Dottie Blanket and the Hilltop Page 2

  like the ones in fairy tales, with a big basket of logs by the side.

  ‘Now, there’s no hot water or central heating,’ said Blod. ‘But you can always heat the kettle up. And this fire keeps the whole place warm. Just get the firewood from my forest. It’s round the corner at the back. I think you’ll find dry wood’s the best.’

  ‘You’ve got your own forest!?’ asked Dottie.

  ‘Dottie!’ said Mrs Blanket. ‘Don’t be rude.’

  Blod laughed. ‘There’ll be plenty of surprises for you round y’ere, bach. I’m not the only one with a forest, you know. Wait til you meet the Rowlands. They’ve got far more land than me.’

  ‘Wow!’ sighed Dottie, slightly wishing she had a forest too. Not a big one. Not even a normal-sized one. Just a very tiny small one would do.

  ‘Why don’t you go and explore the bedrooms, Dottie?’ said Mrs Blanket.

  ‘Bedrooms?’ said Blod. ‘You’ll be lucky. There’s really only one. Didn’t they say?’

  ‘Who are ‘‘they’’?’ asked Dottie. But no one was listening.

  And Mr Blanket was too busy stammering: ‘O … o … one?!’

  So Dottie rushed off to have a look.

  She scrambled up some steep, twisting stairs until they came to a stop. It was true. There was only one bedroom. And it wasn’t even that big.

  But it didn’t matter.

  Dottie had found something far better.

  Right at the top of the staircase, hidden under some beams, was a tucked-away nest of a bed. It wasn’t a bedroom exactly. More a little landing-nest. But it did have a tiny window looking out onto bright green fields.

  ‘Can I sleep here?!’ shouted Dottie Blanket. ‘It’s just the right size for me.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to come in with us?’ asked Mrs Blanket, peering under the beam.

  ‘No! I love it! I love it! I love it! It’s like the top of The Faraway Tree.’

  ‘But it doesn’t have a door,’ said Mrs Blanket.

  (Mrs Blanket often worried about things like doors.)

  ‘I don’t like doors,’ said Dottie, remem-bering the squashed-in city flat.

  ‘Well, there we are then,’ smiled Blod, holding onto the wooden banister. ‘That’s settled then. Everyone’s happy.’

  Mum didn’t look completely happy. But she didn’t look completely sad.

  ‘I suppose Baby Joe will learn to sleep through the night one of these days,’ she sighed. ‘We’ll have to squeeze his cot in the corner.’

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ said Dad, patting her on the back.

  ‘If you come downstairs,’ shouted Blod, ‘I’ll show you how to light the fire.’

  Dottie didn’t follow. She quite liked being left alone. It made her feel like she was having her own adventure instead of just being a part of theirs. She looked out of the tiny window and sighed.

  It was lovely. Just like the hilltop in her wish. She took her toy rabbit and pyjamas out of her rucksack and placed them carefully on her pillow.

  Then she sniffed it.

  The pillow, I mean.

  It smelt different. A wood and lemony type of soap. It was nice.

  She snuggled into it and read her toy rabbit a story to make it feel at home.

  Downstairs in the tiny cottage, Blod showed Mr and Mrs Blanket how everything worked.

  Then, when they’d learnt how to twiddle the right knobs and snap the right firelighters, she gave them a basket of fresh eggs and said it was time for her to go. Dottie overheard and swung down the banisters.

  ‘Don’t go yet,’ said Mrs Blanket. ‘Stay for a cup of tea. It won’t take me a minute to find the kettle.’

  She rummaged in a box and pulled out some shoe polish and spoons.

  ‘Don’t worry, bach,’ smiled Blod, patting her thighs cheerily. ‘Someone’s got to look after the farm. Lambing season’s begun and I’m not getting any younger, you know.’

  Dottie looked at her soft peachy wrinkles and her still very twinkly blue eyes. ‘Blod … can I ask a question?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course you can, bach,’ said Blod.

  ‘Well, is everybody on the hilltop as old as you?’

  ‘Dottie!’ snapped Mrs Blanket.

  ‘Oh, she’s alright. Don’t mind her,’ said Blod. ‘It’s true. I’m well past my sell-by date. But we’re not all as ancient as me, see. There’s Winnie Crisp at the shop – she must be about your age. And the twins up at Ty-Wern. And the Fidgets down by the river. No. There’s no chance that you’ll get bored up y’ere.’

  ‘Winnie Crisp?’ asked Dottie. ‘From the sweetshop? She sounds like someone out of a book!’

  ‘No. She’s definitely next door. Large as life, is Winnie. Well, I’d better be off now,’ said Blod. ‘But I’ll be expecting a visit from you soon. Beep your horn if you need anything, Mr Blanket. I’m always down in the big grey barn. Hwyl fawr.’

  ‘Oh, Oil Vawa,’ said Mr Blanket, trying his very best but getting it wrong.

  ‘Hwyl fawr,’ said Mrs Blanket, who’d said ‘Goodbye’ in Welsh before. Blod waved as she walked down the path.

  ‘Well, she’s certainly salt of the earth, isn’t she?’ said Mr Blanket (not really making sense again).

  ‘She certainly is,’ said Mrs Blanket (who was used to Mr Blanket by now). ‘And would you believe it? A girl Dottie’s age and a sweetshop! Right next door!’

  ‘I know! Incredible!’ said Mr Blanket. ‘Up on a hilltop in the middle of nowhere!’

  Baby Joe burped.

  ‘Better out than in,’ said Mrs Blanket.

  But Dottie didn’t say anything. She knew that they were wrong. This wasn’t The Middle of Nowhere. It was The Middle of Somewhere.

  And it didn’t even wobble or shake!

  That’s probably why Dottie fell straight to sleep at bedtime. There were no ‘positions’ to take. No tables to hide under. No cycling helmets to put on. And she was in such a hurry to snuggle up in her Faraway Tree that she even forgot to make her nightly wish! But it didn’t really matter. There wasn’t any need.

  For the magic had started to happen all on its own.

  Chapter Five

  Meeting Winnie Crisp

  The next morning, Dottie didn’t know what to do.

  Or rather, she did at first. I mean, she woke up, had buttered toast for breakfast and helped Mrs Blanket collect firewood. That bit was easy and fun.

  But she didn’t know what to do about Winnie Crisp.

  She really wanted to meet her. She really wanted to be friends. But whenever she walked down the track and stood outside the shop, her tummy went all gurgly and she had to run back home.

  ‘She won’t eat you, you know,’ said Mrs Blanket.

  ‘I know,’ said Dottie. ‘But what if she’s not there?’

  ‘If she’s not there, she definitely won’t eat you,’ said Mr Blanket.

  ‘Sniff,’ said Baby Joe.

  (Which probably meant, ‘Try again’.)

  So Dottie tried again. She walked down the track, took a deep breath and pushed open the shop’s heavy door.

  A little bell tingled and made her jump.

  ‘With you in a minute,’ said a voice. ‘I’m just getting these out of the oven.’

  Dottie couldn’t see anybody but suddenly there was a big waft of pastry and pies. She sniffed it all in and looked around.

  Matches. Torches. Milk. Toilet rolls. Fly swatters. Camping stoves. Sweets. Lots of sweets. Big jars of sweets! All different colours!

  ‘Now then, what can I get you?’ asked a lady, popping up from behind the counter.

  Dottie jumped and said, ‘Erm. Winnie Crisp, please.’

  ‘Well, well, well,’ laughed the lady. ‘No one’s ever asked to buy Winnie before. Are you quite sure you want her? She can be a bit of a handful.’

  ‘I don’t want to buy her, thank you,’ said Dottie. ‘I’ve just moved into the cottage next door and I want to be her friend.’

  ‘Of course you
do,’ beamed the lady. ‘Take no notice of me! I’m just her mother: Mrs Crisp. And yes. You must be friends. I’ll go and get her. She’s knee-deep in rubbish.’

  ‘Is she?’ asked Dottie, not really understanding.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Crisp. ‘She’s supposed to be tidying her room! In fact, tell you what, why don’t you slip off your welly boots at the bottom of the stairs and go up and join her? Blod said you were a nice little thing.’

  ‘Oh. Thank you,’ blushed Dottie. She’d never been called a ‘nice little thing’ before.

  (She was normally called things like ‘Dottie Stank-It’ or ‘Dottie Twice-with-Chips’.)

  Mrs Crisp lifted a bit of the counter and Dottie squeezed through. Then she followed her into the hall and took off her red polka-dot wellies. That’s when she noticed the sound of birds tweeting. She glanced through an open door into the lounge. There were lots of brightly coloured birds in cages and a toy train set out on the floor!

  ‘Is that Winnie’s train set?’ asked Dottie.

  ‘Oh, no. That’s just Mr Crisp and his hobbies,’ laughed Mrs Crisp. ‘Some men never grow up.’

  Dottie tried not to look surprised.

  Mr Blanket was definitely grown up. He had enormous feet and a slightly scratchy beard. And he did crosswords and listened to the news. Dottie couldn’t imagine having a dad who wasn’t grown up. She wondered if Mr Crisp was like Peter Pan?

  ‘Is Mr Crisp here?’ asked Dottie, imagining him in bright, bottle green.

  ‘Not at the minute,’ said Mrs Crisp. ‘He works on an oil rig out at sea. But we like to leave his train set out for when he comes home.’

  ‘Gosh!’ said Dottie.

  Mrs Crisp smiled at the train set whilst Dottie tried to think of something else to say. Finally, she thought of something, ‘My dad likes trains too … we used to live near a railway station. Very near. Almost on top.’

  ‘A railway station?!’ said Mrs Crisp. ‘Well, I’m afraid it’s a bit different up here. You’ll be lucky if you see a tricycle. Let alone a train. WINNIE! Someone to see you! Clear a space!’ The shop bell tingled again. ‘Ooh. Must dash! It’s a customer!’ Mrs Crisp ran back into the shop.

  Dottie stopped at the top of the landing. Her tummy was all gurgly again. What if Winnie was mean? Or shy? Or didn’t like people with curly hair?

  But Dottie decided to be brave. She carried on walking and knocked on a door that said:

  There was a shuffling of something.

  A rustle of papers.

  A clunk and a bang and a whirr.

  Then Winnie’s head popped round the door!

  She had a chubby, rosy, red-cheeked face and her skin smelt of peppermints and aniseed balls.

  ‘Hello,’ said Dottie. ‘I’ve just moved to the cottage up the lane.’

  ‘Great,’ said Winnie. ‘Then you can help me.’

  Winnie’s head disappeared back inside.

  ‘Help you what?’ asked Dottie, politely.

  ‘TIDY MY ROOM,’ shouted Winnie. ‘I hate tidying my room. Tidying is my worst ever thing. Come on!’

  ‘Don’t you want to know who I am first?’ asked Dottie.

  ‘Not really. Don’t care. So long as you’re good at tidying up.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Dottie, surprised.

  This wasn’t how ‘making friends’ worked in the city. Normally, you said ‘hello’ and told someone your name, and they said ‘hello’ and told you their name back.

  But maybe the rules on the hilltop were different. On the hilltop, maybe friends just helped tidy rooms?

  ‘I don’t really know if I’m a good tidier or not,’ Dottie said.

  ‘Come in anyway,’ shouted Winnie. ‘Four hands are better than two.’

  Dottie pushed the door and went inside.

  She’d never seen such a mess!

  Spat-out lumps of chewing gum.

  Rotten apples.

  Screwed-up tissues.

  Scrumpled-up pyjamas.

  And even a forgotten ten-pound note!

  ‘Your room’s awful!’ said Dottie.

  ‘Course it is.’ Winnie grinned. ‘Isn’t yours?’

  Dottie thought about it hard. ‘Well, our old flat didn’t have many things in it. You know. In case they all fell off. And at the cottage, everything is still in boxes.’

  Winnie looked confused.

  ‘Well, nothing falls off here, so I can have as many things as I like. But Mum says I have to keep them nicely. And that’s the tricky bit.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Dottie, picking up some socks. They didn’t match.

  In fact, they didn’t even look like they were Winnie’s!

  ‘See! You’re really good at this,’ said Winnie, picking up a broken fishing rod. ‘And if we get it done by teatime, I’ll be allowed another Cabbage Patch Doll.’

  ‘A cabbage what?’ asked Dottie.

  ‘A Cabbage Patch Doll! What? You mean you don’t actually know what they are?!’

  Dottie blushed. She hated not knowing things.

  ‘But I thought everyone knew about Cabbage Patch Dolls,’ said Winnie. ‘Especially people not from here.’

  Hoisting up her big flowery skirt, Winnie clambered over an old plastic castle and opened a cupboard. It was full of funny-looking dolls with strange, puffed-up faces. Dottie didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Perfect, aren’t they?’ sighed Winnie, stroking a ginger one’s head.

  They didn’t look perfect to Dottie. They looked like the little boy at Dottie’s old school who’d had a ‘funny turn’ after eating a peanut. But Dottie knew all about good

  manners so she kept completely quiet about that.

  ‘I collect them.’ Winnie beamed. ‘Like Dad collects birds. And model trains. And old motorbike engines. And I really, really, really want to collect Lonnie Jonnie – but Mum says my room has to be spotless before she’ll give me the adoption fee.’

  ‘The adoption fee?’ asked Dottie. ‘You have to adopt them?’ She was a little bit surprised. No one in the city ‘adopted’ dolls. Definitely not funny-looking ones!

  ‘Yeah. They send them over from America. And they come in really cool boxes. And they cost loads and loads and loads. And some of them are really rare.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Dottie.

  The bedroom went all quiet.

  ‘Don’t you collect things?’ asked Winnie.

  ‘No. Not really,’ said Dottie.

  Winnie looked disappointed. ‘What? You mean you don’t collect anything at all!?’

  ‘Well, I do collect something but I don’t really want to say,’ said Dottie.

  ‘Oh, well you have to say. Especially if we’re going to be friends. I won’t tell anyone,’ said Winnie. ‘Scout’s honour.’

  ‘Are you a Scout?’ asked Dottie.

  ‘No.’ Winnie grinned. ‘But I still won’t tell anyone.’

  ‘Oh. Alright,’ said Dottie. ‘You see. Well.

  What I mean is … I just collect things that happen.’

  Winnie tilted her head.

  ‘Sort of memories,’ explained Dottie.

  ‘How do you do that?’ Winnie patted the end of the bed.

  ‘Well,’ began Dottie, sitting down next to her, ‘when a really exciting thing happens, I just look at it really hard. Then I close my eyes tight and keep it in my head. Like taking a photograph. And then, to make sure I can always find it, I write a label with my mind and stick it on. You know, so it doesn’t get lost.’

  ‘Whoah! That is so weird,’ said Winnie, moving a cricket bat from underneath her bottom.

  Dottie felt a bit upset. She wished she hadn’t told.

  ‘Yes … well … so is “adopting” dolls with funny, cabbage-y faces. And keeping cricket bats hidden inside your bed!’

  Winnie laughed loudly. Dottie smiled. Then she laughed loudly too. And then she closed her eyes very tight.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Winnie.

  ‘Just collecting,’ said Dottie, mysteriously.


  ‘Collecting what?’

  ‘Your messy bedroom. I’m going to label it:

  The Day I met Winnie Crisp.

  ‘Wow!’ said Winnie. ‘That’s brilliant! Don’t forget my Cabbage Patch Dolls!’

  Winnie jumped off the bed and opened the cupboard again. ‘Take a picture with your head.’

  ‘OK,’ smiled Dottie, blinking her eyes very hard. ‘And I’ll collect your wish to have Lonnie Jonnie.’

  ‘Will that make it come true?’ asked Winnie.

  ‘I don’t really know for sure,’ said Dottie. ‘But I did wish that I could live on a bright green hilltop. And it happened.’

  ‘That is AMAZING,’ sighed Winnie. ‘Did you wish to stay on the hilltop for a bit?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dottie. ‘We’ll be here for ages. My dad found a brand new job.’

  Winnie grinned. ‘Then I suppose I’ll need to know your name.’

  ‘Dottie,’ said Dottie. ‘My name is Dottie Blanket.’

  ‘Hello, I’m Winnie Crisp,’ grinned Winnie Crisp.

  ‘We did that all the wrong way round,’ said Dottie Blanket.

  Winnie laughed. ‘That’s probably just because I’m such a mess!’

  Chapter Six

  The Secret Den

  The-girl-from-the-sweetshop and the-girl-from-the-city worked very hard to tidy up. And when they’d finished, Mrs Crisp was delighted!

  ‘I’d forgotten what that carpet looked like!’ she said. ‘Oh, you two have done a wonderful job.’

  ‘Can I adopt Lonnie Jonnie, now?’ asked Winnie.

  ‘Only if you manage to keep it nice,’ said Mrs Crisp.

  Winnie groaned. She never managed to keep it nice.

  ‘But in the meantime,’ said Mrs Crisp, ‘and as long as it’s all right with your parents, Dottie, I’ll make you a picnic to take into the hills. You look like you could do with a bit of sun.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Dottie. ‘The city doesn’t have a lot.’

  ‘I can see that,’ said Mrs Crisp. ‘And I’ll pop in some fresh pies too. You’re all skin and bones.’