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'I've got to,' he said.
'No!' I cried, tugging at his arm. 'It'll ruin everything! It'll only make it worse! Please forget it!'
He hesitated then. I held on to his arm. He was silent, and I could see the rush of anger slowly draining out of his face.
'It's revolting,' he said.
'I'll bet they did it to you when you were at school,' I said.
'Of course they did.'
'And I'll bet your dad didn't go rushing off to beat the daylights out of the teacher who did it.'
He looked at me but kept quiet.
'He didn't, did he, Dad?'
'No, Danny, he didn't,' he answered softly.
I let go of his arm and helped him off with his jacket and hung it back on the peg.
'I'm going to put the raisins in now,' I said. 'And don't forget that tomorrow I have a nasty cold and I won't be going to school.'
'Yes,' he said. 'That's right.'
'We've got two hundred raisins to fill,' I said.
Ah,' he said. 'So we have.'
'I hope we'll get them done in time,' I said.
'Does it still hurt?' he asked. 'That hand.'
'No,' I said. 'Not one bit.'
I think that satisfied him. And although I saw him glancing occasionally at my palm during the rest of the afternoon and evening, he never mentioned the subject again.
That night he didn't tell me a story. He sat on the edge of my bunk and we talked about what was going to happen the next day up in Hazell's Wood. He got me so steamed up and excited about it, I couldn't get to sleep. I think he must have got himself steamed up almost as much because after he had undressed and climbed into his own bunk, I heard him twisting and turning all over the place. He couldn't get to sleep either.
At about ten-thirty, he climbed out of his bunk and put the kettle on.
'What's the matter, Dad?'
'Nothing,' he said. 'Shall we have a midnight feast?'
'Yes, let's do that.'
He lit the lamp in the ceiling and opened a tin of tuna and made a delicious sandwich for each of us. Also hot chocolate for me, and tea for him. Then we started talking about the pheasants and about Hazell's Wood all over again.
It was pretty late before we got to sleep.
13
Friday
When my father woke me at six o'clock next morning, I knew at once that this was the day of days. It was the day I longed for and the day I dreaded. It was also the day of butterflies in the stomach except that they were worse than butterflies. They were snakes. I had snakes in the stomach the moment I opened my eyes on that Friday morning.
The first thing I did after I had got dressed was to hang the SORRY CLOSED notice on one of the pumps. We had a quick breakfast, then the two of us sat down together at the table in the caravan to prepare the raisins. They were plump and soft and swollen from being soaked in water, and when you nicked them with a razor-blade the skin sprang open and the jelly stuff inside squeezed out as easily as you could wish.
