As Mum bends to comfort and reassure Rich, I find myself shyly waving at the approaching farmer. He gives his cap a tug in reply.
I feel another hot wave of alarm.
The fact is, I’m smiling. The farmer is not.
He’s trudging, as if he has the weight of the world on his shoulders – which doesn’t seem very friendly to me.
“Uh, hello,” says the farmer as he reaches us. “Can I help you?”
He scratches at his long bushy sideburns, frowning, looking confused, as if he wasn’t expecting us at all.
“Mr Wills?” Mum asks warily, as if she’s wondering the same thing.
“Yes,” says the farmer.
Also coming across the field towards us is a young man, or maybe an older boy – I can’t tell yet.
“I’m Vera’s friend, Mrs Gilbert.”
The farmer seems taken aback and says nothing at first, so Mum babbles on.
“And these are my children, Glory and Richard. It’s very kind of you to take them in.”
Surely Mum must be getting worried by now. She must have been hoping for everything Vera promised: cheery smiles and waves, a jolly farmer, a loving father, a willing carer for us.
Not this frowning man, looking shifty, making my insides turn to jelly.
“Didn’t you get the message?” Mr Wills finally says.
“Message?” Mum says sharply.
“Glory, Glory, Glory?” says Rich, leaving Mum’s side for mine. “What’s happening? Isn’t that the man? Isn’t this the right farm? Is he cross? Is Mum cross? Aren’t we going to stay here? Is—”
“Shh.” I try to quiet Rich’s rising panic, while mine is doing the same. I pull him away to the side, so Mum and Mr Wills can sort out whatever the problem is.
“Look, I wrote to George and Vera last week,” says Mr Wills, shuffling from one welly to the other. “Told them about my roof. See?”
Our heads turn to look where he’s pointing, which is towards the farmhouse, its top storey visible above the hedgerows. At first glance it looks boringly normal, and then I see that one of its chimneys is missing. And I expect the chimney is now mostly somewhere inside the house, since there’s a sheet of tarpaulin on the roof, not very well held down by planks of wood.
“Cracking storm came by,” Mr Wills carries on. “Took the chimney clean off, and it came right through the roof, then tore down the ceilings on that side of the house.”
“Well, I’m very sorry about that. But it doesn’t seem that Vera or her husband received your letter, or she would’ve mentioned something,” Mum says curtly. “But the postal service has been rather unreliable where we are. Because of us being bombed, you see.”
Mum’s bright eyes are staring daggers at Mr Wills, as if she’s daring him to say what’s on his mind.
“Ah, yes … of course,” says Mr Wills, scratching his sideburns again and looking shamefaced. “But the trouble is—”
“We haven’t the money to fix the roof,” interrupts the older boy, who’s been walking across the field towards us. He definitely is an older boy (maybe sixteen or seventeen?) now I see him up close. “We’ve got buckets everywhere for when it rains. We can’t take your kids – there’s nowhere for them to sleep. Sorry.”
“What?” says Mum, livid now. Her face is flushing with anger, and the bruising on her jaw is becoming visible, even though she’s tried to cover it up with make-up. “Don’t you know what my children have been through?”
She jabs a finger towards me and Rich, at our obvious bumps, burns and scars. The older boy regards us with something that might be curiosity mixed with pity. I don’t like it. The farmer can’t seem to bring himself to look at us at all.
Just as well, or he might see the tears welling in my eyes as it all floods back: the day, the moment, the bomb. Of course, me, Mum and Rich survived the blast with our cuts and bruises and blisters. Betsy and Buttons – who hid in the coal cellar – didn’t break as much as a claw.
But Mrs Mann wasn’t so lucky.
The bomb turned the Taylors’ empty house into a pile of smoking bricks and flapping shreds of wallpaper. It made their chickens disappear in a puff of smoke, like a magician’s doves.
It lifted up the brick wall between our two gardens as though it was light as cardboard, and threw it on the back end of our shelter, right at the spot where Mrs Mann was sitting.
Oh, how I wish Mrs Mann hadn’t died, I think to myself as I blink back the threatening tears. Partly because I don’t want anyone I know to die, even if they are mean and cold-hearted and rude like she was. But mostly it’s because it’s Mrs Mann’s fault we’re here. I know that’s not really fair to her – and it’s more about the bomb dropping in our garden – but it feels as if Mrs Mann’s death has led us to this unknown place, where we’re unwelcome and unwanted…
“My cousin’s wife explained your, er, situation,” says Mr Wills, addressing his words to the muddy ground rather than Mum. “And I’m very sorry for what’s happened to you and your children, Mrs Gilbert. But I did try to let Vera know that it’s just not possible to—”
“Couldn’t you have tried a little harder to get your message through? Like phoning George or Vera at their work?” Mum snaps, her voice wobbly with emotion. “I mean, we’ve come all this way, and I’m not taking them back to London now. So what are we meant to do?”
“I suppose I could take the young lad,” says Mr Wills, glancing up nervously at Mum from under the peak of his cap. “He could bunk in with these two…”
He nods his head at something behind us, and we turn to see the two boys from the gate, who are now standing there, grinning. Same height, same cheeky smile, with both light hair and dark worn floppy on top and shorn hard at the sides.
“Glory, Glory, Glory?” mutters Rich, but a little too loudly.
Both the boys start sniggering, and don’t have the decency to stop when I glower at them.
“Mr Wills, my daughter saved her brother’s life; she dug him out of the wreckage of our shelter with her bare hands,” Mum says, trying to keep her voice steady.
I look away from the stupid, sniggering boys and stare down at my torn nails, which are slowly growing back.
“So I’m hardly going to have them parted now,” she continues. “Good day to you.”
Mum turns on her heels, which is difficult to do in the mud.
Both boys are forced to take a step back to get out of the way as me and Rich hurriedly follow her.
“Listen, I’m really very sorry,” the farmer calls after us as we gather our cases and bundles.
“Well, that’s as maybe,” says Mum, her voice properly wobbling now. “But it won’t keep my children from harm, will it?”
“Hold on, hold on,” says the older lad, suddenly scrambling over the fence in his muddy work boots. “I think I know who you could try. Miss Saunders in the village has a big enough place.”
The farmer shrugs at the name the older lad has mentioned, but says nothing. The two boys behind us just snigger some more. I throw them another sharp look, hoping to shame them in their rudeness, but all that happens is the fair-haired one whispers something to the dark-haired, scrawnier one, and they both burst out laughing. Are they laughing at my horrible scar?
Without thinking, I slap my hand over my cheek.
“Here, give me those,” says the older lad, gathering up my suitcase and Mum’s and stomping off down the lane towards the village. “I’ll show you where she lives.”
I might be lighter, carrying only the large, awkward parcel Lil insisted I take, but I’m no less clumsy as I walk, and nearly go flying on a slick of mud.
“Glory!” Rich says in alarm, as I right myself.
“It’s fine,” I tell him quickly, while cackles burst out behind us.
With my face on fire, I realize I’ve only seen three child
ren of my age since I arrived in Thorntree, and all of them have been as friendly as hornets.
You know, this Miss Saunders could live in a grand stately home, with horses to ride on and the finest Belgian chocolate for breakfast, but I’d still want to get the next bus home…
“No. It’s not possible, Harry. I’m sorry.”
I only see a sliver of the woman behind the door of the rose-covered cottage.
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 pu
t 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?”
Catching Falling Stars Page 3