Catching Falling Stars

by Karen McCombie

  “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.

  “Now, Richard,” says Miss Saunders, pulling up a chair and settling herself down next to him. “There’s nothing in this world that can’t be sorted. But equally, nothing can be sorted if you don’t talk about a problem.”

  It sounds like something a wise owl would say. Or perhaps a teacher. A nice one, I mean.

  “Is it Miss Montague? Did she upset you again?” I ask Rich, as I fish around for what’s troubling him.

  “I – I did a wrong thing, Auntie Sylvia,” says Rich, directing his words to Miss Saunders rather than me.

  “What was the wrong thing, Richard?” she asks him in a measured voice, sounding neither cosy nor cross.

  Richard takes a shuddering big breath.

  “I was feeling a bit lonely, so I – I took Mr Mousey to school today, in my pocket.”

  Rich bites his lip, tears trembling in his eyes, waiting for the wrath of Miss Saunders.

  “Are you trying to say you lost him, Richard?” she asks, still in that measured tone of voice.

  Not Miss Saunders’ childhood toy! My brother wasn’t that careless, was he?

  “No,” he says, shaking his head. “I came back from the lav, and I was whispering to Mr Mousey, telling him I did it, I did it! But Miss Montague saw and got very angry and consif – consifitated—”

  “Confiscated it?” I help him out.

  “Uh-huh,” Rich mumbles with a barely there nod. “Are you very angry, Auntie Sylvia?”

  Miss Saunders stares at my brother, her lips as thin and tight as I’ve ever seen them.

  “Yes, I am, Richard,” she announces, standing up and grabbing her jacket from the peg on the back of the kitchen door. “Come on, come with me!”

  “What?” I burst out, unsure what’s happening. “But Rich didn’t mean— I mean, it’s not really his fault!”

  I’m following Miss Saunders out of the cottage and round the green, babbling apologies and explanations of Rich and his funny little habits and sounding desperate and rambling and scared. Rich is simply white-faced and panic-eyed as he hurries and scurries after us.

  “Shush – calm yourselves!” Miss Saunders orders us, as her long strides direct us towards the primary school.

  Acting like she owns the place, Miss Saunders shoves open the gate to the playground and swoops through the heavy blue swing doors of the small Victorian building.

  Clack-clack-clack go her sensible brown shoes along the corridor. Then she pauses at a classroom door, just long enough to rat-a-tat on the glass panel.

  Before anyone inside has a chance to say “Come in”, Miss Saunders places a hand firmly on Rich’s back, propelling him into the room ahead of her.

  Unsure what I’m meant to do, I follow far enough to hover at the doorway, and see Miss Saunders and my brother standing in front of the teacher’s desk. Miss Montague – a sandwich halfway to her mouth – seems shell-shocked at the interruption to her lunch.

  “Can I help you?” she asks frostily.

  “No – I’m going to help you, Miss Montague. I’m going to help you understand something here,” Miss Saunders says in a voice so taut it could break. “Have you noticed Richard’s legs?”

  Miss Montague lets her eyes drop to Rich’s skinny calves, the pink blister marks visible – as usual – because of his fallen socks.

  “Well, yes,” says Miss Montague, her nostrils flaring, as if she’s regarding some kind of slum child skin condition with barely hidden disgust. Same as Miss Saunders did on Sunday, when she saw Rich in his bath. The thought of that makes me touch my own ugly, puckered scar on my cheek.

  “And this?” says Miss Saunders, pointing to Rich’s healing black eye and peculiar, stubbly eyebrow. “Do you know how this happened?”

  “I presume he’d been in a fight at his old—”

  “And this?” Miss Saunders barges on, pulling up the sleeves of Rich’s bottle-green jumper.

  His arms are a criss-cross of scratches and burns, some deeper and fiercer than others.

  Miss Montague now frowns, sensing something more serious is being shown to her.

  “His whole body is covered with injuries like these, Miss Montague, because Richard and his family were caught in a bomb blast. A bomb blast in which someone died. Didn’t Reverend Ashton explain that to you when he told you a new evacuee would be joining your class?”

  I’m holding my breath, hardly able to believe what I’m hearing. Miss Saunders is totally on Richard’s side. She is his champion, riding into battle with the dragon that is Miss Montague.

  “Well, Reverend Ashton said something about Richard’s home being damaged in a raid, but I didn’t realize the black eye and the marks on his legs were injuries or—”

  “This young boy – a boy of only seven – has been through an experience adults such as ourselves can barely imagine,” Miss Saunders carries on regardless. “So I’ll thank you to show him a modicum of kindness and understanding from now on, Miss Montague. Starting with the return of his toy mouse, please.”

  Rich is staring up at Miss Saunders, a little puzzled by what’s happening and some of the words she’s using, but liking the sound of this last part, I’m sure.

  “I – I – didn’t realize. If I’
d known…” Miss Montague fumbles for words at the same time as she fumbles in her desk, then hands the knitted mouse to my brother.

  “Thank you!” Rich gushes, cuddling it close.

  “Good day to you,” says Miss Saunders, sweeping out of the classroom so quickly I nearly trip over my feet in an effort to get out of the way.

  I might be off-balance, but one thing’s for sure: I’m positive I saw the faintest hint of a smile on Miss Saunders’ face as she breezed by me just now…

  There’s a soft moan, and I quickly switch off the torch.

  I stay still as a statue, trying not to rustle the letter in my hand.

  Good – his breathing is becoming soft and steady again.

  Click.

  In the soft yellow torchlight, I watch Rich snuggled up beside me, deep in sleep.

  Today, my brother has gone from being the most upset I’ve ever seen him to the happiest. Right now his tummy is full of apple crumble (double helpings), he’s reunited with Duckie (the parcel Miss Saunders mentioned earlier was from Mum), and his old toy and Mr Mousey get on famously. You can tell from the way they’re both snuggled in Rich’s arms, duck beak smushed up against mouse whiskers.

  So it’s safe to read again, although I know Mum’s short letter off by heart already.

  My darling Glory and sweet boy Rich…

  Hope this letter finds you well. Dad and I are fine and busy, busy, busy with work.

  Guess what: we have new neighbours! A Mr and Mrs Jones have rented Mrs Mann's old flat, and very nice they seem too.

  Yesterday, we had an unexpected visitor. Mr Taylor popped by yesterday to see the state of his dear old home …he and Mrs Taylor are living with relatives till they see what's what. But wouldn't you know it, he's planning on rebuilding his chicken coop as soon as he can get his hands on some netting, so we shall expect some squawking around here again!

  Anyway, Rich - here is your darling Duckie. I gave him a big kiss to pass on from Dad and me!

  Glory - I hope you are looking after your little brother well and being helpful and courteous to Miss Saunders.

  And both of you - look out for a big surprise coming your way soon!

  Love always,

  Mum and Dad xxxx

  PS Buttons and Betsy send purrs!

  Carefully, I fold the letter, slip it back into its envelope and place it on the table beside me. Clicking the torch off, I rest it down too, then slip oh-so-gently out of bed and pad to the curtained window.

  Sleep won’t come easily, I’m sure; there’s too much to think about. So all I want to do is lay my head on the cool glass of the windowpane, look out into the inky darkness of the countryside and wonder… Wonder what Mum’s big surprise is (food? sweets? clothes?) and wonder at how marvellous Miss Saunders was today. How could I have got her so wrong? It wasn’t till I was hurrying back to school that I realized something really important. On Sunday, when I caught her staring at Rich in the bath, it wasn’t disgust on her face, it was despair. Despair that this skinny little boy – singing happily to himself in the tub – had to bear these wounds of war.

  She might not be as free with smiles and hugs as Mum, but after her rant at Rich’s teacher earlier, I know that Miss Saunders does care – about my brother, at least, which is fine by me.

  And as long as Rich is all right, then I can muddle through.

  I can put up with living in this silent, polished house with our odd “Auntie Sylvia”. Same as I can put up with being shunned at school and—

  But what’s that?

  For the second time in a few minutes, I stay still as a statue, head tilted, listening.

  There … a sound I’d never expected to hear in the cottage.

  Music.

  I tiptoe across the cold wooden floorboards, the softness of the rug, more floorboards, and find my slippers.

  With only the faintest squeak, I open the bedroom door and make my way slowly, slowly down the stairs, my toes feeling for telltale creaks on the way.

  The wooden door at the foot of the stairs – it’s closed, but a soft glow from the fringed lampshade floods through the cracks.

  And the music … it’s the sound of a piano being played as softly as it’s possible to play; notes in a tune being slowly picked out.

  I know the tune. It’s something old-fashioned, from the time of the Great War, I think.

  “If you were the only girl in the world, and I was the only boy…” I mouth along to the melody, as I stand on the bottom step and lean against the cold wall.

  Hearing music again is so wonderful. It makes me yearn for evenings by the fire at home, the wireless on, Lil flinging her skirts and dancing, Mum singing along while Dad smiles – and Mrs Mann thumps on the ceiling with her stick. Ha!

  The laugh catches me out, and I slap my hand across my mouth to contain it. But my elbow catches the door … and it swings gently open.

  “Gloria!” says Miss Saunders, sitting at the piano and looking as guilty as if I’d caught her sitting there buck-naked and not in a fastened-to-the-neck blue dressing gown.

  “Sorry, Miss Saunders!” I gasp, feeling just as caught-out and exposed. “I heard the music … it was so pretty!”

  Miss Saunders looks like she’s about to order me back to bed, then appears to think better of it.

  “Come in and shut the door, for goodness’ sake, before we wake your brother.”

  I pad down one final step, shut the door behind me, and wonder what to do with myself. Since I’m still uncertain what Miss Saunders’ opinion of me is, I reckon the best option is to stand right next to the piano and take up as little room as possible.

  Miss Saunders gazes at me for a second through her wire-rimmed spectacles, and I notice for the first time that her eyes are grey too. Silvery-grey as granite in this light.

  She let her wrists sink, but her fingers still rest on the ivory-white and shiny black keys.

  “I’m sorry, Gloria,” she says finally.

  I’m not sure what she’s sorry for, so I mumble an awkward “S’all right.”

  “No, it’s not. I haven’t been totally … welcoming to you this week, and you must forgive me. I really am unused to visitors – over the years we had them so very rarely, my parents and I. Except for the doctor, that is,” says Miss Saunders. “And it’s been so long since I gave up teaching that I’d quite forgotten how to speak to children.”

  Shyly, I rub my goose-pimply arms and smile at her, trying to think what to say next. Then I remember that Mum always says that a compliment is like a gift.

  “You play well,” I tell her.

  “Oh, not any more!” Miss Saunders laughs, glancing down at the keys again. “I haven’t played this out-of-tune thing for years, Gloria.”

  “Please call me, Glory, Miss Saunders,” I say softly, the words tumbling from my mouth before I can stop myself.

  Miss Saunders studies me carefully for an unnerving moment or two.

  “Very well, Glory,” she says finally. “But only if you will call me Auntie Sylvia.”

  I nod, and we smile at each other, which feels nice.

  Then Miss Saunders’ – Auntie Sylvia’s – fingers start to move, playing the same song over again, and this time I sing softly along to it.

  And this time, I see for certain that Auntie Sylvia is smiling.

  Laughing, in fact.

  But it’s not because of my singing; it’s because of something in the now open stairwell doorway – a felt duck and knitted mouse who’re waltzing together in Rich’s arms…

  “Oh, this is beautiful,” I say.

  “The attic?” laughs Auntie Sylvia. “Why, Glory – it’s practically a zoological park for spiders up here!”

  She stands on the ladder and passes me a box that’s packed with her mother’s clothes from downstairs. There’s another wa
iting to be handed to me, and two stuffed suitcases are already up here. We really have worked hard together this morning, clearing old Mrs Saunders’ things from the bedroom, and other parts of the house as well.

  “No, this!” I say, shoving the box under the eaves and shuffling along on my knees till I can reach out and run my fingers over a black enamel-painted sewing machine. Curlicues of gold meander their way across it, which is made more obvious now that I’m brushing a woolly layer of dust away.

  “You know, I used to make all my own clothes,” says Auntie Sylvia with a smile, her head and shoulders poking through the trapdoor. “But, well, Mother didn’t like the racket it made, so I told Father he might as well store it up here.”

  Mrs Saunders Senior must have ruled this cottage and its inhabitants with a rod of iron from her sickbed. But since last night, when Auntie Sylvia played that sweet old-fashioned tune on the piano, it’s as if the genie has been let out of its bottle. The whole mood in the house is definitely lighter and brighter this morning.

  And while Rich has been busy feeding the hens, introducing them to Duckie and Mr Mousey and going off on an errand to the shop, I’ve been more than happy to help Auntie Sylvia with her out-of-season spring clean.

  “Our flat back in London is on the ground floor, so we don’t have an attic,” I say, gazing around at the treasure trove of interesting chests and pictures and bric-a-brac. “All that’s upstairs from us is another flat, where Mrs Mann used to live… But Mum said in her letter that some very nice new people have moved in.”

  “Your mother must miss you very much,” Auntie Sylvia says quite kindly. “And your father.”

  I feel a prickle of tears in my eyes at the mention of Mum and Dad.

  “And you must miss your parents,” I say, thinking – with a twinge of yearning – that Mum would be proud of me for that adult and thoughtful comment.