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

yet?’ Dad demands from behind the tower of boxes and tins he’s carrying.
    ‘Quick, Paula, get in.’  Mum has difficulty undoing the catch of the door to my tiny compartment behind hers, because her hands are shaking.  Eventually she opens the door and practically pushes me in.  I lower myself on to the seat Dad’s upholstered.  It’s hard and lumpy, not even as comfortable as a seat on a bus.  The space where I’d expected to tuck my feet is already crammed with boxes.
    Without waiting for me to wriggle myself into a more comfortable position, Dad begins ramming tins either side of me.
    ‘Do you think you ought to have left her a bit more room?’  Mum asks nervously.
    ‘Now don’t start fussing.  Jump in or we’ll never get there.’
    Through the Perspex screen that separates our two small compartments, I watch as the back of Mum’s neck flushes.  She still manages a shaky laugh to Miss Lorimore.  ‘My Les does like to do things properly.’  Her voice is quivery.
    I try to straighten a leg but a corner of a tin digs into it.
    ‘Let’s see if we can make you a bit more comfortable in there.’
    I hadn’t noticed Mrs Addington from upstairs standing by her front door.  She hardly ever goes out and the most I usually see of her is when she peers from her window every now and then.  Tony says it’s because she’s got bad legs and can’t walk much.
    She limps towards the pavement until she’s next to the sidecar and bends to talk to me.  ‘We need to rearrange things to give you a bit of leg room.’  With that, she begins pulling tins and boxes away from me and piling them on the pavement, while Dad’s eyes shrink to shirt-button size.
    ‘This won’t take long, Mr Dibble,’ Mrs Addington says firmly.
    Dad forces an insipid smile and I look on as the usually withdrawn woman quietly takes charge.
    ‘Here, I’ve bought you this.’  Tony looks round to check no-one’s watching, then hands me a liquorice skipping rope.
    ‘Thanks.’  I stuff it into my pocket.  It’s a token of our friendship.
    When I’m a little more comfortable in my compartment of the sidecar, Mrs Addington disappears into her flat without even waiting to wave goodbye.  I’m grateful to her.  At least I won’t have to travel all the way to Devon with my knees touching my chin.
    ‘Grab ‘old of this.’  Dad thrusts a map at Mum.  He pulls on his balaclava and black gauntlets, like someone in medieval times.  Then he kicks the motorcycle into action which causes everything around me to vibrate.  I wonder how Mum and I will be able to tolerate the shaking and the deafening sound of the engine all the way to Devon.
    The Devonshire countryside is veiled in twilight as the motorbike bumps along a rutted farm track.  The journey’s been far worse than I could have imagined.  It’s been hours and hours of jolting discomfort, a bursting bladder and piercing hunger pangs.
    When Dad had finally allowed us a stop and Mum and I were able to struggle from the sidecar, I’d felt so sick I couldn’t bear the thought of food.  While Dad was using the toilet, Mum quickly sorted through our things and found a dish.  “For goodness sake, use it if you need to,” she’d said.  “Just as long as you’re not sick over anything.  And whatever you do, don’t ask your father to stop.”  Mum had been trembling.  It was probably because Dad had called her a useless navigator and had torn the map into pieces.
    Tears slide along the side of my nose and into my mouth.  Why did we have to be different?  Why couldn’t we stay at home like everyone else in Blountmere Street?  I don’t care if I’ve travelled further than anyone at school.  I don’t want to be on holiday.  I don’t want to “show those buggers a thing or two”.
    My spirits sink along with my eyelids.  I barely remember the farmer’s wife offering Mum milk and eggs in a soft Devonshire burr.  I vaguely recall sipping a cup of cocoa while