The Best in Blountmere Street (The Blountmere Street Series Book 2) (4 page)

‘D’you know that his son hasn’t even got the same surname as Fred.  I think he must have Fred’s wife’s name.  Perhaps Fred’s wife had a fancy man before she died and his son’s got
his
surname.’  Tony lowers his comic.  ‘Fred doesn’t talk about her, his wife, that is, but I bet she was horrible.  Just the sort to have a fancy man.’

‘Perhaps she was lonely, or she and Fred weren’t right for each other.  Maybe she knew her fancy man before she met Fred.  Perhaps they’d always loved each other but for some reason she married Fred instead.’

Tony screws up his face in a puzzled sort of way.  ‘Sounds daft to me.’

‘Sometimes … I begin.  I squeeze my lips together.  What’s the use!  And I
have
made a promise.  ‘I have to go soon.  I’ve got to practise my ballet part,’ I say instead.

‘Is that what you want to be – a ballet dancer?’ Tony asks.  He says it as if it’s a pretty wet thing to want to be, even for a girl.

‘I don’t know, but I want to do my best in the concert on Saturday, even though offering Dad a million pounds wouldn’t make him come and see me.’

‘It doesn’t matter about your old man not being there; you’ll do really well, anyway.’  Tony hesitates.  ‘You’ll be smashing.  The best one there.’

My squirrel costume is already hanging in my wardrobe ready for the concert on Saturday.  Mum spent a whole night resetting the sleeves she maintained weren’t sitting right, although I couldn’t see anything wrong with them.  My ballet pumps are wrapped in their tissue paper.  Mum’s ironed their pink ribbons so that they don’t have a single crease in them.

Every spare moment I have I use to practise.  “Three steps to the right, pivot, jump, second position, step forward arms raised,” I repeat, in between humming the piece of music Miss Kilip has chosen.

As the concert gets close I get more and more nervous.  I have to dance really well, the best I’ve ever danced, better than any of the others so that when we tell Dad, he’ll smile and offer to come to my next concert.  It’s all very well Mum saying he isn’t keen on that sort of thing.  What sort of thing is he keen on?

All at once I want to punish him and make him pay.  I seize last night’s
Star
and tear it into shreds.  Then I trample on it and shout every swear word I’ve ever heard Dad utter.  I pummel the cushions on his armchair and curse him.  I take his teacup from its usual place on the sideboard, spit into it and smear my saliva over it.

Hatherington Street Hall seems different from the dingy place The Kilip School of Dancing practises in every week.  Someone has painted a forest scene onto a piece of plywood at the back of the stage.  The trees look quite real, even though they’re all the same shade of green.  The piano has been tuned and Mrs Lieston the pianist is banging out a tune I haven’t heard before.  It sounds old fashioned like something from before The War.

Backstage I peep through the curtain and look out at the audience.  Through a haze of smoke I can pick out Mum’s face in the front row. 

We take up our positions for the first act.  I swallow down my nervousness and the curtain opens.  The routine goes much better than it did in any of our rehearsals.  From the back someone whistles.  Although I can’t see who it is, I know it’s Bill and somehow my fear disappears and I want to dance just for him.  He’s turned up while Dad’s sitting at home reading
The Star

My squirrel dance is a big success and at the end, Bill claps so loudly I’m sure Mum will know it’s him. 

Afterwards, I run straight to the back of the hall but Bill has slipped away and out of our lives. 

Chapter Five

‘I think you’re really lucky to be having a proper holiday, not just hop picking in Kent like half the kids at school.’  Tony traces a criss-cross pattern with his finger on our back step.  ‘I’ve never seen the sea.  Fred and Lori say they might take me and Angela to Bognor a bit later in the summer on one of those cheap day excursions.’

‘Bognor would be all right, but Devon’s a long way to go on a motorbike, and it’s only for a week,’ I reply, thinking of the journey.

‘You’re lucky to be going camping and everything.  I might go with the Cubs next year.’ Tony spits on his finger and draws squiggly lines like waves on the concrete.  ‘What’s the name of that place you’re going to?’

‘Newton Abbot.’

‘How d’you hear about a place like that?  It sounds like you’re going to Timbuktu.’

‘Dad knew about it.  He’s written to a farmer to ask if we can stay on his farm.’ 

It had taken Dad all evening to write the letter.  He’d used the fountain pen Mum had found on the top of a thirty seven bus.  His writing was fancy with lots of loops but he needed my dictionary for practically every other word.

‘How’re you going to get your tent and things on the motorbike?’

‘We’ve already sent it on with all the big stuff by Carter Paterson.  It’ll be there when we arrive.  Dad’s made a folding table and chairs, even a folding larder.’ 

I recall him making them.  He’d been almost as bad-tempered and boastful as when he’d built the sidecar for his motor bike.  “Not so stupid, your old man is he, eh?  Show me anyone round ‘ere who could’ve done it.  Not one of ‘em’s got the brains of 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, 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 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.’  She smiles and asks, ‘What’s your name?’

When I tell her, my voice sounds harsh and jarring but the girl replies, ‘Paula’s a nice name.’

Not when it’s followed by Dibble.

‘If you want someone to show you around, I’m sure Damielle will be pleased, won’t you dear?’

‘I’ll take you to a special cove where they say there were once pirates.  It’s a secret but I’ll share it with you.’

I smile.  It might even be better than Tony’s gang’s camp on the bombsite.

Devonshire – The Sunshine County
hadn’t begun to describe the countryside with its narrow lanes bordered by hedgerows, the homes of hundreds of birds and insects.

The Common which has always been my most favourite place in all the world is barren by comparison.  The grass is coarse.   The trees are dull and sooty.  Here, around every bend and over every hill there’s a breathtaking panorama of greens and browns rolling towards the sea which is fringed by pale sand and watched over by guardian cliffs.  And blending into the landscape are clusters of whitewashed cottages with thatched roofs and gardens crammed with hickledy pickledy masses of flowers.