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and find the way out.”
    “Let me draw, too.” Zoffie draws labyrinths for the rest of the day.
    That night I dream of Nazi soldiers chasing a girl round and round a garden. They follow her into a labyrinth. Someone starts a fire.
    I wake up and call out a name –
Marianne.
    I hardly ever remember my dreams, and I haven't seen Marianne in almost seven years.

W e'd eaten our sandwiches and lay in the long, sweet-smelling grass on top of Parliament Hill. The three of us had cycled all the way to Hampstead Heath, and I was almost asleep.
    Mandy, who's incapable of staying still for more than one minute, tickles my neck with a blade of grass. “Let's do something.”
    Nigel mumbles, “Too hot.”
    “You know what she's like. We may as well give in graciously. I'll agree to anything as long as I don't have to move,” I say.
    “How about best thing/worst thing?” Mandy says.
    “No point doing best thing because we're bound to say it's V-E Day.”
    “Worst thing's more fun,” says Nigel.
    “It's got to be the worst thing we've ever done that we've not told each other before,” I say. “One minute thinking time. Go.”
    “I'll start,” Nigel says. “I was very young, you understand …”
    “Oh, get on with it, twin …”
    “I'd got a new penknife for cubs and Mike Rivers –”
    “Mike – the worst boy in the street – the one Dad said you weren't supposed to play with?” Mandy exclaims.
    “I'm not sure that this story's going to be suitable for our delicate sensibilities,” I add.
    “Do you want me to tell you or not?” Nigel says severely.
    “Mike got hold of a piece of alder wood, which is easy to carve. I said, ‘Let's make a pipe.’ I carved the bowl, scooping out the wood to make a little cup. Then we cut down a piece of garden cane, made a notch in the side of the bowl, and twisted the cane into it. We found some oak leaves and stuffed the pipe and lit it. We had a really good smoke, except for the coughing.”
    “That's it?” I say. “Every little boy in the country smokes at some time, and that's the worst thing you ever did? Pathetic!”
    “I expected something awful. It's not good enough. I hoped for better from my twin,” Mandy says.
    “Put it this way,” says Nigel, trying to reestablish his authority, “that's all I'm prepared to confess at this time.”
    Mandy sticks her tongue out at Nigel and says, “I'll go next. When we were evacuated and I was at Mrs. Kingsley's in Kent, she sent me out one Saturday morning for a loaf of bread. She gave me two shillings and told me not to lose the change. It was early; the loaf was still warm – it had just come out of the oven. I was starving, as usual. The bread smelled so good, I thought, ‘If I pickoff a tiny bit of the crust, no one will notice.’ I broke off a tiny piece, and it tasted wonderful. I still don't know how it happened, but next time I looked, I'd eaten half the loaf.
    “I started to cry. I didn't know what to do. I wanted to go and tell Nigel. Then I had an inspiration: ‘If I finish all the bread, I can tell her I lost the money. Anyone can fall down and lose two shillings.’ I convinced myself that I'd fallen on the path down to the village, scraped my knee, and seen the coin roll away before I could catch it. I even rubbed dirt on my knee. So I went back and said, ‘I'm very very sorry Mrs. Kingsley, I lost the money. I'll write Mummy and she'll send you some more.’
    “She gave me a spanking and sent me up to bed for the rest of the day. She didn't give me anything, not even a drink. I could smell her cooking tea, something with fried onions.”
    “Old witch,” Nigel mutters. I have a feeling if he'd been with Mike Rivers, he'd have said something a lot worse.
    “What's the verdict?” Mandy asks.
    “She was an awful woman and she ill-treated you, so the lie was out of fear,” I comment.
    “Still, it was a lie and stealing. In fact, a premeditated act,” Nigel says.
    We consult. “The punishment is,