Catching Falling Stars (11 page)

My teacher drifts off, tutting to himself, and thinking of some incident or other that’s aggravated him.

“I suppose the girl can’t help it, coming from her background,” he picks up where he left off. “But let’s just say I think she would be a highly unsuitable friend for a nicely behaved girl like yourself. And I
don’t
think she’s the type of child of whom a lady of Miss Saunders’ standing would approve.”

“Yes, Mr Carmichael,” I murmur.

My cheeks are flushing as I speak. I have no intention of being friends with that Jess girl, but I don’t like the way he said “coming from her background”. He’s one of those people who look down their noses at anyone who comes from London, isn’t he? My old classmates who came back after the Phoney War said there were plenty like that in the countryside. And for all I know, Mr Carmichael may have his eye on me, just waiting for me to put a foot wrong…

“Anyway,” says Mr Carmichael, slapping his palms on his lap, as if he’s about to change the subject, “are you, erm, settling in well with Miss Saunders?”

My teacher’s voice has that funny note of doubt and surprise in it that I heard from the shopkeeper on Saturday, when I went to fetch the sugar.

“Yes, thank you, sir.”

“Very respectable woman, Miss Saunders. Though she does rather keep herself to herself.”

“Yes, sir.”

I don’t say any more than that, even though I have the feeling that Mr Carmichael would love to find out what goes on behind the closed front door of the village’s most private resident.

“Miss Saunders was a fine primary school teacher, you know,” he carries on, settling himself on the corner of his table. “A real loss to the profession when she had to give it up. But with her mother being ill and her father long dead, I suppose she had no choice. It’s just a pity that the only time we see her is at church, and she was always so very busy and rushing straight home afterwards to her mother … and now she’s busy with
you
chaps, of course.”

It’s interesting hearing a little more about Miss Saunders. But to be honest, I don’t want to be sitting here chit-chatting with my teacher about her or any unsuitable friends I might or might not have. Right now, I happen to be too anxious about Rich to concentrate.

“May I – may I be excused, Mr Carmichael?” I ask, in the most polite voice I can manage.

“Yes, yes, my dear,” he says, waving me towards the door. “Enjoy your lunch, get to know some of your classmates, and see you back here in twenty minutes.”

Twenty minutes. It’s a shorter lunch break than I get at my school back in London, but lots of the kids here live on farms and need to get home as quickly as they can in the afternoon, and help out with work before the light fades.

Anyway, I can easily do what I need to do in twenty minutes.

Racing out of the church hall, still clutching my lunch, I head for the gate. Pulling it open and slipping through, I’m aware of more than one voice yelling out a chorus of “
Land of Hope and Glory
”, but take no notice. Because I know that if I hurry down the lane and get to the green, it’s only a short distance to the primary school, and Rich.

And there –
there
he is!

“Rich!” I call out to him, spotting my brother at the end of the lane, crossing it on his way back to the cottage.

“Glory, Glory, Glory!” he calls back as I run to him, only vaguely aware of the stinging pain in my foot as panic overwhelms me.

Something’s happened, hasn’t it? He isn’t smiling. He looks smaller, more like a frightened bird, than when I saw him only three hours ago.

Maybe it’s the fact that his socks are rumpled around his ankles, revealing the scatter of pink dots where the blisters have newly healed.

Maybe it’s the oversized baggy navy shorts that are flapping around his puny legs.

Wait a minute;
they’re
not his shorts. Rich’s two pairs – lovingly packed by Mum – are grey, and actually fit him.

“What’s going on?” I ask breathlessly as I reach him.

Rich bursts into noisy tears, thudding his head into my chest.

“Hey, hey!” I say, gently placing my hands on either side of his face and kneeling down in front of him. “What’s wrong?”

Miss Saunders asks the same question as we tumble through the back door of the cottage a few minutes later.

She’s taking a pie out of the oven. I want to grab it from her and run back to Rich’s school, where I’ll throw it in the face of his Miss Montague!

“Rich was scared of his teacher,” I tell Miss Saunders, my heart and head pounding, my hand squeezed tight around my little brother’s. “He was too frightened to ask to go to the lavatory, so he…”

I hold up the brown paper parcel that I found Rich carrying. There’s no lunch in this particular bag – just a soggy pair of grey shorts and underpants.

The fight suddenly goes out of me.

Miss Saunders has a strained look on her face. Have we disappointed her again? Is she disgusted with the news that Rich has had yet another “accident”?

“Dear me,” she exhales, placing the pie dish down on the top of the range. “Well, what are you waiting for, Gloria? You must hurry back to school or you’ll be late for lessons.
I’ll
deal with Richard.”

I’ll deal with Richard
. The words repeat in my head as I reluctantly let go of my brother’s hand and back out of the door.

I’ll deal with Richard
. The words dance around as I stumble back towards the church hall.

“
I’ll deal with Richard
,” I mumble worriedly as I take the few steps up to the heavy wooden door of the hall and push it open. “What does she mean by that?”

It’s only then that I realize the yard behind me is empty, and the makeshift classroom in the hall is full. While I’ve been fretting, everyone else has filed in and taken their seats.

Thirty or more pairs of eyes fix on me as I make my way to my desk.

Three pairs in particular seem to be watching my every move.

Why are Jess, Archie and Lawrence so interested in me? Can’t they just ignore me? I’d like that a lot better.

“Sorry I’m late, Mr Carmichael,” I say hurriedly, slipping into my seat.

Someone – a few someones – snigger around me.

“Since it’s your first day, I’ll let you off, Miss Gilbert,” says the teacher, sounding less friendly than he had earlier. “But let this be the last time you’re tardy!”

“Yes, sir,” I say, quickly lifting the lid of my desk to take out my slate and pencil and—

“
EEEEEEEE!!
”

The scream; it’s me.

The bellows of laughter; that’s everyone else.

“What on earth!” bellows Mr Carmichael.

He takes two long strides and is by my side, seeing what
I’m
seeing.

The snails, the countless snails oozing inside my desk and covering my slate, seem completely unbothered.

“Who did this!” booms Mr Carmichael. “Own up now or the consequences will be much worse!”

I’m not sure the rest of the class can even hear his words, they’re all howling and roaring so much.

All except one person, who’s whistling the tune of “Land of Hope and Glory”…

Four days.

That’s how long we’ve survived school, me and my brother.

I think I’ve come off best; no one would own up to putting snails in my desk on Monday, so
everyone
got punished, and now no one speaks to me. That’s all right; I prefer it like that. In fact, I’ve made sure it stays that way by being last to arrive in the morning (I hide behind the holly bush till I see everyone making their way into the church hall) and leaving last at the end of the day (Mr Carmichael appreciates my help tidying up).

And lunchtimes are taken up with rushing to meet Rich and delivering him back to the cottage.

Poor Rich.

Every day is the same. The same fear, the same “accident”.

Miss Saunders hasn’t said much about it, but since that first day she’s taken to sending Rich to school with a clean pair of underpants and shorts packed in his satchel, and a paper bag to bring home his wet things.

Every afternoon, I’ve come back from school, seeing my brother’s newly washed clothes drying on a stand in front of the range, ready to be packed in his satchel “just in case”.

Now it’s Friday, just gone noon, and I’m here at the primary school gates, watching as children bumble out into the arms of waiting mothers (I feel a twinge in my chest).

“Rich!” I call out, seeing him jostled in the middle of a gang of kids who act like he’s invisible.

He’s pale. White. Blue eyes red-rimmed.

It’s happened again.

“It’s all right, never mind,” I say as Rich reaches me.

Then I see he’s got nothing in his hands. No soggy bag for me to take.

“Rich?” I say, brightening. “No accidents today?”

“Can we go?” he pleads, taking my hand.

“Of course,” I say, moving away from the mums who are looking him up and down. I haven’t a lot of time anyway; I need to find out what’s going on, get him home and get myself back to school on time to keep on the right side of Mr Carmichael. “So what happened? Didn’t you need to use the loo today?”

“I did! And I showed my teacher the note Auntie Sylvia wrote for me.”

Rich takes a scrunched-up piece of paper from his pocket and passes it to me.

Dear Miss Montague,

As you will know, Richard Gilbert is currently in my charge. As his "guardian", I would request that you give him leave to use the lavatory if he should present you with this note.

I would greatly appreciate your consideration.

Yours sincerely,

Miss S. Saunders

“When did Miss – I mean, Auntie Sylvia give you this?” I ask Rich, startled by Miss Saunders’ thoughtfulness. Or perhaps she just didn’t want to wash so many clothes.

“When you were out collecting the eggs this morning,” he blinks up at me.

His black eye has faded to yellowy-green, his eyebrow is beginning to grow back, he didn’t wet himself. This should be a good day, but it clearly isn’t.

“So you showed this note to Miss Montague, and she let you go to the loo, right?” I say, running over the facts as we walk past the cabbages and their fluttering white namesakes.

“Right,” he mumbles.

“So why are you unhappy?”

Rich immediately bursts into tears.

“Glory, Glory, Glory!” he practically shrieks, slapping his hands over his face and stamping his worn-but-polished boots on the ground.

“What? What is it, Rich?” I stop and ask, my heart racing. He’s hysterical. And I know better than anyone that it’s very,
very
hard to get through to him once he gets this anxious.

I’m also aware of the prying eyes of school parents
and
the time passing, so all I can do is wrap an arm around him and steer him towards the cottage as quickly as I can.

“Hello, children. The postman brought a parcel for you this morning,” says Miss Saunders, glancing up from some darning. Straight away, I spot her looking at my hands for the telltale paper bag, and her surprise when she realizes there isn’t one. Then she sees the mess Rich is in. “Dear me, Richard! Gloria – what’s happened?”

Hearing her use my full name sets my teeth on edge, but of course it’s not the time to challenge her about it.

“Your note worked,” I tell her instead, setting my sobbing brother down on a kitchen chair. “But I don’t know what’s wrong – he won’t stop crying.”

As I kneel beside Rich, Miss Saunders gets up from the table and crosses to the sink. Quickly, she runs a washrag under the tap, then strides back over to us and begins to dab it on Rich’s neck, face and forehead. It works like a charm. The cold cloth seems to bring him to his senses, and the hiccuping sobs subside.