Catching Falling Stars (5 page)

I can tell she’s tall, and see a glint of round wire spectacles, but that’s it.

The door is open so little and the farmer’s son is so broad and muscly that I don’t have much of a view.

“But it’s your civic duty, Miss Saunders,” Harry says staunchly.

We’ve already found out Harry’s name on the way here. His brother, Lawrence, is one of the sniggering boys we met, but I’m not sure which one; I didn’t look closely enough to be able to spot the family resemblance. I don’t know who the other boy is. Harry was too busy asking us all about London and the bombing that was going on. He sounded ever so excited by it, as if it was the plot of an adventure film at the cinema and not our real, frightening, new way of life.

But he doesn’t understand what it’s really like.

Scrabbling from under piles of hot rubble, not knowing if your family is dead or alive, finding out someone has died just a few feet away from you; that’s awful, shocking, terrifying, not exciting. (Poor, poor moany Mrs Mann…)

“I do my part, Harry Wills, thank you very much,” says this Miss Saunders, obviously enjoying the conversation about as much as I enjoyed having a melting-hot nugget of shrapnel removed from my cheek soon after me and Rich stumbled out of the ruins of the Anderson shelter.

“What, because you grow some vegetables? Donate to salvage sales?” Harry practically sneers. “Well, suit yourself, Miss Saunders. I’ll show these kids back to the bus stop. They should be back in London in time for bed – and the next air raids.”

Harry turns and goes to pick up our suitcases, but Mum stops him.

“Thank you so much, Harry, you’ve been very kind, but we’ll be fine. You get on back to the farm,” she tells him in a calm voice. But what’s she really thinking?

Harry pauses, throws a despairing glance at the face in the cottage doorway, and mumbles his byes to us.

“I’m sorry I can’t be of any help to you,” Miss Saunders says quietly, and begins to close the door.

That’s when Mum makes a move, her delicate hand landing palm-wide by the polished brass door knocker.

“Before we go back to London, could I ask a favour, Miss Saunders?” she asks in her most lovely, polite voice. “Could the children perhaps have a glass of water and use the lavatory?”

This Miss Saunders looks momentarily flummoxed, then backs away. I brace myself for the door to slam shut, but instead it’s pulled open – and we’re ushered inside.

“Of course. Certainly. Come in,” says Miss Saunders, sounding courteous but cool. “Won’t you sit down?”

There’s no hall; the cottage isn’t big enough. We find ourselves walking directly into a snug sitting room, with everything neat and tidy and pretty.

At first glance, it’s much like our front room at home, with a settee and armchair facing the fireplace, a fringed standard lamp and some small side tables. A wireless sits on one, similar to the set we have on our sideboard. On Miss Saunders’ sideboard, however, there’s a gramophone. A gramophone! Lil would
love
that.

I glance around some more and see that on the far wall, there’s a small, wooden-panelled door that’s ajar – behind it I can make out some narrow, steep wooden stairs.

And to the right is a passage, which leads to the kitchen, I suppose.

“Thank you so much,” says Mum. “Come, Glory! Wipe your feet, Richard!”

She’s using her best voice, just like people use their best room for visiting guests. Immediately Rich and me straighten up, smarten up and follow Mum’s lead. This Miss Saunders might not want us, but we want Mum to be proud of us all the same.

“Er, will you have a cup of tea, Mrs…” the older woman fumbles.

She’s as tall as Dad and has streaks of grey in her hair, like he does. It’s not styled like Mum’s; just a bit wiry and wavy and cut off at chin length. She tries to tuck it behind her ears as she talks, but it just springs out again.

“Mrs Gilbert,” Mum jumps in. “And this is Glory, my younger daughter.”

“Er … ‘Glory’?” says Miss Saunders in confusion, as if Mum has just announced that my name is Boadicea or Buttons or something just as outlandish and unsuitable for a thirteen-year-old schoolgirl.

“Short for Gloria. It’s a pet name that even her teachers call her. Silly, I know, but it’s all she’ll answer to!” Mum says with an easy laugh, glossing over my stubbornness. “Her older sister, Lillian, is in the Land Army, you know.”

Mum says that last bit with great pride, which is funny, since she’s never forgiven Lil for flouncing off and joining up.

Miss Saunders’ eyebrows now rise with surprise above her small, wire-rimmed spectacles. She’s obviously impressed. And obviously, that’s what Mum was aiming for.

“And this little lamb is Richard,” Mum carries on, putting an arm around my brother’s shoulders. “He’s gentle as a lamb too.”

She’s trying to let this Miss Saunders know that Rich isn’t a typical roaring, rough-playing, boisterous boy, isn’t she? But why is she bothering?

“Pleased to meet you,” Miss Saunders says politely enough to us, but there’s no smile on her face. “I … I’ll just fill the kettle.”

Our reluctant hostess smooths the floral-patterned pinny that covers her cream blouse and tweed skirt, and walks away – clip-clopping in her sensible brown lace-up shoes – towards the passage. She looks too tall for the low ceiling, and I swear she nearly has to dip her head to get through the doorway.

As soon as she’s out of earshot, I shoot a question at Mum.

“What are you thinking?” I whisper.

“I’m thinking it’s worth a cup of tea and a chat,” she replies, her eyes scanning the pleasant room. “Look – I noticed
that
when Harry was talking to Miss Saunders.”

Mum’s nodding towards the wall with the wood-panelled door to the stairs, and I notice what hadn’t caught my eye at first: a framed teacher’s certificate which has pride of place above a polished piano. I know that the certificate will impress Mum, and the well-looked-after piano will please her too. Mum used to play on her grandma’s piano when she was a girl, and has always wished we could afford one. She’ll also be charmed by the posy of roses in the small vase placed on top of the piano.

So … Miss Saunders is convinced she’s having nothing to do with us beyond a cup of tea, but Mum clearly has other ideas.

Realizing that, a knot tightens in my tummy. I don’t care if that teaching certificate means Miss Saunders is probably a responsible adult, or that the cared-for piano means she’s musical, or the hand-picked posy means she likes nature. She’s a stranger. Even
more
of a stranger than Vera’s useless, distant relative by marriage. What is Mum getting us into?

“Mum, we can’t—”

A cough interrupts me, and I turn to see Miss Saunders looming in the shadowy passageway like a wary grey owl.

“Mrs Gilbert,” she says, “I was wondering if the children could run across to the shop and fetch me some sugar? I seem to have run out.”

“Of course,” Mum says brightly. “They’re very helpful.”

She nudges me and Rich to stand, and Miss Saunders nods at us, as if to say thank you.

What thin lips she has
, I find myself thinking. It’s as if someone was in a rush to draw her mouth, and thought a flick of the wrist and a simple straight line would do.

“Oh,” Miss Saunders adds, as something occurs to her, “just tell Mr Brett at the shop to put it on my bill.”

Now it’s my turn to nod. I reach for my brother’s hand and lead him back out of the cottage.

With the door clunked shut behind us, I stop for a second, take a deep breath and get my bearings. We’re standing in a tiny front garden, filled with overgrown foliage and end-of-season roses. A last bee of the summer buzzes close by. Across the narrow road is the cabbage-filled village green, and beyond that is the grocer’s shop, its frontage partly hidden from our view by the branches of the oak tree overhanging the pond.

“Come on,” I say to Rich, hoping he doesn’t hear the unsure wobble in my voice as I lead him out of the gate and on to the road.

“Do you think that lady will give us a biscuit, Glory? I think she might be the sort of person who has biscuits. Or cake. Don’t you think so?” Rich babbles loudly as we walk.

“I don’t know,” I say, while trying not to let the knot in my tummy make me feel sick.

“I think she might be a nice lady,” Rich babbles on, skipping jerkily by my side. “She seems nice. And tidy. But we aren’t going to stay there, are we, Glory?”

“I don’t think so,” I say, as we pass the old pub.

Now I’m outside in the fresh air, I feel hopeful that Mum will come to her senses. With us out of the way, she’ll see things more clearly and realize that she can’t seriously get on the bus back to London and leave us stranded here with a thin-lipped, owlish woman we don’t know.

Though now I think about it, isn’t that
exactly
what happened to every other evacuee…?

One of the girls in my class who came back after the Phoney War, she told me they had to wait in a draughty town hall while people strolled by and chose who they wanted, as if the children were all stray dogs waiting for new owners.

“Oh, that’s good if we’re not staying, isn’t it?” says Rich, letting go of my hand and starting to chase a flitting butterfly. “I mean, I like it here, though. I like the butterflies. The pond is nice too. Having all the cabbages growing on the green is funny, isn’t it?”

“It is a bit,” I answer him, watching as he bounces and skips around. I haven’t seen him do that much lately. “Do you want to stay out here while I get the sugar, Rich?”

“Uh-huh,” he mutters distractedly.

And then I plunge from the sunlit green into the more dimly lit shop, the bell on the door jangling noisily.

“Hello!” says a man behind a thick wooden counter. His hair is Brylcreemed and black, shiny as shellac. “What can I do for you, dear?”

My eyes adjust and I see that the shelves here are just as packed with tins and packages as the front window.

“Could I have some sugar, please?” I ask.

“Yes, of course, dear,” says the man, picking up a paper bag in readiness to fill. “How much?”

I’m suddenly confused, uncertain what I’m doing. I didn’t ask, and Miss Saunders didn’t tell me. We were probably both a little out of sorts.

“I don’t know,” I reply, feeling my cheeks burn pink. “It’s for Miss Saunders at the cottage on the other side of the green…”

“Ha! Fancy Miss Saunders having visitors.”

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, it’s the shopkeeper’s turn to have pink cheeks.

“Not that I mean anything by that, dear. It’s just that Miss Saunders is usually one to keep herself to herself…”

He quickly scoops sugar from a big wooden box and presents the filled bag to me, twisted shut.

“That’s how much she normally takes. I’ll put it on her bill.”

“Thank you,” I say, taking the bag and hurrying out of the shop.

Seems as if Miss Saunders is a bit of an odd fish. Mum will have found that out by now, I’m sure, while we’ve been away. We might be going home after all!

At that thought, my spirits lift a little, and I untwist the bag, thinking I’ll let Rich lick his finger and dip it into the bag as a treat…

“Ha ha ha! Go on – higher!” I hear a girl’s voice call out.

Glancing quickly around, I see Rich leaping, like a wonky jack-in-the-box, trying to touch or grab at one of the many butterflies in the air above and around him.

I also see the skinny girl from earlier, the one who was sneering out of the upstairs window of the pub. Her hair is dirty-dishwater brown and looks like it could do with a brush. And her bottle-green jumper and kilt-style skirt are a bit shabby and ill-fitting, as if they might be hand-me-downs worn by several girls along the way.

“Jump! No, not like
that
. Higher,
higher
!”

She’s laughing at Rich, egging him on.

“I
am
jumping high,” Rich yelps as he leaps. “Hey, c’mere, Mr Butterfly!”

“C’mere, Mr Butterfly!” the girl repeats.

I can’t bear it. I can’t bear people mimicking my brother, and I can’t
stand
this place.

“Come on, Rich,” I say, grabbing his hand without looking at the girl.

“Hey, what’s the matter with you?” I hear her call out, but don’t respond.

“Bye, bye!” Rich turns and yells to the girl, as he skips and hops to keep up with me. “Why are you cross, Glory? I was having fun!”

He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t always see that people are making a fool of him, which is why he needs me.

“I’m not cross,” I fib, as we approach the cottage. “I’m just thinking that we have to get back.”

“Yes!” says Rich, brightening. “The lady might have biscuits!”

I hadn’t meant get back to the cottage. I meant home, London.

That’s where we need to be, bombs or no bombs.