Catching Falling Stars (10 page)

I feel my face flush, and an argument is bursting to escape from my lips. But why bother? I’m sure Miss Saunders is as likely to listen to my request as those horrible children back at the church are to become my best friends.

And so I bite my lip and I head through the passage to the sitting room, where the steep staircase hides behind the door in the wall.

“Oh, by the way, Gloria…”

Miss Saunders has followed me, and her voice has dipped low, presumably because she’s about to say something she doesn’t want Rich to hear.

Perhaps she’s going to reprimand me for being so forward.

Or perhaps she’s got an ultimatum for me. One last chance and then – if Rich has another accident, or we damage her property – we’re out.

“I asked Reverend Ashton if he’d heard anything of last night’s air raid on London,” says Miss Saunders. “Apparently the docks were hit. Your family doesn’t live in that part of the city, do they?”

“No!” I reply, my heart flipping with happiness. “Thanks … thank you, Miss Saunders.

She gives me the briefest nod in reply, and disappears back into the passage.

“Right, now I have a chore for
you
, Richard,” I hear her call out, as I blink back tears of relief and begin to clamber up the narrow stairs.

Walking into our room, I see that everything except the upended, still airing mattress has been tidied away. The hatbox is back on its shelf. Clean bedding is neatly stacked on the little cane chair. The spot on the rug where my foot bled is clean and damp from scrubbing.

And most surprising of all, I notice something else: Miss Saunders must have found Rich’s spare pyjamas in one of the drawers (I had to push old Mrs Saunders’ things to one side to make way for ours).

The stripy pyjamas are laid out on top of the chest of drawers, and on top of
them
is a tiny toy mouse.

Placing the sheet and the potty on the dressing table, I reach down for the mouse. It’s hand-knitted and old-fashioned. A toy from Miss Saunders’ own childhood, maybe? But what’s it doing here?

As I hold the soft toy, I hear voices downstairs in the garden, and go over to the open window.

Miss Saunders and my brother; they’re both
inside
the chicken run, somewhere we’re forbidden to go.

And Miss Saunders is doing something unexpected; she’s pouring chicken feed into Rich’s hand, and encouraging him to crouch down and let the hens eat from his palm.

“It tickles!” I hear Rich giggle, as a black hen peck-pecks. He’s not scared or nervous or jumpy. Instead he’s reaching out a finger to gently stroke the shiny feathers of its neck.

Miss Saunders watches, and doesn’t try to stop him.

Has she just let him break one of her rules?

Whatever next? Will she be ordering us to run around the house in muddy shoes?

I don’t understand what’s happening, but something has changed.

And if it keeps Rich safe and happy, I’m pleased.

Even if
I’m
counting off every second we stay in this stupid village…

“Bye, bye, Mr Mousey – be good till I get home from school.”

Rich gives the knitted toy mouse a kiss and places it on his pillow.

“It was mine as a child,” Miss Saunders told him over tea last night, in her usual tight-lipped, unsmiling way. “But you may keep it, Richard, if it’s a comfort, till your mother sends on your, er, Duckie…”

Rich went to hug her, but Miss Saunders stood up and took dishes to the sink before he could reach her. Didn’t she realize what a compliment that was? No, of course not…

“Come on,” I call back to him now, as I limp down the stairs. “I think breakfast must be nearly ready.”

I’ve been hearing the clinking of dishes and cutlery the last few minutes and the smell of newly baked bread has been wafting up to the bedroom as I’ve hurried to get dressed.

Though my throat feels so tight I’m not sure I’ll manage to swallow anything.

School.

That’s the problem.

In no time at all I’ll have to make my way to the church hall, where the older children are being taught. Lucky Rich; with all the evacuee children in the area, the Thorntree primary school is overcrowded, and the classes have been split so that evacuees attend in the morning and local children after lunch.

That means he’ll be back here soon after noon, while I’ll have to last for a whole day as the new girl in a room full of staring strangers.

“Everything all right?” asks Miss Saunders, looking up from the bread she’s buttering.

“Everything is lovely, Miss Saunders!” says Richard, overtaking me and gambolling to a seat at the table.

But I know the question was aimed more at me than at my brother.

“Yes, thank you, Miss Saunders,” I respond with a nod – and thankfully she nods back.

We don’t have to embarrass Rich. Miss Saunders only needs to know that we slept well, with no accidents. In fact, Rich loved his exciting trip to the loo in the dark, with the “explorer’s” torch to light his way.

“Good, good,” says Miss Saunders, as she pops bread on two plates and goes to check on the eggs that are bubbling and boiling in a pot on the range. “Now, Richard, Gloria … I just wanted to say that I hadn’t expected to end up with two children to look after. Just as I’m sure you hadn’t expected to end up staying here with me, I dare say.”

She’s addressing this speech to the bubbling pot rather than us, so I’m not sure what to say or do except sit down opposite Rich.

“But as it’s turned out this way, well, we must think of it as doing our duty. Part of the war effort. We must all just make the best of it.”

Behind her back, I frown at Miss Saunders’ coolly delivered words. Over the table from me, Rich beams, as if she’s been as warm and welcoming as Father Christmas.

“And anyway, even if the roof hadn’t been damaged, Mr Wills’ farm would have been
quite
unsuitable for you,” she carries on, reaching to take a large spoon from an earthenware utensil pot. “I mean, the very idea of placing evacuees in a household with no woman present…”

“It’s not the farmer’s fault,” Rich pipes up. “Mum’s friend Vera said his wife die—
passed away
.”

“Huh!” snorts Miss Saunders. “Is that the story people are believing? No, no… Mrs Wills ran off
years
ago. And now it’s just him, and those boys he lets run wild.”

The way she said “him”, it’s clear that Miss Saunders has no great love for Mr Wills. I know I’m only thirteen, and it’s not my place to ask about the mystery of missing wives or what’s wrong with the farmer exactly, but at least there’s something else I think I can find out and still sound polite.

“I know Harry’s the older one,” I say, “and there’s a younger son called Lawrence. But there was another boy at the farm on Saturday…”

And laughing behind the graveyard wall yesterday, I could add but don’t. I’d rather not be reminded.

“A thin sort of boy? Dark hair?” Miss Saunders checks, and I nod. “That’ll be the evacuee who’s been staying with them this last year. Archie, I think I’ve heard him called.”

So that means the boy with the browny-blond hair must be Lawrence. Archie and Lawrence. Please,
please
don’t let me be sitting anywhere near them at school today.

“Now,” Miss Saunders carries on, while turning back to the eggs, “to make things more … more
homely
, perhaps you should call me Auntie Sylvia. Would that be all right?”

I’m so taken aback, I don’t know what to say for a second. What’s surprised me more? That Miss Saunders wants us to call her “auntie”, or that she thinks being stuck here could feel “homely”?

Rich doesn’t bother speaking either. With a screech of his chair, he’s on his feet and rushing to hug her.

Miss Saunders –
Auntie Sylvia?
– stands holding the pot with one hand and the spoon in the other and seems uncertain what to do about the small boy wrapped around her waist.

“Well, I’m glad you approve,” she says at last. “Now sit back down at the table, Richard, and let’s get you two some breakfast. One egg or two, Gloria?”

“Just one,” I reply, sliding into a chair. And then I think about adding something else, just to see what it feels like. But the words “Auntie Sylvia” stick in my throat.

They feel wrong. Peculiar.

In fact, I feel like this whole day might be
very
peculiar indeed…

“Pssst!”

I ignore the noise. I’ve been ignoring it most of the morning. It happens every time Mr Carmichael turns round and writes something on the board.

“PSSSSST!”

I think it’s the girl making the noise this time. I found out her name when register was called; she’s Jessica, Jess for short.

Her pals Lawrence and Archie have been guilty of it too, of course. It’s like listening to pipes hissing steam all around me.

But I don’t react. It’s what Mum always said to Rich about the teasing that went on at his school back home: if you react to it, the bullies will keep pestering you. If you ignore them, they may give up and go away, if you’re lucky.

Of course, Rich isn’t always lucky.

Oh, how is he getting on?
I wonder and worry.

When I took Rich to school this morning, he clung to my hand and repeated his “Glory, Glory, Glory!”s, and straight away children were staring at him. The teacher, Miss Montague, didn’t seem very kind either. I tried to say that Rich was a bit sensitive, but you could tell she held no truck with such nonsense. She simply reached over and snatched Rich’s hand from mine, saying that no one got special treatment from her; everyone was treated in the same, fair way.

“Please be all right, Rich,” I mutter now, gripping my slate pencil so tightly my knuckles go white.

And I’m not only worrying about his time in lessons; how will he manage making his own way home to the cottage? Rich has never gone to or from school without either me or Mum holding his hand. I know it’s not far, but what if he gets lost? Or falls in the pond? Or bullies bother him?

“Oi!” the girl’s voice hisses behind me. “You,
Land of Hope and Glory
.”

Very funny
, I think darkly.

The girl’s calling me after that old song because I told the teacher that I preferred to be called Glory rather than Gloria when he added me to the register this morning.

“Jess!” Mr Carmichael snaps, catching the girl at it. “Save your songs for the playground, please! Ah, in fact it’s lunchtime now. You may all be excused.”

With whoops and screeches of chairs, my classmates clatter lids open, taking lunches out of their desks, then hurry outside. I’m in no rush to join them, to sit on my own in some corner or be bothered by that Jess girl and the boys from the farm.

So I play for time, hiding behind the lid of my desk, pretending I’m looking for something. Though all that’s in there is the ham sandwich Miss Saunders made me for lunch. (I doubt I’ll
ever
be able to think of her as “Auntie Sylvia”.)

“You worked very nicely this morning, Glory,” Mr Carmichael’s voice booms at me all of a sudden. I take the brown paper bag with my sandwich in it and close the desk lid.

“Thank you, sir,” I say shyly.

“I’m sure you’ll settle in well,” he continues, “though I know it can be hard to find your feet when you’re new.”

“Yes, sir.”

Behind Mr Carmichael’s mostly bald head, I see that the clock hands are pointing to twelve. Rich will be making his way out of school any minute.

“There are a lot of your sort here,” he says matter-of-factly.

Does Mr Carmichael mean evacuees, I wonder?

“But there
is
one girl I would recommend you steer away from, though,” he carries on, gazing at me over his half-moon spectacles, “and that’s Jess Brennan. She can be very troublesome. And together with Lawrence Wills and Archie Jenkins…”