What did Aunty Dil do?

 

The storm rattled and pulled at Dil’s old caravan. The rain drilled down, rattling at the window, and dancing in steel-tipped tap-shoes on the roof; it knocked and tugged; it slipped and ran in streams; it nuzzled at the cracks round the door; it seeped and nudged and eased; it did everything it could to find a way in. She could see drops like tears glistening under the letter box, and she pulled her skinny moon and star blanket up to her chin.

She hadn’t done anything wrong, had she?

As for the wind well it whistled and whined and it barged at the caravan, trying to shove it off its mooring. It was like a bad tempered giant, that wind was: bullnecked, with hands like hammers and legs thick as tree stumps. 

She held tight to the blanket, and watched the door as her home rocked and rattled like a tin boat on a fierce and high sea. Her little lamp swung to and fro and shadows flitted about the room like frightened dancers.

What had she done? What had she done?