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perhaps the oddest thing of all was the wall at the very end of Jamaica Close. It must be twenty or twenty-five feet high and blackened by soot, but what was it doing there? Why had they chosen to block off the Close with what looked like the back view of an enormous warehouse or factory? Yet Miranda knew that it could be neither; had there been a building in which people worked so near to Jamaica Close, then surely she would have heard sounds of movement, or people talking when they took their breaks. And the wall was so high! Because of it, the inhabitants of Jamaica Close could not see the setting sun, though its rays poured down on the rest of the area. For the first time, a spark of curiosity raised itself in Miranda’s mind. What was the wall there for? Why did no one ever mention what was on the far side of the great mass ofbricks which chopped Jamaica Close off short? Had it once been all houses, or all factories for that matter? She could not say, but the imp of curiosity had been roused and would not go away. Useless to ask her aunt, who never answered her questions anyway. But there must be someone who could explain the presence of that enormous wall.
    She was standing, hands on hips, gazing up with watering eyes at the topmost line of bricks and wondering what it hid – and, for that matter, why the road should be called Jamaica Close. ‘Jamaica’s miles and miles away, and all the other roads which run parallel with this one have nice Irish names – Connemara, Dublin, Tallaght, St Patrick’s and so on. So why Jamaica? As far as I know it’s a tropical island and nothing whatsoever to do with Liverpool.’
    â€˜You don’t know nothing, gairl.’ The voice, cutting across her thoughts, made Miranda jump several inches. She had not realised she had spoken her thoughts aloud, or that anyone was close enough to hear, and, consequently, felt both annoyed and extremely foolish. This, not unnaturally, caused her to turn sharply on the speaker, a boy a year or two older than she, with light brown tufty hair, a great many freckles and, at this moment, a taunting grin.
    â€˜Shurrup, you!’ she said crossly. ‘Trust a feller to stick his bloomin’ nose in!’
    The boy sniggered. ‘If you don’t want nobody to answer, then you shouldn’t ask questions,’ he said. ‘What you doin’, gal? Ain’t you never see’d a wall before? You’re the kid what lives at Number Six, ain’t you?’ He guffawed rudely. ‘First time I ever see you without a bag or a basketor without that perishin’ Beth Smythe a-grabbin’ of your arm and a-tellin’ you what to do.’ He guffawed again. ‘Slipped your leash, have you? Managed to undo your bleedin’ collar?’
    Miranda glared at him. She knew him by sight, knew he and his parents lived two doors down from her aunt. He was one of a large family of rough, uncouth boys, ranging in age from eighteen or nineteen down to a baby of two or three. Many folk did not approve of the Mickleborough family and this particular sprig, Miranda knew, was reckoned by her aunt – and indeed by Beth – to be a troublemaker of no mean order. On the other hand she knew that she herself was often accused by Aunt Vi of all sorts of crimes which she had most certainly never committed. Could it be the same for this boy? Miranda scowled, chewing her finger. She had not managed to make any friends amongst the children in Jamaica Close, for several reasons. One was that despite the fact that everyone disliked her aunt, despised her meanness, her spite, and her reluctance to help others, they believed her when she told lies about her niece. It seemed strange, but Miranda supposed that grown-ups, even if they didn’t like each other, tended to take another adult’s word against that of a child.
    Then there was Beth. She wasn’t all bad, as Miranda acknowledged, but she was an awful