The Best in Blountmere Street (The Blountmere Street Series Book 2) by Barbara Arnold Read Free Book Online

a bleedin’ flea.  It takes savvy and craftsmanship!  They wouldn’t have an original idea in their thick skulls.”  He’d bragged.
    I shudder.  ‘I wish I wasn’t going.’
    Until he asked me to get him a book on Devon from the library, I didn’t know Dad knew I’d started going there every week with Miss Lorimore, Mr Stannard and Tony.  It makes me wonder what else Dad notices but never mentions.
    ‘What about this one?  “ Devonshire – The Sunshine County ”.  Mr Stannard thumbs through the pages of a book with a faded photograph of thatched cottages on the cover.
    ‘It doesn’t look very sunny, does it, Fred?’  Miss Lorimore says, looking fondly up at him.
    Recently, Mr Stannard and Miss Lorimore have taken to openly calling each other by their christian names.  And now Miss Lorimore doesn’t make excuses like slippery pavements to hold Mr Stannard’s arm.  Mr Stannard smiles back.  At the same time he brushes his hand along her shoulder.  It’s very romantic but I know Tony thinks it’s sloppy.  “Fred’s gone bats in the belfry about Lori, lately,” he said the last time we read our comics together.  “Not that I’m jealous.”
    I wasn’t certain about that.  He seemed jealous to me. 
    Until Dad started reading ‘ Devonshire  – The Sunshine County’ , I’d never before seen him read anything other than The Star and The News of the World .  There’s a book belonging to Dad called ‘ Rommel, The Desert Fox’ buried under Mum’s curlers in the drawer of the sideboard next to his armchair but I’ve never seen him touch it.
    As if a library book on the sideboard next to Dad’s chair makes him a genius, Mum prods me and winks every time he opens it.  For the first time in months, Mum looks affectionately at Dad.
    ‘You chose just the right book.’ Mum tells me.  ‘Did Miss Lorimore and Mr Stannard help you?’  Anyone who contributes to Dad’s knowledge deserves Mum’s praise.
    ‘Sort of, but they didn’t take much notice of what they were doing.  They just kept looking at each other,’ I reply.
    Mum sniffs.  This time it’s a knowing sniff.  ‘Something’s in the wind there.’  She lowers her chin into her neck and purses her lips.
    ‘What’s in the wind?’
    ‘We’ll just have to wait until it happens, then we’ll both know, won’t we?  Now come on, let’s “wire in” and get a bit more packing done.’ 
    During the next week, when Mum isn’t “wiring in” packing, she’s “wiring in” leaving everything as she wants it to be when we get back. 
    ‘If there’s one thing I can’t abide, it’s coming home to a dirty house,’ she says, although I can’t remember us going away before.
    Dad’s swaps his book for a rake and a hoe.  Returning from holiday to more than week-old weeds is as unthinkable to him as a dirty house is to Mum.
    On the evening before we’re due to leave, Dad polishes his motorbike and fixes his homemade twin sidecar to it.  He walks round and round admiring his handiwork and dabbing at specks of dust here and there. 
    ‘We ought to have an official launch, like they do ships,’ Mum says, smiling.  I can’t believe she’s forgotten what happened when Dad was making it.
    ‘Have a wonderful time,’ Miss Lorimore says the next day as we prepare to leave.  ‘If Devon holds true to its reputation, you’ll have lovely weather.’  She’s still connected to Mr Stannard’s arm. 
    A group of people from Blountmere Street hover on the pavement outside our flat.  No one I can remember down our street has ever been on holiday.  A proper one, that is.  Not just hop picking.  I still don’t want to go.
    ‘I’ve given you the whiting and milk for Betsy and here’s some money to buy more when it runs out.’  Mum rummages in her pocket for an envelope marked “Cat’s Money” and hands it to Miss Lorimore.  Mum’s flustered.  I know the signs.
    ‘Ain’t the girl in the back of that sidecar,