Dottie Blanket and the Hilltop

by Wendy Meddour

  ‘My dad lost his job quite near there.’

  ‘Wow!’ said the girl. ‘I’m so jealous.’

  Dottie smiled again.

  ‘Aren’t you going to introduce yourselves properly?’ asked Tom Tractor. ‘Or have you lot lost your manners?’

  ‘Oh yeah. Sorry,’ said Rhoslyn. ‘I’m Rhoslyn Rowlands. And this is my brother Rhys. He’s a bit twp. But we still love ’im.’

  She laughed as she bashed him with her bag.

  ‘Well, if I’m twp, you’re double twp,’ he said, bashing her back.

  ‘Triple twp,’ she giggled.

  ‘Oi, pack that in,’ said Tom Tractor.

  Rhoslyn giggled again. ‘He’s my twin, see.

  But I’m the eldest. Way more mature.’

  ‘Yeah. Like whatever,’ grinned Rhys. He had wonky teeth too.

  ‘They’re always bashing each other,’ whispered Winnie.

  Dottie smiled again and said, ‘Oh.’

  ‘So, you’re living near the shop, are you?’ asked Rhoslyn.

  Dottie nodded.

  ‘Wow, that’s so cool,’ grinned Rhoslyn. ‘I’d love to live near all those sweets. I’m so jealous. Winnie always has the best stuff in her den.’ Winnie grinned with pride.

  ‘Oh, I know,’ said Dottie, remembering the pineapple cubes and lemonade.

  ‘Oh my gosh! Have you actually been there? She never shows anyone her den!’

  Dottie nodded.

  ‘I’m so jealous,’ said Rhoslyn, laughing in a not-at-all-jealous kind of way.

  Chapter Ten

  The School that was Half a House

  Dottie was used to her schools being just around the corner. But this school was actually quite far away. Tom Tractor drove through a big dark forest and past some deep, twisting, splash-speckled waterfalls.

  But finally they arrived on a different hilltop that looked a little bit like the moon. It was covered in reeds and pale green tumbleweed grass.

  ‘We’re here,’ said Winne, pointing at a pointy-roofed house.

  Dottie was confused. It didn’t look like a school. It looked like the sort of place your grandparents might live. Only there were lots of sheep chewing grass outside. They stopped chewing when they saw Dottie and stared at the little girl in her cap.

  ‘Come on,’ said Winnie. ‘Or we’ll miss register!’

  Dottie jumped out, said goodbye to Tom Tractor, and followed Rhys, Rhoslyn and Winnie across the playground.

  ‘Is this really our school?’ asked Dottie, wondering how they’d all fit in.

  ‘Only half of it is,’ said Winnie. ‘Mr and Mrs Evans live in the other half.’

  ‘Only half of it!’ Dottie blinked.

  ‘I bet your old school was really big, wasn’t it?’ grinned Rhoslyn.

  Dottie nodded. ‘Yes. About ten times the size.’

  ‘Oh my gosh! I’m so jealous,’ said Rhoslyn, grabbing Dottie’s arm.

  ‘But I didn’t like it,’ said Dottie, remembering all the really mean names.

  ‘Well, you’re going to love it here,’ said Winnie, grabbing Dottie’s other arm.

  The inside of the half-a-house was not very school-like at all.

  It didn’t have corridors or stairs or rush.

  But it did have high ceilings, a story corner, and some desks.

  And the carpets smelt of paint and school dinners.

  ‘Bore da,’ said a lady with grey hair and spongy sandals.

  ‘Bore da, Mrs Roberts,’ everyone said back.

  Dottie Blanket couldn’t help it.

  She hid behind the whiteboard.

  But Mrs Roberts saw her feet sticking out.

  ‘Ah. So you must be Dottie Blanket,’ said Mrs Roberts, taking her gently by the hand.

  Dottie nodded, blushed and pulled down her cap.

  ‘Well, we don’t normally allow hats in school,’ said Mrs Roberts. ‘But in your case, we’ll make an exception. Now then, bound to be nervous, nothing to worry about. You can sit by Winnie, if you like.’

  Dottie nodded again.

  ‘Let’s take you in to the juniors,’ said Mrs Roberts. ‘You’ll be in Mr Jones’ class.’

  Dottie followed Mrs Roberts into another room that looked like a lounge. But instead of a fireplace and a sofa, there were seven old wooden desks. The Rowlands twins, the Fidgets, and a boy with a bright red jumper were already sitting down. Dottie sat next to Winnie at the back.

  ‘Mr Jones, we have a new pupil. Dottie Blanket’s come to join us.’

  Mr Jones lifted his head and smiled. Then he carried on reading his book.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Mrs Roberts. ‘I’ll leave you in Mr Jones’ capable hands.’

  Dottie sat down as Mrs Roberts bustled back into her class.

  ‘He doesn’t say a lot at the minute,’ whispered Winnie.

  ‘Why not?’ Dottie whispered back.

  ‘Tell you later,’ grinned Winnie, taking out her pencil case.

  Dottie did the same. Then she looked at Mr Jones. Even though he was sitting down, she could tell he was tall. He had glasses and two very long legs. And just behind his head there was a cupboard marked:

  Dottie thought he did look very lost.

  ‘Bore da, pawb,’ said Mr Jones at last, sighing as he put down his book.

  ‘Bore da, Mr Jones,’ replied the children.

  ‘This morning…’ he sighed again. ‘In our English Language Literacy Hour, we will be writing poems about “Loss”.’

  ‘What d’you mean, Sir?’ asked Rhys.

  ‘I mean, Rowlands, that we will be writing about the things that have gone missing in our lives.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Rhys, thinking very hard.

  Mr Jones

  stood up. His body was tall and thin and reminded Dottie of her dad’s unfolding bicycle.

  He strode round the little classroom, handing out exercise books.

  The one he gave Dottie was new. She sniffed it. It was one of her favourite things about starting a new school.

  ‘Now then, Ms Blanket. Do you know what you’re doing?’ asked Mr Jones, trying to stretch his face into a smile.

  ‘I think so, sir,’ said Dottie.

  ‘Well, at least one of us does then,’ said Mr Jones, passing her a pencil. ‘Right then, everyone. Poems about “Loss”. You’ve got fifteen minutes.’

  He went back to his desk and sighed again.

  Dottie liked Mr Jones. Even if he did look a bit sad.

  And like an unfolding bicycle.

  The Rowlands twins, the Fidgets, the boy in the red jumper and Winnie all started writing.

  Dottie felt panicky inside. But she looked at the cupboard behind Mr Jones again.

  Suddenly, ideas started to rush into her head like marbles and she began to scribble things down.

  Chapter Eleven

  Losing Things

  At the end of the Literacy Hour, Mr Jones picked three children to read their poems out loud.

  The eldest Fidget boy was first. His name was John and he had to go up to the front. But he didn’t mind. He’d done it before.

  He coughed, then began to read:

  Losing my trainers was sad.

  It made me feel very bad.

  But now I am very glad.

  Because I’ve got new ones that are better than what I had.

  Everybody laughed and even Mr Jones smiled.

  ‘Right. Who shall we have next? Rhoslyn Rowlands. Come on up.’

  ‘Alright Sir,’ grinned Rhoslyn, skipping up to the front. ‘My poem’s not funny though, Sir. Does it matter, Sir, if it’s not funny?’

  ‘Not at all,’ sighed Mr Jones. ‘Loss is a very serious thing.’

  Rhoslyn took a very deep breath and looked like she was going to pop.

  Dottie didn’t know it but Rhoslyn was reading her poem just like you’re supposed to at an Eisteddfod – which is actually quite tricky to do. All emotion and actions and moving hands.

  ‘Loss.

  By Rho
slyn Rowlands.

  Age 9,’

  she said.

  Then she paused and opened her eyes wide. She began to shout to the back of the room whilst mouthing all the words like a fish:

  I cried a lot when Mamgu died.

  She was the best of the grans.

  I feel quite jealous of my friends

  Because they’ve still got Nans.

  Rhys looked a bit tearful and Winnie clapped very hard because she remembered Rhoslyn’s Mamgu.

  Rhoslyn did a little curtsey and went back to her seat.

  ‘Well, that was exceptionally beautiful,’

  said Mr Jones, who remembered Mamgu Rowlands too. ‘Thank you for sharing that, Ms Rowlands.’

  He sighed. ‘Now then, who shall we have as our final poet? Ms Blanket. Why don’t we have you?’

  Dottie’s stomach lurched. But she was brave.

  She pulled down her cap hard, picked up her exercise book and walked to the front, hands shaking.

  ‘Mine’s not as good as John’s or Rhoslyn’s, Mr Jones,’ she said, quietly.

  ‘Not to worry. Just give it a try. We can’t see you anyway. Not with that cap on.’

  ‘OK,’ said Dottie, quietly. She began. ‘It’s called “Lost Property”. And I’m actually nine too.’

  ‘Excellent, Ms Blanket,’ said Mr Jones. ‘Please begin.’

  Dottie looked at the words on the page. They all began to wobble. So she took a deep breath, just like Rhoslyn, and did a big cough, just like John:

  ‘Lost Property’ by Dottie Blanket

  Dad lost his job and couldn’t find it.

  Mum lost her smile because we lost our house.

  I lost my friends because we moved to the City.

  I felt lost and as small as a mouse.

  But then Dad found a new job near a Hilltop.

  And I found lots of friends that lived there too!

  So don’t be sad when you lose your old things,

  Because you’ll probably find some things that are new.

  The class went quiet. Mr Jones sighed an enormous sigh and looked at his desk.

  Dottie felt awful. Her poem was terrible and no one would like her now!

  ‘Well, goodness me, Dottie Blanket!’ said Mr Jones, at last. ‘That was quite simply brilliant!’

  ‘Brilliant?!’ said Dottie.

  ‘Brilliant!’ said Mr Jones. ‘We clearly have a poet on our hands.’

  Everyone clapped.

  ‘It was amazing,’ grinned Rhoslyn. ‘Fancy calling it “Lost Property”. That’s GENIUS. I’m so jealous.’

  Dottie smiled with relief.

  Dottie didn’t really understand the rest of the lessons that morning because they were all in Welsh. But it didn’t really matter. Mr Jones said that she’d soon ‘get the hang of it’.

  And Rhoslyn and Winnie explained every-thing whenever she got stuck.

  And the school dinner was one of the best she’d ever tasted. Not even a tiny little bit of fish in sight!!!

  After lunch, Winnie and Rhoslyn raced into the playground and started drawing a hop-scotch with chalk on the floor.

  The sun was shining, the sheep were bleating, and Dottie couldn’t wait to see Fflwffen.

  But something was bothering her. She couldn’t work out what it was at first. But then she remembered Mr Jones and the Lost Property sign.

  ‘Why is Mr Jones always sighing?’ asked Dottie. ‘Is it because of something he’s lost?’

  ‘How did you guess?’ asked Winnie.

  ‘Guess what?’

  ‘That he’s lost something,’ said Rhoslyn.

  ‘I don’t know. I think it was the sign. And the poems. And the sighing.’

  ‘Oh my gosh, that’s genius!’ said Rhoslyn.

  ‘Tell me then,’ said Dottie. ‘What’s he lost?’

  ‘Mrs Jones,’ said Winnie.

  ‘He’s lost Mrs Jones!!! But that’s awful!’ said Dottie. ‘How?!’

  ‘My mum says that she got itchy feet,’ said Rhoslyn.

  Dottie gasped. ‘So is she in a hospital or something?’

  ‘No,’ said Winnie. ‘Blod says she’s travelling the world.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Dottie, wondering how travelling the world would help her feet.

  ‘Will she ever come back?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Winnie. ‘Mum says “not if she can help it”.’

  ‘Poor Mr Jones,’ said Dottie.

  ‘I wish I could travel the world like Mrs

  Jones,’ sighed Rhoslyn, throwing a pebble and jumping onto the number six. ‘I’m…’

  ‘Don’t tell us,’ said Winnie, winking at Dottie, ‘you’re so jealous.’

  Rhoslyn Rowlands laughed.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Smell of New Beginnings

  ‘How was your first day at school?’ asked Mrs Blanket, when Tom Tractor dropped Dottie back home.

  ‘Fine. Can I go to Blod’s farm, Mum? Please? With Winnie? I’ll wear my wellie boots and everything,’ said Dottie.

  ‘Alright,’ smiled Mrs Blanket. ‘But how was your first day at school?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Dottie, looking for her bright red wellingtons, ‘it was in Welsh.’

  ‘Welsh? What? All of it?’

  ‘Yes. Apart from English Language Literacy Hour.’

  ‘Oh my goodness,’ said Mrs Blanket. ‘We never thought to check!’

  ‘Well, Rhys says: “We are in Wales.” Which is true,’ said Dottie. ‘And Rhoslyn and Winnie tell me what’s happening when I get stuck. And Mr Jones is like a lovely unfolding bicycle – even though he’s lost his wife.’

  ‘A bicycle? Lost his wife?’

  ‘Yes. He lost Mrs Jones. Because of her itchy feet. And he loved the poem I wrote about Dad.’

  ‘You wrote a poem about Dad?’ Mrs Blanket looked worried.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What was it about?’ asked Mrs Blanket.

  ‘Oh. Just about him losing his job and you losing your smile.’

  ‘What?! You told Mr Jones about Dad losing his job? And about me losing my smile?!’

  ‘Yes. I told him everything. About all the things we’ve lost. He said it was brilliant. He thinks I’m a poet. I think I’ll probably get a

  certificate. Bye Mum.’

  Dottie squeezed on her wellies and slammed the door.

  Mrs Blanket stroked Baby Joe’s head and sat down. ‘Oh dear. I think I need a cup of tea,’ she said.

  Dottie ran down the track, called for Winnie, and went to Blod’s. She was stirring a pan in a kitchen that smelt of sheepdogs and creamy warm milk.

  But the cooker didn’t look like a normal cooker. It was a huge old-fashioned thing that looked more like a steam train. It was dark and green and shiny and old. Dottie

  hadn’t seen one before.

  ‘You’re just in time,’ said Blod. She was wearing an apron, a flowery dress, an anorak, some wellington boots, a patterned cardigan and a woolly hat.

  (Mrs Blanket didn’t allow boots in the kitchen.)

  ‘Here you are,’ she said, passing Dottie and Winnie a plastic bottle each.

  ‘But aren’t these bottles for babies?’ asked Dottie.

  (She knew because Baby Joe still had one at night.)

  ‘Not if you snip the tops off, bach,’ said Blod. ‘They’re just right for the lambs. Let’s get filling them up.’

  Dottie unscrewed the lid and Blod poured in some frothing, warm milk. Then she did the same for Winnie’s. They screwed the teats back on.

  ‘Next time you girls can do it yourselves. Bit of powder. Bit of water. Pop on the Aga. Warm it up. I always leave the kitchen door open. One bottle for each lamb after school.

  Think you can do it?’

  ‘Oh! Yes, please!’ They both grinned.

  Dottie was so glad there was going to be a ‘next time’. And she couldn’t wait to see Fflwffen again.

  ‘Come on, they’ll be getting hungry. Let’s run along to the barn,’ said Blod.r />
  Blod didn’t run along to the farm because she walked with a hobble. But Winnie and Dottie ran as fast as they could.

  The barn stood at the bottom of the hilltop and was big and grey and full of sheep. Dottie closed her eyes. There was no other way to describe it. It smelt like straw and new beginnings. She told Winnie.

  ‘You’re really good at sniffing things, aren’t you?’ said Winnie.

  ‘I suppose I am,’ smiled Dottie. She’d not really thought about it before. ‘But why does it smell of new beginnings?’

  ‘Probably because things are being born.’

  Winnie skipped over to some bales of hay. ‘The lambs are all in here.’

  And they were. Even Fflwffen! She came rushing over, wiggling her tail.

  ‘Oh! She remembers me!’ Dottie couldn’t help squealing with delight.

  ‘Quick bach! Give her the milk!’ said Blod, catching up – all out of breath. ‘Without these bottles, they wouldn’t make it, you know.’

  ‘Make what?’ asked Dottie.

  ‘She means they’d die,’ said Winnie, feeding a little black lamb.

  Dottie gasped.

  ‘Oh no! But what if I do it wrong!’

  ‘Just think of your baby brother,’ said Winnie.

  So that’s what Dottie did. She put the teat towards Fflwffen’s mouth and let the white drops dribble out.

  Fflwffen knew exactly what to do. She tugged at the bottle and sucked on the milk until it dribbled all over her soft chin.

  Dottie had never felt so happy doing anything before. She was helping to keep something alive!

  Chapter Thirteen

  A Woolly Surprise

  ‘QUICK!’ shouted Blod. ‘There’s another one coming!’

  Winnie and Dottie ran over to the darkest part of the barn.

  Blod was down on her cricketty knees, pulling a slimy thing out of a sheep!

  It didn’t look like a lamb. It looked like wet cling film and water and wool. But Blod grabbed it with both hands and pulled the slimy stuff away like liquid wrapping paper! Dottie watched as a floppy-legged lamb began to appear.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, because the words that she’d learnt in the city didn’t quite describe a moment like this!