CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Mrs Clapham was out back, scraping carrot and potato peelings into the bin she kept for the pigs when she stopped, ears pricked. Slowly, she turned and gasped as young Ira stepped into view.
“Please don’t shout out,” said the boy, his voice trembling with fear. He outstretched both palms.
“What are you doing here?”
She may have been an old, frail woman but her attitude conveyed a fiery courage. Ira looked away, ashamed. “Oh Mrs Clapham,” he began, breaking down, “I’ve done a terrible thing.”
“You’d better come inside and tell me all about it. I’m guessing that Indian attack is not coming, as we were warned it would be?”
Ira shook his head.
“I thought as much.” Wiping her hands on an old, ragged towel, she stepped away and motioned for Ira to step inside the small
