Chapter Eight: The Boy in the Red Shirt

‘The boys from the school in Maidbridge are having a paper-chase today,’ said Bobbie, the next morning. ‘Perks thinks they’ll go along beside the railway line. We could go and watch.’

       There were men working on the railway line, and the children began by watching them. They almost forgot the paper-chase, and were surprised when a voice said, ‘Let me pass, please.’ It was the first boy from the school.

It was the first boy from the school.

Chapter Seven: The Terrible Secret

When the children first went to live at the white house, they talked about Father a lot and were always asking questions about him. But as time passed, their questions seemed to make Mother unhappy, so they stopped asking them. But they never forgot him.

       Bobbie thought about Father often. She knew her mother was unhappy, and she worried a lot about that. And why was Father away for so long? Was there something that Mother wasn’t telling them?

       The answer came on the day she went to the station, to fetch the magazines.

We were at Portsmouth with Old Webb—sorry, Mr Webb—and Mrs Webb. She’s from Argentina; all the boys think she’s good-looking, too. There were six of us with the Webbs: Harry Potts and his sister Sonia, Nick Atkins (he’s a good friend), Sue Bellamy (she’s clever), my brother Dave and me (we’re fourteen and we’re good friends too . . . usually). There were hundreds of people on the boat. It was hot in the sun, a lovely day. People watched the sea and the small boats. I liked being in the sun and thinking about the two weeks holiday in Spain.

f ever there was a story written based unabashedly on adventure and trouble, this is it.

There are treasure hunts and murderers on the run in this book that will keep you spellbound. Tom and his half-brother, Sid, lived with their aunt, Polly. Tom was a boisterous young fellow who constantly found himself in rather awkward situations that landed him into trouble. These situations were however exceedingly hilarious.

On one occasion, Tom dirtied his clothes in a fight and his punishment was to whitewash the fence the following day.

My story starts in late July. It was July 21st, I think. It was the first day of our holiday, a hot July day. I stood in the sun and looked at the sea. It was eleven o’clock in the morning. I was on the boat at Portsmouth with my mother and father and my sister, Louise. Sea birds played near our big boat and the small boats near us on the sea.

       I started to look at the people with us on our boat. They all watched the sea birds and talked and laughed. They were all happy on the first day of their holiday too.

It was breakfast-time and Mother was smiling.

       ‘I’ve sold another story, darlings,’ she said. ‘We can have cakes for tea.’

       The three children looked at each other. Then Bobbie said, ‘Can we have the cakes on Thursday instead of today? It’s Perks’s birthday on Thursday.’

       ‘How do you know?’ asked Mother.

       ‘I showed him my brooch – the one you gave me for my birthday – and I asked him about his birthday.

We were at Portsmouth with Old Webb—sorry, Mr Webb—and Mrs Webb. She’s from Argentina; all the boys think she’s good-looking, too. There were six of us with the Webbs: Harry Potts and his sister Sonia, Nick Atkins (he’s a good friend), Sue Bellamy (she’s clever), my brother Dave and me (we’re fourteen and we’re good friends too . . . usually). There were hundreds of people on the boat. It was hot in the sun, a lovely day. People watched the sea and the small boats. I liked being in the sun and thinking about the two weeks holiday in Spain.

One day, the children were walking by the fence along the top of the hill beside the railway line. The line here ran through a deep little valley and the hillside on both sides of the line was very rocky. But among the rocks, grass and flowers grew, and many small trees.

       Phyllis stood by the fence and looked down to the lines at the bottom. “It’s like looking down the side of a mountain,” she said.

       Suddenly, they heard a noise. It was soft, but very clear, and slowly began to get louder.

Mark’s story I started Spanish at school in September and I like it. We’ve got a good teacher—Old Webb. Mr Webb, not Old Webb,’ my mother always says to me. ‘He isn’t old, you know.’ Old Webb—sorry, Mr Webb—always takes some people from our school to a place in Spain for the first two weeks of the holidays, every July. Old Webb is OK. Not bad, for a teacher. v