Footprints and quote banner on a limb

The frost came down so thick last night that the lawn looked like sugar, and by seven I had the whole plan worked out. Mrs Pargeter's apple tree leans over the wall at the bottom of Mill Lane, and nobody has picked it since her husband died. Those windfalls are going to waste, Ivy, and I said so to the vicar's wife, who said nothing at all and only pursed her mouth like a drawstring bag.

We went over at half past four, when the lamps were still lit in the cottages and nobody bothers to look out. Tom went first with the torch wrapped in his scarf, and I followed in his prints so the grass would look like one set of boots, which is the trick Granddad taught us with the pea rows. You should have seen the trail we left, neat and black through the white like someone had stamped the ground on purpose.

Tom slipped on the third step and sat down hard in the frozen mud. He swore, very quietly, the way he does when he thinks I cannot hear. Then he started laughing so hard he had to hold the wall, and we filled both our coat pockets with the sourest, shiniest apples I have ever tasted.

Mrs Pargeter's light came on as we climbed back over. She stood at the window in her dressing gown and did not call out. I think she was counting the prints. Post me a stamp when you write back, and tell Dad the apples were for the pie, not for us.

Yours in mischief, Bea