Counting Stars by David Almond

I remembered how happy I was when he was there. And then I found out I was wrong. There was no way I could remember. But I wasn’t telling lies.”
    We wait, and we listen to the traffic and the footsteps outside.
    “It wasn’t the truth,” says Tash at last.
    He strops the knife and spits.
    “She wanted to keep things secret,” says Coot. “She didn’t want me to suffer because of her past.”
    “Secrets!” says Tash.
    “Yes!” says Coot. “Secrets. Even Our Lady of Fatima had secrets, things that had to be kept hidden, things for nobody but the children to know.”
    Mickey hushes them again. The Jack Russell’s on its feet, tugging at its lead. We see Stoker, so calm, not moving.
    “And what about now?” whispers Tash. “What’s the secrets now? What’s she get up to when he’s home with her? What do you get up to, Coot?”
    “Jesus, Tash!” I whisper.
    He points the knife at Coot’s throat.
    “One day he’ll stop his traveling,” says Coot. “Then he’ll marry her and he’ll be my father. I know he will.”
    “You see it, do you?” says Tash. “Just like you saw the first happy little family. Just like when you were telling all those lies.”
    The Jack Russell yaps, tugs at its lead. The old bloke stares toward us.
    “You been spreading stories about Stoker, Coot?” says Tash.
    Coot gasps, yelps.
    “Stick your tongue out, Coot,” says Tash.
    Coot stares at me, then pushes past me. He jumps down through the gap.
    We lie in the dry dust and look out through the lattice as Coot hurries across the square. We see Stoker rising calmly from the bench. He tugs the dog to its feet. They follow Coot down in the direction of the Old Fold.
    We wait for a few moments in silence, then we jump down. We don’t look at each other as we go our separate ways. I hurry uphill toward home. When I’m clear of the square I slow down. My heart beats more gently, I breathe more easily. Already I’m starting to feel happiness through the shame.

Chickens
    H E WATCHED ME WALK CLUMSILY through the rows of lettuce toward him. He sat against the greenhouse wall as always. He wore his serge suit and his cloth cap as always. He smoked his pipe. He’d have been there for an age. He’d have been listening to the blackbirds and the skylarks, dreaming, watching, waiting. Now he leaned forward, raised his hand, knocked out the pipe against the building’s wooden frame, and allowed himself to smile.
    “Grand start to your holiday, then?”
    I sat beside him on the bricks that had lain unmoved for years against the glittering building. I leaned at ease against the warm glass, sniffed the familiar scents of tobacco and earth.
    “Brilliant,” I murmured.
    “Aye,” he said. “And the big un’s coming?”
    I shrugged. Colin was still in bed.
    “The tomatoes ready?” I asked, and he smiled again.
    “No. But there’s some late chickens hatched out. Come and see.”
    The first door opened into a dark and musty interior. The cracked floor was littered with tools and plant pots, great sacks of compost and peat. Rusted implements hung untouched from year to year on the walls. Empty rattraps lay in the corners. I picked my way past the obstacles and opened the door of the greenhouse itself, entered the sudden brightness and heat, breathed the sweet powdery scent of tomatoes. I went to a large cardboard box and put my hand inside. I laughed at the tiny voices and the tiny feet that scratched my skin. I lifted one of the chicks and held it bright yellow to my face.
    “Can this one be mine?” I asked.
    He laughed.
    “Aye, that can be yours,” he said.
    I stared. It would grow so quickly. It would be just another unshapely squawking thing that strutted in the henhouse. He touched my cheek and we were silent until he asked, “Your mam’s all right, then?”
    “She’s fine. She wants a lettuce, if there’s any.”
    “Plenty. And flowers for her as well. Come on.”
    I replaced the bird, pausing to see if I could