With anger came contempt for him, and I no longer avoided going into the yard because it meant passing by the bench on which he sat. He was a scruffy little man. He’d probably be no larger than me, standing up. It was a pity that all of Grandpa’s clothing had been burned or given away when he died, or I could have lent the tramp something to wear. Then I laughed at myself, for Grandpa had been a six-footer, and his clothes would have drowned the tramp.
By teatime the sun had moved round from the front of the garage, and the tramp tried to move along the bench with it. The chain wouldn’t allow him to move that far, and I saw him shiver.
Of course, my clothes would probably fit him all right. No, I couldn’t. I could not lend him anything of mine. I’d never see it again, and … no, the idea was repellent.
Only he couldn’t go around naked, and I had several pairs of worn jeans and some old sweaters with me. I looked over my stock and selected an ancient navy sweater and a pair of paint-stained jeans that had once belonged to one of my elder sisters and were a trifle too large for me. He took them from me wonderingly, his eyes distrustful. He pulled the sweater on at once, but couldn’t do anything about the jeans until Toby unlocked the chain.
And where was Toby, anyway?
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Cry for Kit Page 15
