Free Catching Falling Stars by Karen McCombie

as she puts the biscuit tin down and starts rummaging around in a tall cupboard by the back door. “I still think it’s silly that a grown-up boy of seven is scared to go to the lavatory in the night, and scared of gentle creatures such as spiders. But I really can’t tolerate a situation like this morning again. So here; if it helps, you can have this.”
    She takes an old-fashioned silver torch from a shelf and hands it to Rich. His mouth goes in an “o” shape.
    “It belonged to my father,” says Miss Saunders. “You may borrow it while you’re here, to light your way to the lavatory in the dark. But no wasting the battery, now!”
    “I won’t, I promise,” Rich says, turning the torch around in his hands and examining it in wonder, as if he’s been given a bar of pure gold.
    “And here’s something else. Perhaps you could take these up to your room, Gloria?” Miss Saunders takes out two items and hands them to me. The one on the bottom is a heavy rubber sheet, cold and clammy to the touch. The one on the top is a very pretty, ornately decorated potty that looks like it might be Victorian.
    She’s given me these to help combat any middle-of-the-night accidental wees, which is kind of embarrassing … yet I’m strangely touched. It must mean she accepts that Rich is a shy little boy who might have trouble settling in. And it means she’s happy – or at least resigned – to having us here.
    Of course, if we’re staying, I’ll have to work up the courage to talk to her about what I like to be called.
    And don’t they say there’s no time like the present?
    “Thank you,” I tell Miss Saunders; then, before I lose my nerve, I add something. “By the way, my name is just Glory. If you could call me that, I’d appreciate it.”
    There. Pleasantly put, and polite with it. Mum would be proud.
    “Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Miss Saunders says bluntly. “I don’t hold with pet names, Gloria.”
    I feel my face flush, and an argument is bursting to escape from my lips. But why bother? I’m sure Miss Saunders is as likely to listen to my request as those horrible children back at the church are to become my best friends.
    And so I bite my lip and I head through the passage to the sitting room, where the steep staircase hides behind the door in the wall.
    “Oh, by the way, Gloria…”
    Miss Saunders has followed me, and her voice has dipped low, presumably because she’s about to say something she doesn’t want Rich to hear.
    Perhaps she’s going to reprimand me for being so forward.
    Or perhaps she’s got an ultimatum for me. One last chance and then – if Rich has another accident, or we damage her property – we’re out.
    “I asked Reverend Ashton if he’d heard anything of last night’s air raid on London,” says Miss Saunders. “Apparently the docks were hit. Your family doesn’t live in that part of the city, do they?”
    “No!” I reply, my heart flipping with happiness. “Thanks … thank you, Miss Saunders.
    She gives me the briefest nod in reply, and disappears back into the passage.
    “Right, now I have a chore for you , Richard,” I hear her call out, as I blink back tears of relief and begin to clamber up the narrow stairs.
    Walking into our room, I see that everything except the upended, still airing mattress has been tidied away. The hatbox is back on its shelf. Clean bedding is neatly stacked on the little cane chair. The spot on the rug where my foot bled is clean and damp from scrubbing.
    And most surprising of all, I notice something else: Miss Saunders must have found Rich’s spare pyjamas in one of the drawers (I had to push old Mrs Saunders’ things to one side to make way for ours).
    The stripy pyjamas are laid out on top of the chest of drawers, and on top of them is a tiny toy mouse.
    Placing the sheet and the potty on the dressing table, I reach down for the mouse. It’s hand-knitted and old-fashioned. A toy from Miss Saunders’ own childhood, maybe? But