Footprints in the Sand. Eleanor Jones

started to run, but Ted pinned me down.

      “There, there, lass,” he murmured. “Let it all out.”

      We sat like that for a very long time, until all my sobs were cried out. When they turned into whimpers and my tears dried, he tilted my chin and looked into my eyes.

      “All everyone wants is the best for you, Elsa.”

      I knew that wasn’t true. Mrs. Mac didn’t, and even if Ted did, Victoria wouldn’t let him.

      “You have to be with people who can look after you properly,” he told me in a gentle voice.

      “But when my dad comes back...” I began.

      He shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry, Elsa, but they’ve found him. I’m afraid your dad will never come back to you now.”

      CHAPTER FIVE

      EIGHT-YEAR-OLD BRYN SNIFFED loudly and ran his nose across his sleeve, looking cautiously around to make sure that Mrs. Dibble hadn’t seen him. Mrs. Dibble was not impressed by children who forgot to use a tissue, and he didn’t want to miss out on ice cream for tea. They always had ice cream when a new child came.

      All in all he didn’t really mind Mrs. Dibble. She ruled Appletree House with a rod of iron, but Bryn could usually get around her. Over the past three years he’d learned that a smile and a sorry went a long way. So did a pleasant smile, and it always helped settle in the new arrivals. The girl who was coming today, though, was supposed to have problems. He knew that because he’d overheard Mrs. Dibble and Sarah, the social worker, talking about her. They’d used words like traumatized, disturbed, hostile and antisocial.

      Some of the children who came here were frightened and shy, and others were loud, rough and outspoken. “Gutterkids” he’d heard Mrs. Dibble call them. Disturbed and hostile were different kinds of words, though, and what exactly did traumatized mean? He wondered how old she was, imagining a teenager. Bryn liked to be responsible for helping the new kids settle in, but since he was only eight, maybe this time it wouldn’t be possible.

      He headed for the door. It was hours until teatime so he might as well go play on the new swing in the oak tree that Bob, the gardener and handyman, had put there especially for him. Bryn had a way of getting people to do things like that.

      * * *

      FROM THE WINDOW OF HER office, Martha Dibble watched the little boy with the unruly dark hair and bright smile. She always tried not to get too involved with the children in her care, but with Bryn Evans it was difficult not to. He sniffed, wiping his nose on his sleeve, and she raised her eyebrows, knowing she should reprimand him. It was important to stay in control, as most of the children who came to Appletree were desperately lacking in parental guidance. She half rose and then sat down again, thinking better of it. If she took away Bryn’s ice cream, he’d look at her with those huge brown eyes, and with his ever-ready “sorry, Miss” he’d make her feel like the dragon they all said she was. Bryn ran off toward the garden and with a deep sigh she went back to the file she was reading. Maybe she was going soft in her old age. Of all the children who’d passed through Appletree over the past decade, Martha decided, narrowing her eyes to decipher the social worker’s scrawled handwriting, this child sounded as if she was going to be one of the worst. Words like hostile and emotionally disturbed painted a grim picture of a little girl who’d just turned six. Discipline and routine usually worked, though—Martha had found that they made children feel more secure. Lack of security was the root of most of their problems.

      She sighed again and gazed out the window. At the moment, unfortunately, the security of Appletree House itself hung in the balance. Funding was changing and the modern consensus was to move children into more family-oriented environments, such as foster homes. But many of the kids at Appletree were from difficult backgrounds, and they needed more expert care. In Martha’s opinion, institutions such as hers fit the bill perfectly, combining the discipline of school with a secure home environment and professional care. Then there were children such as Bryn—well-adjusted, loving kids who’d come to Appletree because they had no one to take care of them. He might have benefited from being placed in foster care at first, but Appletree was his home now. And he was growing into a normal, caring, intelligent young man with a promising future ahead of him.

      Martha looked out over the garden she’d grown to love so much. There had been talk of closing the school down altogether. It shouldn’t really affect her, of course, for she was retiring soon, but the large gray stone house had become a home to her over the past ten years, and she felt a huge responsibility to the children in her care. She closed the file, feeling unusually dispirited. In a way, she supposed, she was not unlike those children. Perhaps she, too, needed the discipline and security of Appletree.

      * * *

      BRYN HEARD THE TEA GONG boom as he whizzed through the air, perched on a bar at the end of a thick brown rope. He threw back his head to feel the wind in his face one last time, then pulled at the rope to slow it down, remembering that the new kid was coming this afternoon. He was on the ground before it stopped, stumbling to keep his feet, then racing across the front lawn toward the curved stone steps, taking them two at a time. The heavy oak door was already open, and children were wandering in from the garden, laughing and giggling and messing around.

      “Hiya, Bryn,” gurgled little Kelly Watts. He ruffled her short dark hair and grinned.

      “Hiya, Kelly.”

      * * *

      “ORDER!” MRS. DIBBLE YELLED, and they quickly organized themselves into a line, filing through to wash their hands and tidy up for tea, feet clomping on the shiny wooden floor.

      Martha Dibble stood, as usual, in the hallway, watching them pass through with all-seeing eyes. God help a child who attempted to enter the dining room with grubby hands or untidy clothes—Bryn was probably the worst—and the most likely to get away with it. No matter how much he combed his floppy black hair, it always looked tangled, and his face, darkly tanned from a summer of sunshine, seemed to attract dirt like metal to a magnet. He spit on his hands and rubbed his cheeks as he approached the door, probably the only child in the room deliberately trying to catch Martha’s steely glare. She peered at him through her dark-rimmed glasses. He grinned, his brown eyes glowing, and despite herself, she smiled back.

      Martha always liked to wait until everyone was seated around their tables before introducing a new arrival at Appletree. She firmly believed that the very act of sitting down and eating together with their future companions would make them feel more immediately at home.

      * * *

      BRYN TOYED WITH HIS FOOD, making patterns in his mashed potatoes, one eye fixed on the door. Lots of the children who came to Appletree were emotionally disturbed—at least they were if that meant they cried a lot—so maybe this kid wouldn’t be so bad, after all. He cut off a bit of sausage, dipped it in sauce and popped it into his mouth, biting into its hot tasty center. Hostile, though, now that was another matter.

      But as soon as he saw her, Bryn realized why all those words had been used to describe her. She was only five or six, but her whole being bristled with ferocity. Mrs. Dibble held her arm, and her tight expression showed just how much trouble the little girl must have caused.

      “Stay still, dear,” she said sternly as the child tried to wriggle from her grasp. The new arrival ignored her, snarling like a lion cub, and Bryn’s heart turned over. He could feel her unhappiness, her anger.

      “This is Elsa May Malone, children,” Mrs. Dibble announced with a forced smile. “I hope that you will all make her feel very welcome.”

      “It’ll take more than us to make her feel welcome,” Timmy Platt giggled. He was a chubby, spotty-faced boy who’d been at Appletree for about six months.

      Bryn scowled at Timmy and stepped determinedly forward.

      “Hello,” he said. “I’m Bryn.”

      Mrs. Dibble smiled gratefully and beckoned him forward, but the little girl glowered at him