We've Come to Take You Home by Susan Gandar Page A

round. I’d go with a chimney sweep if he’d have me…’
    Ellie slid her eyes to the left.
    â€˜But even if they tell you they want to walk you up the aisle, put a ring on your finger, take no notice, they’ll still want to sample the goods first. So you just have to get yourself in there, get yourself in the family way and then you’ll be looked after. It’s the only way to keep them. The nearer the bone, the sweeter the meat…’
    Standing right in front of them, propped up on a crutch, hand outstretched, was a skeletally thin boy dressed in filthy rags. At the end of his left leg, where there should have been a foot, there was a mangled mess of shattered bone.
    He must have slipped, in the middle of the traffic, exactly as she had done. But nobody had seen. Or if they had seen, they had just turned and walked away, leaving the boy lying there, helpless, as the cart, its iron-clad wheels sparking, rumbled towards him.
    Because it was the same boy, she was sure of it, the one she’d seen darting in and out of the traffic, so confidently, so quickly, outside the station the day she’d arrived in London. The boy who had taken her hand, pulled her up from where she had fallen and who led her to the safety of the pavement on the other side of the street. He was still wearing the red, grey and black tartan waistcoat, but it was so matted with dirt, so ripped and torn, it was barely recognisable.
    There had been a longer than usual queue at the bakers that morning. When, after over an hour, it had been her turn to be served there had been just one solitary loaf left on the shelf.
    She took the bread out of her shopping basket and walked over to the boy.
    â€˜Jess? What are you doing?’
    He had saved her life. She couldn’t save his, that was impossible, but she had to do something.
    The boy’s eyes widened. He took the bread, hugging it to his chest and then turned and limped away towards an alleyway. He stopped and looked back, the crutch wedged under his arm. Jess nodded her head, so slight but still a nod.
    â€˜He’s seen you, that Tom, the Major’s son. He’s right there, outside the house. He’ll have you for stealing…’
    And Ellie was off, running down the street, her shopping basket in her hand. And Jess was left standing there, eyes down, staring at the pavement, as the youngest son walked towardsher. She was fifteen and his mother’s maid-of-all-work. He was twenty and the son of the house. She washed and ironed his clothes, cooked and served his meals, cleaned his room and made his bed.
    â€˜Why did you give that boy the bread?’
    He was a young man with an old man’s voice. Its tone and depth had surprised her that first morning, standing there at the front door, eyes down and invisible, as he strode past her into the house to greet his parents.
    â€˜Is giving a loaf to a starving boy something to be punished?’
    And except for a quick nod of the head or a curt, ‘Thank you,’ she had, since then, continued to be the silent and invisible servant – until now.
    â€˜Some might call it stealing. Others might call it charity.’
    Head held high, she strode off towards the house.
    â€˜Jess, where have you been?
    His mother was waiting for her in the hallway.
    â€˜Why has it taken you so long?’
    The Major’s wife never went out shopping. Which was why she didn’t understand that Jess had to queue not at one shop but several, often three or four, if she had any chance of getting at least some of the items on the list the Major’s wife gave her each morning.
    Sometimes, after she’d been shuffling slowly forward for nearly an hour, the shopkeeper would come outside and pull down the shutters. There was nothing more inside the shop to sell. And then Jess and all the other women and children, lined up in front and behind her, would have to find another shop and join another queue.
    Her