There's a rat on the balcony.
I see it scamper
along by the wall,
its tail following behind.

Helen screams
and rushes behind me.

It runs out of sight
down the concrete stairs
of the flat.

I hate them,
she says,
looking over
my 7 year old shoulder.

It's gone now.
She sighs.

Why are there rats
in the flats?

Forget them;
lets go
to the Penny Shop,
I say showing her
a 6d piece.

Will the rat
have gone now?
she asks.

Yes,
long gone.

We walk along
the balcony
and down the stairs
looking out for the rat,
but there's no sign.  

Where'd it go?

Hidden down the shute,
I expect.

We walk through
the Square,
walk past the bike sheds,
the milkman
and his horse-drawn cart.

My dad killed a rat
with his shoe
when it got in
our backyard,
Helen says,
horrible,
blood and guts
everywhere,
and he had
to wash his shoes clean
under the cold water tap
in the yard.  

He must
have been quick.

He cornered it
and bang bang
with his big
black shoe.

We come out
of the Square
and cross into Harper Road
and go to the Penny Shop.

I like how she stands there
with her big eyed look
through the thick lens
glasses
and brown
plaited hair.