THE FERALS 


By Tessa Harvey


Desolate, Jake and Brodie surveyed what was left of their home the next morning. Brodie cried as wisps of steam and smoke rose from the ashes. It was devastating. He smudged the tears with a dirty hand. "Nothing left. Absolute nothing!" the boy wailed. "Not fair, daddy, no!"

Jake felt much the same. He knelt on the footpath, adding ash and dirt to his already filthy clothes. What the fire had left, water had destroyed. He wrapped Brodie close. The boy stiffened at first, then relaxed, against his father, still upset, still angry and sobbing.

"Hello there, lads," yelled a cheery older voice, "any chance of a decent cuppa! Me throat's parched. I could do with some nice hot tea - and a cake!!" Brodie whipped around. "Auntie Ethel! Auntie!" he yelled, sleeving away the last tears. He threw himself at the elderly lady who was bustling towards them, clutching various bags and bundles to her stout form. 

"Hey up there lad. Leave me a bit of breath then!" Ethel beamed, clutching the little boy. "So where am I staying then? Which is my room?"
Brodie's eyes went wide with disbelief. He stood there staring. "Shut the mouth quick, son. Flies is coming." Brodie's mouth shut with an audible snap. Jake strode towards their old friend, Ethel Clarkson, and he too gave her a big hug. "Here, put me down, you daft lump," she panted.




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