Catching Falling Stars by Karen McCombie

Author:Karen McCombie
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scholastic UK
Published: 2015-05-15T04:00:00+00:00

Auntie Sylvia’s tin of Epsom salts is coming in handy again.

She’s made a salve for the various burns on Rich’s hands.

One is his hero burn, from the rope he had wound tightly around one hand to keep Popeye from running off and into danger.

The others are stupidity burns. They’re dotted on his fingertips, where he picked molten-hot bullets from the road to keep as mementos.

Rich seems to think the stupidity burns were worth it; he’s staring at the row of dark metal bullets laid out on the kitchen table as if they’re precious jewels. Duckie and Mr Mousey are standing guard over them.

“My, my, will you look at that,” says Reverend Ashton, examining Rich’s injuries. “But you’re a strong little lad, Richard, and I’m sure those will heal in no time!”

The vicar has come to check on us after this morning’s drama.

And to let us know what happened to the plane – and its crew.

“So, the plane landed in the Wills’ wheat field rather than in the cattle fields?” Auntie Sylvia comments as she nurses, displaying an impressive knowledge of Eastfield Farm. “Lucky for the cows, I’d say.”

“And lucky for the crewmen that the field had just been ploughed,” adds Reverend Ashton. “They parachuted out seconds before the plane came down.”

“Quite the soft landing,” Auntie Sylvia comments, now winding a bandage round one of Rich’s hands.

“Yes, though it’s just as well I got to them at the same time as Harry Wills and the other young men,” Reverend Ashton adds with a wry smile, “or the airmen’s welcome might have been a lot more painful, what with the pitchforks and spades the lads were waving around!”

“Would they have hurt the pilot and his friends?” Rich asks, alarmed.

“Um, no … no, they wouldn’t, I’m sure,” Auntie Sylvia says quickly, to stop my brother from fretting. “They just had them as a precaution, in case the German pilot or his crew were armed.”

“Will they lock them up in the Tower of London?” asks Rich, his blue eyes wide at the prospect. “And put them in chains?”

“No. The police will arrange for them to be taken to a prisoner-of-war camp, Richard,” Auntie Sylvia explains. “They’ll be treated fairly and allowed to write letters home to their mothers, through the Red Cross, I expect.”

Suddenly, I remember the letter in my pocket, unsent and now crushed.

I’ll post it later; if Thorntree is now just as dangerous as London, we might as well be back there with our parents.

“And you’re not to worry yourself, young Richard,” says Reverend Ashton, about to give my brother a reassuring pat of the hand, till he thinks better of it. “I spoke to the military police, and they say this is a complete one-off. This pilot fellow was way off course, miles from where he should’ve been.”

Rich blinks at Reverend Ashton, hanging on his every word.

“The squadron he was part of dropped their bombs in the early hours and then headed back to base. So you see, our little corner of England is still the best, safest place for you to be.

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