Catching Falling Stars by Karen McCombie Page B

that a lot better.
    “Sorry I’m late, Mr Carmichael,” I say hurriedly, slipping into my seat.
    Someone – a few someones – snigger around me.
    “Since it’s your first day, I’ll let you off, Miss Gilbert,” says the teacher, sounding less friendly than he had earlier. “But let this be the last time you’re tardy!”
    “Yes, sir,” I say, quickly lifting the lid of my desk to take out my slate and pencil and—
    “ EEEEEEEE!! ”
    The scream; it’s me.
    The bellows of laughter; that’s everyone else.
    “What on earth!” bellows Mr Carmichael.
    He takes two long strides and is by my side, seeing what I’m seeing.
    The snails, the countless snails oozing inside my desk and covering my slate, seem completely unbothered.
    “Who did this!” booms Mr Carmichael. “Own up now or the consequences will be much worse!”
    I’m not sure the rest of the class can even hear his words, they’re all howling and roaring so much.
    All except one person, who’s whistling the tune of “Land of Hope and Glory”…

 
    Four days.
    That’s how long we’ve survived school, me and my brother.
    I think I’ve come off best; no one would own up to putting snails in my desk on Monday, so everyone got punished, and now no one speaks to me. That’s all right; I prefer it like that. In fact, I’ve made sure it stays that way by being last to arrive in the morning (I hide behind the holly bush till I see everyone making their way into the church hall) and leaving last at the end of the day (Mr Carmichael appreciates my help tidying up).
    And lunchtimes are taken up with rushing to meet Rich and delivering him back to the cottage.
    Poor Rich.
    Every day is the same. The same fear, the same “accident”.
    Miss Saunders hasn’t said much about it, but since that first day she’s taken to sending Rich to school with a clean pair of underpants and shorts packed in his satchel, and a paper bag to bring home his wet things.
    Every afternoon, I’ve come back from school, seeing my brother’s newly washed clothes drying on a stand in front of the range, ready to be packed in his satchel “just in case”.
    Now it’s Friday, just gone noon, and I’m here at the primary school gates, watching as children bumble out into the arms of waiting mothers (I feel a twinge in my chest).
    “Rich!” I call out, seeing him jostled in the middle of a gang of kids who act like he’s invisible.
    He’s pale. White. Blue eyes red-rimmed.
    It’s happened again.
    “It’s all right, never mind,” I say as Rich reaches me.
    Then I see he’s got nothing in his hands. No soggy bag for me to take.
    “Rich?” I say, brightening. “No accidents today?”
    “Can we go?” he pleads, taking my hand.
    “Of course,” I say, moving away from the mums who are looking him up and down. I haven’t a lot of time anyway; I need to find out what’s going on, get him home and get myself back to school on time to keep on the right side of Mr Carmichael. “So what happened? Didn’t you need to use the loo today?”
    “I did! And I showed my teacher the note Auntie Sylvia wrote for me.”
    Rich takes a scrunched-up piece of paper from his pocket and passes it to me.
Dear Miss Montague,
As you will know, Richard Gilbert is currently in my charge. As his "guardian", I would request that you give him leave to use the lavatory if he should present you with this note.
I would greatly appreciate your consideration.
Yours sincerely,
Miss S. Saunders
    “When did Miss – I mean, Auntie Sylvia give you this?” I ask Rich, startled by Miss Saunders’ thoughtfulness. Or perhaps she just didn’t want to wash so many clothes.
    “When you were out collecting the eggs this morning,” he blinks up at me.
    His black eye has faded to yellowy-green, his eyebrow is beginning to grow back, he didn’t wet himself. This should be a good day, but it clearly isn’t.
    “So you showed this note to Miss Montague, and she let you go to the loo, right?” I say,