Free Catching Falling Stars by Karen McCombie Page B

evacuees in a household with no woman present…”
    “It’s not the farmer’s fault,” Rich pipes up. “Mum’s friend Vera said his wife die— passed away .”
    “Huh!” snorts Miss Saunders. “Is that the story people are believing? No, no… Mrs Wills ran off years ago. And now it’s just him, and those boys he lets run wild.”
    The way she said “him”, it’s clear that Miss Saunders has no great love for Mr Wills. I know I’m only thirteen, and it’s not my place to ask about the mystery of missing wives or what’s wrong with the farmer exactly, but at least there’s something else I think I can find out and still sound polite.
    “I know Harry’s the older one,” I say, “and there’s a younger son called Lawrence. But there was another boy at the farm on Saturday…”
    And laughing behind the graveyard wall yesterday, I could add but don’t. I’d rather not be reminded.
    “A thin sort of boy? Dark hair?” Miss Saunders checks, and I nod. “That’ll be the evacuee who’s been staying with them this last year. Archie, I think I’ve heard him called.”
    So that means the boy with the browny-blond hair must be Lawrence. Archie and Lawrence. Please, please don’t let me be sitting anywhere near them at school today.
    “Now,” Miss Saunders carries on, while turning back to the eggs, “to make things more … more homely , perhaps you should call me Auntie Sylvia. Would that be all right?”
    I’m so taken aback, I don’t know what to say for a second. What’s surprised me more? That Miss Saunders wants us to call her “auntie”, or that she thinks being stuck here could feel “homely”?
    Rich doesn’t bother speaking either. With a screech of his chair, he’s on his feet and rushing to hug her.
    Miss Saunders – Auntie Sylvia? – stands holding the pot with one hand and the spoon in the other and seems uncertain what to do about the small boy wrapped around her waist.
    “Well, I’m glad you approve,” she says at last. “Now sit back down at the table, Richard, and let’s get you two some breakfast. One egg or two, Gloria?”
    “Just one,” I reply, sliding into a chair. And then I think about adding something else, just to see what it feels like. But the words “Auntie Sylvia” stick in my throat.
    They feel wrong. Peculiar.
    In fact, I feel like this whole day might be very peculiar indeed…
     
    “Pssst!”
    I ignore the noise. I’ve been ignoring it most of the morning. It happens every time Mr Carmichael turns round and writes something on the board.
    “PSSSSST!”
    I think it’s the girl making the noise this time. I found out her name when register was called; she’s Jessica, Jess for short.
    Her pals Lawrence and Archie have been guilty of it too, of course. It’s like listening to pipes hissing steam all around me.
    But I don’t react. It’s what Mum always said to Rich about the teasing that went on at his school back home: if you react to it, the bullies will keep pestering you. If you ignore them, they may give up and go away, if you’re lucky.
    Of course, Rich isn’t always lucky.
    Oh, how is he getting on? I wonder and worry.
    When I took Rich to school this morning, he clung to my hand and repeated his “Glory, Glory, Glory!”s, and straight away children were staring at him. The teacher, Miss Montague, didn’t seem very kind either. I tried to say that Rich was a bit sensitive, but you could tell she held no truck with such nonsense. She simply reached over and snatched Rich’s hand from mine, saying that no one got special treatment from her; everyone was treated in the same, fair way.
    “Please be all right, Rich,” I mutter now, gripping my slate pencil so tightly my knuckles go white.
    And I’m not only worrying about his time in lessons; how will he manage making his own way home to the cottage? Rich has never gone to or from school without either me or Mum holding his hand. I know it’s not far, but what if he gets lost? Or