The Apple Tart of Hope Read Online Free PDF Page B

slumped-looking blanket, full of holes, and two sad, crumpled bags huddled together like frightened people. The man was a maze of wrinkles and his hands were dirty. Tears made shiny branchlike patterns on his cheeks.
    In the gentlest voice I could find, I asked him what he was doing.
    â€œOh dear me,” he said. “Would you take my dog, please.” He didn’t look at us. He kept staring into the water as if there was something there that he had lost.
    â€œI left Homer safe, away from the sea,” he continued, “and I’ve written to the RSPCA and he was going to be absolutely fine, but the silly fellow followed me down here and I can’t persuade him otherwise.”
    The dog sat uncertainly beside the man. The man’s voice was flat and kind of distant and unexpectedly posh.
    â€œThat dog, goodness, but he’s always had an unrivaled ability to sniff, and he’s found me here and for the most part, he’s a great boy—aren’t you, Homer?—but you see . . . just at this minute, I’d much rather be alone.”
    I knelt on the knobbly granite. Homer came over to me and took a few good sniffs and he must have concluded that I was okay and that I could be trusted because he rested his chin on my knee for a few seconds before resuming his nervous trotting.
    â€œWill I take the dog?” Meg whispered, and I knew she was doing her best to be helpful.
    â€œNo, Meggy, the dog stays,” I whispered back.
    And right then, I knew that the things I said to him were going to be important and so I thought for a few moments about exactly what I was going to say and then, as clearly and slowly as I could, I started to talk.
    â€œI know what you might be thinking here on your own, but those thoughts won’t last forever,” I said. “You won’t always feel like this. This will pass. Homer will be here for you, and the sun will rise and you’ll find your reasons again, the ones you think have deserted you. Isn’t that right, Meg?” I said, turning to her as hints of a new summer morning started to rustle and stir and birds began to sing.
    The man told us his name was Barney. Barney Brittle. He put his head in his hands and spoke in this low, exhausted voice: “Children, you’re both very kind, but please take my dog and leave me. I would much rather you went back to your homes, thank you. This does not concern you. I would like to be left in peace.” Nobody moved for what felt like a long time.
    I knew it was time. I delved into my bag and pulled out the box made of white card, and I had to lift it quite delicately, because apple tarts are fragile and this one was important. I presented it to Barney.
    â€œHere,” I said, “I made this for you.”
    Barney lifted his head and looked at me holding out the box to him.
    â€œHow on earth could you have made something for me? You’ve only just met me.”
    His eyes shone suddenly with something brighter and more curious than you might have expected to see right then in the face of that old man.
    He took a slice and held it up to his face and he closed his eyes and breathed in deeply.
    â€œI must admit,” he said, “that does smell rather good.”
    â€œRather good?” I’d scolded him, putting on a fake offended voice and trying to lighten the atmosphere a bit. “Em, I think you’ll find that it’s a bit better than rather good.”
    â€œOh will I now?” said Barney, but you could see that he was warming to the apple tart, and to us.
    He took a bite. And he closed his eyes and after another minute or two he said, “That, my goodness, that is quite something.”
    â€œSee,” I said, and I started to feel relieved, and proud and happy.
    â€œOh my gosh,” said Barney, “did you really make this yourself? I haven’t tasted anything like that since, since . . . I’ve never tasted