Catching Falling Stars (4 page)

So this morning we had the difficult job of saying goodbye to Dad before he left for the factory. “Here; buy yourselves a treat!” he’d said, and me and Rich stared down at the shiny silver sixpences he pressed into our palms. Before we knew it, he was hugging the breath out of us both and then hurrying off with a gruff “Take care,” shouted over his shoulder.

“Will there be cows, Mum?” Rich asks, bumbling clumsily along with his bags and boxes.

Yes, Dad will miss us dreadfully, but he won’t miss questions like this. Those questions Rich asks over and over again when he’s anxious, no matter how well they’re answered.

“I think so, but I’m not sure,” Mum says for the hundredth time. “Vera’s never visited the farm, so she doesn’t know if Mr Wills grows wheat or beanstalks, or keeps sheep or elephants!”

Rich laughs, and the laughing means he’ll stop worrying for a little while and won’t ask his question again straight away.

“Look, there’s a sign up there – what does it say, Rich?” I ask, distracting him too.

“East … field … Farm,” Rich squints and reads slowly. “That’s it! We’re here!”

He runs ahead excitedly, though slowed by his clunking luggage. Mum and I smile at each other and quicken our pace to catch him up.

The sign points us down a rutted, muddy lane, with a wide gate at the end, the sort you see in fields. There are two boys sitting on it, wearing shirts and pullovers, long shorts and wellies. They watch us struggle towards them, and the dark-haired skinnier one of the two looks as though he’s about to jump off and help – till the one with fairer hair puts an arm out and stops him.

Are these Mr Wills’ sons? I’m confused… Vera told us that the farmer is a widower, with one younger and one older son. But both these lads look roughly about twelve or thirteen years old, around the same age as me maybe. Does Mr Wills have
three
sons? I wouldn’t be surprised. Vera seemed vague about the details. It’s her husband’s cousin, after all.

Beyond the unhelpful boys I can see a messy yard, littered with tractor paraphernalia, and chickens pecking at the straw and stone-speckled ground. It looks about as picturesque as the coalman’s place round the corner from our flat. Or the rubble-strewn wasteland that was the Taylors’ house and our back garden just a fortnight ago.

My tummy lurches in alarm. What is this place we’ve come to? Yes, we’ll be safe from the Luftwaffe and their bombs and strafing guns, but Mr Wills and his sons … they’re just strangers to us. How can this farm, this family, replace Mum and Dad and home?

“Hello,” Mum calls out to the boys, as she daintily picks her way down the lane in her patent, high-heeled, Sunday-best shoes. “Is Mr Wills here?”

“In the field,” says the fair-haired boy, lazily thrusting his thumb in the direction of a gate in the hedge to the left of us. His hair is the same colour as the dirty straw littering the farmyard.

“Right,” murmurs Mum, turning to look in the field and seeing a man on a noisy tractor. “Here goes. Mr Wills! MR WILLS!!”

Nothing. The tractor chugs on.

“Glory, Glory, Glory?” says Rich, squeezing my hand.

“Don’t worry,” I tell my nervy, worried little brother. “He’ll hear.”

“He’ll hear
this.
”

Then my dainty, ladylike, pretty mum startles us by putting two fingers in her mouth and letting out the loudest, most piercing whistle I’ve ever heard.

It works! The farmer looks round, sees he has visitors and switches off the grumbling engine of his tractor.

“Where did you learn to do that?” I ask Mum, as the farmer ambles towards us.

“It’s loud in the factory. Sometimes it’s the only way to get someone’s attention,” Mum replies with a pleased grin, which changes to a look of concern when she sees that Rich has his hands slapped over his ears. “Oh, sorry, sweetheart … I didn’t mean to startle you.”

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 children 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.