Catching Falling Stars (22 page)

“You can open your eyes now…”

I do as Auntie Sylvia says, and stare into the long mirror fixed to the wardrobe in her room.

In front of me is a girl in a simple but beautiful ivory-white silk dress with a mauve sash and pretty corsage of purple fabric pansies.

Her black shoes are glossy with shoe shine, and her long black socks are pulled up to her knees. With the long hem of the dress, they look more grown up, almost like stockings.

Waves of brown frame her face, thanks to the rags that have been tied in her hair all day and teased out with Auntie Sylvia’s fingers.

“So, what do you think?” Auntie Sylvia asks me.

“I think
you
look lovely,” I tell her, catching sight now of the cornflower-blue dress Auntie Sylvia’s wearing. It’s a bit old-fashioned, like a long-sleeved flapper style from the 1920s, but it suits her and is miles better than her drab owl uniform of brown tweed skirt and charcoal-grey cardigan.

“We’re not talking about
me
, silly sausage,” Auntie Sylvia laughs, but I think she’s secretly pleased with the compliment. “Are you happy?”

“Yes, yes, I am,” I say, turning this way and that, hardly recognizing myself.

What must Jess be feeling right now, as she tries on her own party dress at the pub? I’ve seen Archie already – he passed the cottage earlier, on his way to meet his mum from the bus. I knocked frantically on the upstairs window till I got his attention, and then gave him a wave and a thumbs up. In return, he grinned and waved the navy striped tie he must have borrowed from Mr Wills or Harry. “Very smart!” I mouthed at him as he grinned and hurried away.

And in a few minutes, just as soon as Rich locks the chickens safely away in their coop, we’ll set off for Eastfield Farm, where I’ll see Lawrence, and Lawrence will see me.

I get tummy flutters at the very thought.

Does Auntie Sylvia feel the same way about seeing Mr Wills? Or have too many years and too many hurt feelings ruined any chance for them to even just talk and be polite to each other?

“Here…” says Auntie Sylvia, lifting a dainty glass bottle from her bedside table. “It’s lily of the valley.”

She dabs the cool stopper on my wrists and either side of my neck.

Now I feel grown up and pretty, in a very different way from my sister. And instantly I know that I love Lil, even if we’re as alike as sherbet and sprouts, even if she’s as flighty as a cabbage white butterfly hovering over the green outside.

“All done!
Readyyyyy!!
” Rich shouts up to us.

“Shall we go to the, ahem, ball?” Auntie Sylvia jokes with me.

“Let’s!” I smile at her.

As I turn to leave, I feel an itch on my face and scratch it without looking.

“Oh,” I mumble, feeling the pinch on my cheek and the dampness on my finger.

“What’s wrong?” asks Auntie Sylvia. “Oh, you’ve just caught the edge of your scar. Here…”

As she pats my cheek with the corner of her hankie, I look at the smudge of blood on my fingertip, and my heart sinks.

Normally, I don’t believe in omens and signs and all that hocus-pocus.

But this … it’s like a flashback to the day of the bomb.

A reminder that happy as I felt just now, terrible things can lurk
right
around the corner…

“Stop. Stop, Lawrence!”

I don’t know whether to be cross with him or laugh.

“You know you like it when I spin you fast, Glory,” he calls out above the sound of the folk band’s flurry of guitar, fiddle and accordion.

“I know I’m going to be sick if you don’t let me go,” I tell him.

His warm hand in mine, the other pressed into my back … it’s lovely, thrilling. But I really need to get some fresh air.

“Spoilsport,” he says with a wide smile, as we wind down to a halt.

Now I can get my breath, I begin to see familiar faces whirl into view.

Reverend Ashton is chatting to Mr Carmichael, my teacher.

Lil and Harry are nearby, huddled close and gazing into each other’s eyes, as if it’s a slow dance and not a fast jig playing.

Jess – in her pristine white dress – is helping Charlie and Mary from the pub sell beer and lemonade at the table that’s been set up by the door.

And there’s Rich, clambering up hay bales at one end of the barn with a couple of small boys he seems to have become friendly with this week at school, thanks to Auntie Sylvia’s teacherly influence.

As for Auntie Sylvia, when we first arrived, I helped her find both a spare chair and a tucked-away corner where she could sit and happily watch the goings-on without being too much observed herself. In her lap she’s holding a glass of lemonade as well as Duckie and Mr Mousey. I bet she’s nervous now, waiting for Reverend Ashton to call her up to the piano that’s been wheeled out from the farmhouse.

But with a sudden twist in my tummy, I realize there’s someone missing. One of the Outsiders.

“Have you seen Archie anywhere?” I ask Lawrence, as the band end their tune and everyone in the crowded barn applauds madly.

“Nope. He’s going to be somewhere here with his mum, though, isn’t he?”

I clap along too, but realize Lawrence has left his hand on my back, where it was.

“I’m not sure… He’d have wanted to introduce her to us, wouldn’t he?” I suggest. I think of Archie when he passed Auntie Sylvia’s, his face lit up full of hope and excitement. I can’t wait to hear how he’s got on with his mother.

Somehow it doesn’t feel right – having fun at this party – without him being here…

“Yeah, maybe,” Lawrence replies casually. “Hey, this one’s good. C’mon, let’s dance again!”

I glance over at the busy, bustling refreshment table and see that Jess is watching us over the shoulders of her customers. She looks … forlorn, and I can guess why.

“I’m tired. Can’t you ask Jess to dance for a change?”

“She’s busy,” says Lawrence, wrapping both hands around my waist now.

I suddenly feel a little trapped. I
really
need air.

But then I spot Mr Wills talking to Mr Brett, the grocer. Mr Wills has swapped his farmer’s outfit of tweeds and wellies for a dark suit that looks nice, if a little tight. Same as most men here, it’s probably his one good suit. Maybe even his wedding suit.

Seeing him reminds me that I should try to speak to Lawrence again about his dad, Auntie Sylvia and the never-received letter. I told him, Archie and Jess about it at school on Wednesday, but Lawrence hasn’t said much about it since, just said he needed to think about it before he spoke to his father.

But I don’t want to say anything to him here, where we could be overheard.

“Come here,” I say, beckoning Lawrence to follow me outside.

He grins cheekily, which makes me uncomfortable. I hope that I didn’t give him the wrong impression.

“I just want to talk,” I tell him, pushing the door open.

And now I can see someone
else
has the wrong impression – Jess has just frowned at the two of us, wondering what’s going on.

The air has a bite to it tonight, chill wind whipping at my thin dress, and I wish I’d grabbed my coat before we stepped out.

It’s pitch-black too, especially once Lawrence quickly closes the barn door behind us. The only light is a trickle coming from under the rickety-edged wooden door.

“Need a hug to keep warm?” Lawrence jokes some more. At least I hope he’s joking. I do like him, but things are suddenly going a bit far, a bit fast for me.

“No, I’m fine,” I say, quickly, and take a step back. “I just wanted to talk to you about the letter. Do you think you should speak to your dad about it, since Auntie Sylvia is here?”

I hear Lawrence let out a long sigh, and his silhouette comes more into focus now that my eyes are adjusting to the light.

“Look, I don’t think I should. It’s ancient history, Glory,” he says. “And what good would it do? Yeah, it must have been tough for Miss Saunders, her parents doing that to her. But it’s not as if I like her now. Nothing’s changed. She’s still a snobby old—”

“Oi, Lawrence,” says Harry, his head appearing around the barn door, “want to leave your girlfriend alone for a minute and give us a hand to push some of the bales back further? We need to make more room for dancing.”

Embarrassment more than cold makes my skin prickle with goose pimples.

“Coming back in?” Lawrence asks me.

“In a minute,” I tell him.

I watch the shaft of light vanish again as the door closes behind him, and now – as if to compensate – the full moon drifts out from behind a cloud.

Outlines of hills and trees and fences and outbuildings become visible.

And – my heart skips a beat – an outline of a figure.

A figure sitting on the gate, hunched over.

My instincts tell me to rush back inside, but then I pause, recognizing the skinny someone and the flop of hair hanging over his forehead.

“Archie?” I call out.

“Hey,” he calls back, raising a hand.

“Archie – what are you doing out here?” I ask, hurrying over to him. “Where’s your mum?”

Close up, I see he’s got his gaunt, stray-dog look about him again. I scramble up on to the gate beside him, realizing only too late that the rust and dirt of the metal will probably stain my dress.

“I waited for three hours, for b-both buses that were due today, just in case she m-missed the first one. But she d-d-didn’t come.”

“Oh, Archie,” I say, feeling his hurt. “Something
must
have happened. Maybe—”

“Nothing will have h-h-happened, Glory,” he replies flatly. “It’ll be the same as last time, and the time be-before. I’ll get a letter next week saying s-s-sorry, with a ten-bob note in it. Then she’ll tell me about her latest, ‘lovely’ new b-b-boyfriend, I bet.”

I thought all my anger had gone since me and Auntie Sylvia had made up, but another spring suddenly uncoils. How could Archie’s mum let him down like that?

“She doesn’t deserve to have a son like you,” I blurt out, before I remember that sometimes family are the only people allowed to criticize family. But I can’t seem to stop myself. “I mean, you’re great. Doesn’t she know how lucky she is?”

Archie doesn’t respond at first; he’s just lifts his head and stares at me, his eyes roving over my face as if he’s trying to make out my features in the moonlight and memorize them all.

“You look beautiful,” he surprises me by saying.

“Me? No, I’m not! Specially not with this scar,” I bumble, taken aback. “It’s so ugly.”

“It’s not ugly – it’s interesting,” Archie says softly. “The f-f-first time I saw it, I thought it looked exactly like a star.”

His finger reaches out to gently touch my cheek.

I don’t pull away.

“A star?” I reply, shell-shocked and thrilled. “Er, I don’t think so. And I made it bleed today, so it probably looks even worse.”

Archie tilts his head to inspect my altered scar.

“Maybe it looks more like a shooting star now, or a
falling
one from this angle. And they’re both m-m-meant to be lucky, aren’t they?”

Catching my scar with my nail and making it bleed; I’d thought it must be a sign … and maybe it was. Could it have been a good sign after all?

A sign that I got it wrong again, in the best kind of way?

I
thought I’d fallen for funny, cheeky Lawrence, but now I know as clear as night follows day that steady, sweet, gentle Archie is the boy who’s sneaked up on me and my heart.

“Where? Where’s the falling star, Archie?” a little voice pipes up in the darkness. “I can’t see it!”

“Rich! What are you doing out here?” I ask him, slipping off the gate and down on the uneven surface of the farmyard.

“I came to find you – Auntie Sylvia is doing her songs now. Quick!”

Sure enough, I can hear the strains of “You Are My Sunshine”.

I’m not leaving Archie on his own out here, so whether he likes it or not – and I think he likes it – I grab his hand and pull him inside.

The barn seems more crowded and warm when I go back in, and everyone is facing Auntie Sylvia at the piano, swaying and singing happily along to the music she’s playing.

At the end of the tune, she smiles shyly as the crowd applauds, and quickly launches into another song, and another.

I stand smiling and watching her, my hand still surprisingly, wonderfully entwined with Archie’s on one side while I drape an arm around Rich on the other.

“Glory?” Rich says at one point, and I lean down to hear what he has to say. “I’m a bit cross with Duckie. He made me do something I shouldn’t have…”

“What was that, sweetheart?” I ask him.

“He made me tell the farmer about the letter Auntie Sylvia didn’t get. That was a wrong thing, wasn’t it?”