morning. We looked through the window. The jar was on the floor, and there was broken glass everywhere. The mouse was on the floor, too. But we could not see Mrs Pratchett. Something was very wrong!

“Mrs Pratchett had a shock,” Thwaites said. “Shocks can hurt old people. Bad things happen to them.”

“What?” we said. “What happens to them?”

“Their bodies stop, and they die,” Thwaites said. Then he said to me, “You killed her.”

“Me?” I said. “Why only me?”

“It was your plan,” Thwaites said. “And you put the mouse in the jar.”

I was a killer!

At school, I felt bad.

“I am only eight years old,” I thought, because I wanted to feel better. “No little boy of eight kills anyone. It’s not possible.”

The teachers sent everyone outside. I waited for the police to come and take me away.

Mr Coombes, the headmaster, came outside with a woman. It was Mrs Pratchett! She was not dead! I was not a killer! The old woman looked at all the boys, and she pointed a dirty finger at Thwaites.

“That’s him!” she shouted. “That’s one of them!”

Everyone in the school looked at Thwaites.

“That’s one, too!” she said. She pointed a finger at me. Then she pointed at our three other friends.

My four friends and I went to the headmaster’s room. It smelled of tobacco. Mr Coombes was a very tall man, and in his hands he held a long, yellow cane. I was very frightened of him and his cane. Mrs Pratchett was in the room, too, because she wanted to watch!

“You,” said Mr Coombes. He pointed the cane at Thwaites. “Come here.”

Thwaites walked very slowly. He put his hands on the floor, and the headmaster hit his bottom with the cane. It made a loud noise. Little Thwaites flew in the air.

“Ow-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w!” he shouted.

“Harder!” shouted Mrs Pratchett.

The headmaster hit Thwaites four times. We had to watch and wait.

After all the other boys, it was me. I put my hands on the floor. I heard the noise first and felt nothing. Then I felt the cane. My bottom was on fire. I breathed out very hard, and there was no air left in my body. The second time, the cane hit me in the same place, and it hurt a lot more. After four times, it was time to go, but it was difficult to walk. My bottom was on fire, and I held it with my hands.

“Thank you, Headmaster,” said Mrs Pratchett, happily. “There will not be any more dead mice in my sweet jars now.”