Footprints in the Sand. Eleanor Jones

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      CHAPTER SEVEN

      WHEN BRYN FIRST ARRIVED at Long Meadows, he didn’t want to like it there. He wanted to stay safe in the familiarity of Appletree, with Mrs. Dibble and all his friends—especially Elsa.

      Elsa. She preyed on his mind all the time. Ever since that first day at Appletree, when she’d stood there in front of him, a snarling, spitting lion cub, he had somehow felt she was his responsibility. It was up to him to help her overcome whatever demons drove her into the sad and lonely space that no one else could enter. And he had come so close to getting there. The day before Mrs. Dibble announced that Appletree would be closing, Elsa had started to talk to him—real words, not just her usual “yes” or “no.” She had even begun to tell him about a place she loved, Jenny Brown’s Bay, named after a woman who’d lived there hundreds of years ago. It had taken more than two years for Elsa to really trust him, and then they’d been torn apart. She would probably end up just like she was when he first saw her in the dining hall at Appletree.

      Tears welled in his eyes and he tightened his fists. Boys didn’t cry; his father had taught him that. Boys faced up to their responsibilities. As the car slid to a halt, memories of his father came back to him—a tall, strict imposing, man. And his mother...his mother was a dreamer, an artist who lived in an airy-fairy world. She had dark hair and eyes, like him, and was slightly built. Was he a dreamer, too?

      The car door opened and the sun streamed in, sun that would stay with Bryn for his entire time at Long Meadows, even when the rain came down.

      The building was white and freshly painted, with wooden window frames and a deep green front door. It opened as the children approached, revealing a plump, motherly woman with the biggest smile Bryn had ever seen.

      “Hello, children,” she welcomed them. “Lunch is ready. After that I’ll get someone to show you around.”

      Her voice held the soft lilt of Wales, Bryn’s home country. It made him feel comfortable and more relaxed than he’d been since they’d dragged Elsa away from him. She’d looked so dejected as they drove off, a small, lonely figure with none of her fierceness showing at all. What would happen to her now? What would she do without him?

      “Come on, Bryn,” urged Billy Sharp, patting him on the back. “Stop mooning over that crazy Elsa, you’re well rid of her anyway. Let’s go see our new home.”

      “He’s right, you know,” added Ashley.

      She looked at him with a knowing expression, gazing down from her lofty height. He suddenly felt uncomfortable under her close scrutiny.

      “But she doesn’t have anyone else,” he mumbled. “And she’s not crazy, she’s scared.”

      “We’re all scared, but we don’t act like her,” Ashley said, an angry edge in her voice.

      Billy pulled a face. “You’re just jealous, Ash.”

      “Now really, children.”

      The plump lady scowled at them, revealing a hidden glimpse of steel.

      All four children spoke in unison. “Sorry, Mrs....”

      “Evans,” she finished. “Where are your manners? We don’t put up with bickering at Long Meadows.”

      “My name is Evans, too,” Bryn chirped, and she smiled again, placing a hand on his head.

      “Bryn Evans, I believe,” she said, surveying the four pairs of eyes that stared cautiously back at her. “And you three must be Ashley, Tom and Billy. Now tell me which of you is which.”

      That introduction set the tone for life at Long Meadows. Bronwen Evans was not unlike Martha Dibble—strict but fair—yet she had a gentleness about her that Martha lacked, a motherly side that made every child feel cared for. Bryn wished again and again that Elsa could be here. She would like Mrs. Evans.

      At Appletree, the children had slept in large rooms with five or six beds, but here they were just two to a room. He was sharing with Tom Bradley, and he was glad about that. Billy Sharpe, with his bright red hair and equally loud character, would have driven him mad. Tom was slightly built and fair, quiet and thoughtful—an easy companion.

      On that first night, Bryn lay awake in his narrow bed, listening to his roommate’s rhythmic breathing, his mind full of Elsa. Oh, how he worried about her. Perhaps he could write or email, but he didn’t know where they’d sent her. Why hadn’t he asked? It had all happened so suddenly. One minute Mrs. Dibble was making the announcement; the next they were all ushered off to pack. The social worker told them that these things were best done quickly, with no time for regrets, but Bryn thought they’d definitely gotten that wrong. If they’d been given more time, he could have thought it through, talked to Elsa about it. It wasn’t so bad for him. He was eleven, but she was only eight years old—just a little kid. A frightened little kid no one understood except for him.

      The moon rose, filtering through his window and bringing with it the insecurities of the night. He closed his eyes tightly, remembering his father’s firm, deep voice.

      “Men don’t cry, lad. Be strong and brave.”

      Those words had been hammered into him since birth. In his father’s world, a soldier’s world, men were supposed to be tough and hard. He was a captain in the army—always in charge. No matter what situation arose, his father was there, leading the way. Until he met one situation he couldn’t control.

      Bryn’s mother was his father’s only weakness. Sasha Evans—always in a dream, a smile lighting up her elfin features, always with a paintbrush or piece of charcoal in her hand. Bryn’s father met her when he was stationed in Wales. She was trying to make a living as an artist “and doing very badly,” she had admitted to her son, laughing. Bryn remembered her so well—remembered her sweetness and the love that filled their house on the army base. His father instilled his principles into his five-year-old son—to be strong, to take charge, to never show weakness.

      They had just moved to a new base on the day that changed Bryn’s life forever. Both his parents had dropped him off at his new school, and his father had waited in the car while his mother took him inside. She had hugged him goodbye and planted a kiss on his cheek—the last kiss she would ever give him.

      Bryn СКАЧАТЬ