Read The Best in Blountmere Street (The Blountmere Street Series Book 2) for Free Online

response.  ‘Get this kid out from under my feet,’ he yells at Mum.
    I wish I could talk to Tony about it all, but it’s still too cold to sit outside and with the mood Dad’s in, I don’t think it’d be good to invite Tony to our place.  Anyway, I think Tony spends most of his time with Mr Stannard.
    ‘Still got enough to take the girl to ballet,’ Dad grumbles as he polishes a horse brass with Our Monty – From El Alamein to Berlin written on it.  ‘We can’t starve ‘cos she’s got to go to ballet.’
    ‘I’ve eked the housekeeping out this week.  We’ll have enough, don’t worry.’  Mum looks away as she hangs her handbag over her arm.  I’m impressed at how well she’s lied.  Just the same, I wonder if she’s got those horrid spots on her tongue she tells me you get when you lie.
    ‘I don’t have to go,’ I whisper as we close our front door.  I’ve been thinking about leaving ballet.  I mean, what if Dad was to find out about Bill?  All it would take would be for someone to say something to him about Mum always being there with her brother.   She hasn’t got a brother.
    Mum’s firm. ‘That's not necessary.  We've got the money, even though we didn't ask for it.  Mind you, I'll pay it back as soon as things sort themselves out.’  She tilts her chin upwards as if to emphasise her intention.  ‘You have to practise your role as a squirrel.  You've been peaky all week and mooching around the place.  It'll do you good.’
    As he usually is, Bill’s waiting outside when we arrive.  ‘How are my girls?’  He asks tussling my hair before taking Mum’s bag in one hand and her arm with the other as if it’s a natural thing to do.  I wait for Mum to say something about us not being “his girls”, or to pull her arm from his but she doesn’t do either.  Instead she murmurs, ‘Thanks for the money.  I’ll give it back to you in a couple of weeks.’
    ‘No need.  My treat.’
    ‘No, Bill.  Les and I have always paid our way.’
    I know Mum’s used Dad’s name deliberately.
    ‘Have it your own way,’ Bill grins as if he’s unaffected by Mum using Dad’s name.
    That’s the problem with Bill.  He’s always so happy.  All the time I’m practising I can hear him laughing, even when Mum looks serious, although at times I hear Mum laughing too.  I can’t remember Mum and Dad once laughing together not like Mum and Bill do, anyway.
    ‘Your Mum and her brother get on well, do they?’ the girl next to me asks.
    ‘You’re making a wonderful job of being a squirrel,’ Bill says at the finish of my lesson and as he squeezes closer to Mum to make room for me to sit on the bench and take off my ballet pumps.
    ‘Thank you.’  I continue to untie the pink ribbons.  How can either of them know whether or not I’ve been making a good job of being a squirrel when they’ve been so taken up with each other?
    On the day Dad bangs Mum’s last three pounds housekeeping on the table, the barometer hanging in our passage – another find from the bombsite - shows a rise in pressure.  The roads and pavements become a slushy mass and drops of water cascade like diamonds from the roofs and gutters of Blountmere Street.
    After these last few weeks I’ll never again take the weather for granted. 
    ‘The weather forecast’s good so let's keep our fingers crossed it keeps up,’ Mum says as we watch Dad load up his ladders.  He’s whistling his tuneless whistle which I’ve learnt isn’t always a good thing. 
    As if everything in nature has got together to say enough is enough, the Arctic weather is replaced by breezes like warm fingers brushing my face.  The fluffy clouds seem like a baby’s shawl.  A green shadow of growth smudges the bombsite.  I wonder if the ducks will return to the large crater this year. 
    In the garden, crocuses rise like gold from the winter-hard ground. 
    At home, Dad’s mood apes the barometer.
    After a week when spring has kept its