Free Catching Falling Stars by Karen McCombie Page A

what’s it doing here?
    As I hold the soft toy, I hear voices downstairs in the garden, and go over to the open window.
    Miss Saunders and my brother; they’re both inside the chicken run, somewhere we’re forbidden to go.
    And Miss Saunders is doing something unexpected; she’s pouring chicken feed into Rich’s hand, and encouraging him to crouch down and let the hens eat from his palm.
    “It tickles!” I hear Rich giggle, as a black hen peck-pecks. He’s not scared or nervous or jumpy. Instead he’s reaching out a finger to gently stroke the shiny feathers of its neck.
    Miss Saunders watches, and doesn’t try to stop him.
    Has she just let him break one of her rules?
    Whatever next? Will she be ordering us to run around the house in muddy shoes?
    I don’t understand what’s happening, but something has changed.
    And if it keeps Rich safe and happy, I’m pleased.
    Even if I’m counting off every second we stay in this stupid village…

 
    “Bye, bye, Mr Mousey – be good till I get home from school.”
    Rich gives the knitted toy mouse a kiss and places it on his pillow.
    “It was mine as a child,” Miss Saunders told him over tea last night, in her usual tight-lipped, unsmiling way. “But you may keep it, Richard, if it’s a comfort, till your mother sends on your, er, Duckie…”
    Rich went to hug her, but Miss Saunders stood up and took dishes to the sink before he could reach her. Didn’t she realize what a compliment that was? No, of course not…
    “Come on,” I call back to him now, as I limp down the stairs. “I think breakfast must be nearly ready.”
    I’ve been hearing the clinking of dishes and cutlery the last few minutes and the smell of newly baked bread has been wafting up to the bedroom as I’ve hurried to get dressed.
    Though my throat feels so tight I’m not sure I’ll manage to swallow anything.
    School.
    That’s the problem.
    In no time at all I’ll have to make my way to the church hall, where the older children are being taught. Lucky Rich; with all the evacuee children in the area, the Thorntree primary school is overcrowded, and the classes have been split so that evacuees attend in the morning and local children after lunch.
    That means he’ll be back here soon after noon, while I’ll have to last for a whole day as the new girl in a room full of staring strangers.
    “Everything all right?” asks Miss Saunders, looking up from the bread she’s buttering.
    “Everything is lovely, Miss Saunders!” says Richard, overtaking me and gambolling to a seat at the table.
    But I know the question was aimed more at me than at my brother.
    “Yes, thank you, Miss Saunders,” I respond with a nod – and thankfully she nods back.
    We don’t have to embarrass Rich. Miss Saunders only needs to know that we slept well, with no accidents. In fact, Rich loved his exciting trip to the loo in the dark, with the “explorer’s” torch to light his way.
    “Good, good,” says Miss Saunders, as she pops bread on two plates and goes to check on the eggs that are bubbling and boiling in a pot on the range. “Now, Richard, Gloria … I just wanted to say that I hadn’t expected to end up with two children to look after. Just as I’m sure you hadn’t expected to end up staying here with me, I dare say.”
    She’s addressing this speech to the bubbling pot rather than us, so I’m not sure what to say or do except sit down opposite Rich.
    “But as it’s turned out this way, well, we must think of it as doing our duty. Part of the war effort. We must all just make the best of it.”
    Behind her back, I frown at Miss Saunders’ coolly delivered words. Over the table from me, Rich beams, as if she’s been as warm and welcoming as Father Christmas.
    “And anyway, even if the roof hadn’t been damaged, Mr Wills’ farm would have been quite unsuitable for you,” she carries on, reaching to take a large spoon from an earthenware utensil pot. “I mean, the very idea of placing