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

Dad loads the tent onto the motorbike, and Mum disappears to fill our mattress case with straw.
    I realise Dad must be having difficulty putting up the tent, because at some stage the farmer comes into the cluttered kitchen and whispers to his wife that he’s going to help “Yon London fellow who is getting himself into a fair state.”
    Walking across the field to where we are camped is a hazy recollection of damp grass like a thousand tongues licking my legs, before the outline of a tent appears out of the mist. 
    I remember nothing more, except sinking into the crunchy straw mattress, as I drift into sleep and back to Blountmere Street with its safe familiarity.
    When I stir, it’s to nature giving out sounds of busy contentment: birds singing songs I’ve never heard before, insects buzzing to strange rhythms and cows bellowing unfamiliar calls.  The mist has melted into a pale blue-washed sky.  Mum and Dad have already emptied the boxes and unfolded the table and chairs.  Now they’re positioned at the front of the tent, shiny from Dad’s paint work.   The tins that had given Mum and me such a horrible journey are stacked on the shelves of the larder, which Dad has put together and positioned by the tent flap so that his handiwork can be admired every time we enter or leave.
    Flames from the primus stove flicker blue-green, and the smell of methylated spirits hovers over the bacon Mum is frying. An overall covers her floral holiday frock, and she’s singing, You Are My Heart’s Delight .  It makes yesterday’s journey seem unreal.
    Dad is shaving in his enamel bowl as he does every morning in Blountmere Street.  He studies his reflection in a piece of mirror before he puts on a short sleeved shirt, the colour of chewing gum.  I’ve never before seen Dad wearing anything but long sleeved working shirts made of twill.  His arms fascinate me.  They’re strong and sinewy and somehow attractive.
    ‘Hello, sleepy head,’ Mum greets me.  ‘We thought you were going to sleep forever, didn't we, Les?’
    I wait for Dad’s usual grunt, but instead, he says, ‘We weren’t surprised.  It was a long journey for us.’  We and us aren’t words Dad uses.  I didn’t think he knew them.
    Mum continues, ‘There’s a toilet outside the farmhouse, a proper one with a flush.  And while you’re there, you might as well pop into the house and get some clotted cream.’  Mum throws a cloth as white as the one we use in Blountmere Street over the table.
    Our bell tent, an Army Surplus one I’ve no idea how Dad’s got hold of, is nestled in a hollow.  Thick hedgerows, smothered in an assortment of flowers and leaves I’ve never before seen, shelter us on two sides.  They give off a perfume that, no matter how much I inhale, it isn’t enough.
    As I skip across the field, I hear Dad ask Mum, ‘You brought any of that strawberry jam you made?  Good stuff.  Well up to your usual standard.’ 
    I look back to make sure it’s really Dad who’s spoken and not a substitute holiday version. 
    Inside the farmhouse kitchen is a collection of bottling jars like the ones Mum uses for her preserves.  There’s a stack of crockery in the sink, while more crockery, most of it blue and white, hangs on hooks on the wall.  Flowers are strewn across the whole of one bench and tins into which the farmer’s wife is spooning a thick yellow paste take up most of the wooden kitchen table.  At the remaining space, a girl is painting a picture of a jam jar of wild flowers in front of her. 
    The girl’s hair is almost white and curls down to her shoulders just as I wish mine did.  I imagine a craftsman chiseling her bones, shaping her skin over them and then painting her white and pink. 
    ‘This is Damielle,’ the farmer’s wife tells me.  ‘You’re probably much the same age.’
    The white and pink girl with the strange name looks up at me.  ‘I’m trying to paint these flowers, but it isn’t easy.’