Catching Falling Stars Read Online Free PDF Page A

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.
    I can tell she’s tall, and see a glint of round wire spectacles, but that’s it.
    The door is open so little and the farmer’s son is so broad and muscly that I don’t have much of a view.
    “But it’s your civic duty, Miss Saunders,” Harry says staunchly.
    We’ve already found out Harry’s name on the way here. His brother, Lawrence, is one of the sniggering boys we met, but I’m not sure which one; I didn’t look closely enough to be able to spot the family resemblance. I don’t know who the other boy is. Harry was too busy asking us all about London and the bombing that was going on. He sounded ever so excited by it, as if it was the plot of an adventure film at the cinema and not our real, frightening, new way of life.
    But he doesn’t understand what it’s really like.
    Scrabbling from under piles of hot rubble, not knowing if your family is dead or alive, finding out someone has died just a few feet away from you; that’s awful, shocking, terrifying, not exciting. (Poor, poor moany Mrs Mann…)
    “I do my part, Harry Wills, thank you very much,” says this Miss Saunders, obviously enjoying the conversation about as much as I enjoyed having a melting-hot nugget of shrapnel removed from my cheek soon after me and Rich stumbled out of the ruins of the Anderson shelter.
    “What, because you grow some vegetables? Donate to salvage sales?” Harry practically sneers. “Well, suit yourself, Miss Saunders. I’ll show these kids back to the bus stop. They should be back in London in time for bed – and the next air raids.”
    Harry turns and goes to pick up our suitcases, but Mum stops him.
    “Thank you so much, Harry, you’ve been very kind, but we’ll be fine. You get on back to