Free Four Waifs on Our Doorstep by Trisha Merry Page B

much as you like up there. Kick the furniture if you want. It’s your furniture, so if you damage it, you’re only harming yourself. Make as much
noise as you want. Nobody will hear you, so that’s fine. But don’t come down until you are ready to start the day again.’
    He looked as if he was going to refuse, and for a moment I wondered how I would deal with that. But the fire fizzled out. He turned around and stomped off, up the stairs. I heard the door slam,
but nothing more for a couple of hours. I emptied his jar in front of the other three, leaving just 4p at the bottom, and they looked as subdued as I felt. This was a big setback for seven-year-old
Hamish and I worried what would happen next.
    The house was unusually calm after that outburst. The two girls played quietly together for once in the playroom. Simon sat by a box of cars, taking them out one at a time and opening their
doors, opening and shutting the boot, or whatever else a particular car had on it. At least he was doing something. I was baking in the kitchen when I heard a sound behind me.
    I turned round to see Hamish standing in the doorway, shifting from one foot to the other, his face a mixture of embarrassment and pleading, like a puppy who’s just made a big puddle on
the best carpet. He looked so uncomfortable and unsure of himself.
    ‘Hello, Hame. Are you feeling better now?’
    ‘Yes,’ he said, barely audible.
    ‘Good. Then you can come over here and give me a hug.’ I held my arms wide and hoped that would break the ice for him.
    He hesitated for only a couple of seconds, shrinking back like a wounded animal, then ran over and gave me that hug. I cuddled him, the flour from my hands all over his T-shirt, as I felt his
tense little body relax.
    ‘Look what a mess I’ve made on you,’ I laughed.
    ‘Sorry,’ he whispered. Then louder, ‘I’m sorry I was so horrible.’
    ‘You’re not horrible, Hame.’ I ruffled his hair, growing through at last. ‘It’s not you. It’s all that happened to you. All the responsibilities you had to
take on. It must have been a very hard life for you. It’s not your fault if remembering all that makes you angry sometimes. We must help you learn to cope with that anger. The only thing you
did wrong was to take your temper out on your sisters and me.’
    ‘Sorry,’ he repeated, looking up at me with his sad brown eyes.
    ‘It’s all gone and forgotten,’ I reassured him. ‘Now sit down and I’ll make you some breakfast. And after that we’ll go shopping.’
    That made him smile. Then his face clouded over again.
    ‘What are you thinking about now?’
    ‘I like going shopping every day,’ he said. ‘And making sure we have enough food. But . . .’
    ‘But what, Hame?’
    ‘Well, do you think we could buy some food for my mum too?’
    I put some bacon on and filled a big bowl with cereals and milk for him. ‘How could we get it to her?’
    ‘Well, we could buy her some sandwiches when we go to the supermarket.’
    ‘Yes, we could if you want, but we can’t send sandwiches through the post.’
    He looked serious, thinking about that as he scooped up spoonfuls of cornflakes into his mouth. ‘Could you go to my mum and give her the sandwiches?’
    ‘It’s a long way to go, Hame. Do you remember, when you came here? It was a long drive, wasn’t it? About a hundred miles I should think.’
    ‘Yes, I suppose so . . . but she might be hungry.’
    ‘Does she not go shopping herself?’
    ‘No, I don’t think so. She only had food sometimes when Dad was living there, or when the social workers brought it for her.’
    ‘I see.’
    ‘Dad’s gone to Scotland and I think the social workers only came because we were there.’ He paused. ‘So who’s going to make sure she has some milk?’
    ‘Isn’t she expecting another baby?’ I asked him. I think it was Carol who had told me that. ‘I expect the social workers will still be visiting her if she’s going
to have a