As I’ve always been absolutely hopeless at anything like that I was soon scampering around to pick up the ball I’d failed to catch.

I can still remember the excruciating pain in my ankle as I caught my foot in a hole and tumbled, screaming, to the ground. The rest of the group quickly gathered around to peer at me writhing in agony. Still crying, I was helped back into the hut where Brown Owi made me sit out the rest of the meeting with my poorly foot resting on a chair.

At the end of the evening my sister was due to collect me as usual; being five years older than myself she seemed very grownup and superior in every way. Brown Owl explained what had happened, spending over-long describing the terrible and quite uncalled-for fuss I’d made – presumably, she added ominously, “to get attention”.

On that particular evening my sister and I were in for a rare treat. Friends of my mother, who had no children of their own, had asked if they could take us to the fair. Repeatedly we’d been told wiiat lucky girls we were to have a treat like that, and how good and well-behaved we must be all evening. It hardly seemed an opportune time to mention that I had a sore foot.

We spent all evening at the fair, going from one sparkling attraction to another. I do remember wincing when I was lifted off the gilded horses that glide up and down, always my favourite ride.

Eventually the evening ended and we had the long walk home in the dark. Once inside my sister could hardly wait to greet mother with the words: “Brown Owl says Janet’s a cry baby. She fell over and really carried on. Brown Owl says proper Brownies are brave and don’t cry.”

My mother, somewhat renowned for her lack of sympathy on such occasions, glanced up and said: “Well, get your shoe off so I can take a look.”

“I can’t,” I said miserably.

“What do you mean you can’t?”

“My foot’s too big.”

Somewhat annoyed at having to get up from her comfortable chair by the fire, mother came over and even she was amazed at the huge football of a foot that appeared at the end of my spindly leg. Her next comment was typical.

“Well, I just hope we don’t have to cut your shoe. You know we always buy you
good Clarke’s shoes.”

Fortunately for me my father was able to prise off the shoe and I was sent to bed with a cold compress strapped in place “to reduce the swelling”.

The next day a hospital x-ray showed that I’d cracked a bone in my ankle, and I was sent home encased in plaster.

Janet Roberts