Memory Lane

Seventy-three years ago, at the age of four, my friend Peter and I had worked out how to evade our mothers’ care. Saying that we were going next door to play, we then bunked off to explore Batchwood, St Albans, on Peter’s tricycle and my scooter. One January afternoon we were practising wheelies down a slope when Peter’s shoelace came undone. Peter could not tie a bow, but I could. I bent to fasten his shoe, but I was slow as my hands were cold. Impatiently, Peter kicked me in the face. The blow wasn’t that painful, but I was outraged, and ran for home. Blinded by tears of rage, I missed the turning into Batchwood Drive and walked on, in the wrong direction. I knew perfectly well how to get home, but somehow I could not turn back and I walked on in the failing light towards Harpenden, three miles away. It began to snow.

When my mother discovered what had happened, she rang the police who found my abandoned scooter, but not me. They asked the American airmen stationed at Batchwood Hall to help search the woods for me. I had become The Missing Child.

It was wartime, and there was no traffic on the road. By the time I had reached the outskirts of Harpenden a librarian cycling home from St Albans stopped, picked me up, put me in her prickly bicycle basket and wheeled her bicycle to Harpenden police station. The police officer was impressed that I knew my name and address. A phone call was made and the search called off. I had been found. I was wrapped in a rug and sat on the policeman’s knee while another brought me a cup of hot milk and, oh joy, a rare piece of Dundee cake left over from Christmas. My distraught mother arrived in a shiny black police car. Someone in the car offered me a glass of brown liquid, which was horrible and I wouldn’t swallow it. My mother drank the brandy with gratitude.

Two months later a beaming American airman arrived with a birthday cake for me, made by the chef at the base. I had never seen an iced cake, or indeed a square one. It was white and had ‘Happy Birthday Jane’ on it, piped in blue, and five candles. It was the most beautiful thing that I had ever seen. And we ate it.

By Jane Kelsall, who receives £50. Readers are invited to send in 400-word submissions.