Free He Called Me Son (The Blountmere Street Series Book 1) by Barbara Arnold

this,’ Fred laughed, as we walked through what he said was the Great Banqueting Hall.   Again, it was massive with a carved stone ceiling and oblong windows.   
    ‘Can you imagine Old Henry at the top table drinking from a golden goblet as they brought in a roasted pig with an apple in its mouth and all the trimmings.   Do you know people actually came to watch him eat,’ Fred told us.
    ‘Did they get the leftovers?’   I asked.
    ‘I shouldn’t have thought so,’ Fred replied.
    ‘They should’ve saved their time.   Who would want to see some old bloke scoffing grub, and not get offered anything, even if it was only a biscuit.’   Angela was scathing.
    Upstairs, one room led into another, all looking out on to the gardens or the river - wide and winding its way on forever.   How could one person need so many rooms, even if he was a king?
    We continued walking along a gallery that all at once seemed chill.   Like every room in the Palace, paintings of strangely dressed men and women looking serious and important, stared down at us.   Some had a faraway, mysterious look and the ones of Old Henry scared me.   Our Old Man had been bad enough, but he hadn’t chopped anyone’s head off.
    ‘This place is supposed to be haunted by one of Henry’s wives.   She walks along here at midnight screaming.’   Angela whispered, trying to be dramatic and frighten me.
    ‘How can she scream if she’s had her head cut off?’
    ‘Don’t ask me.   I’m only telling you what the guide said.   How am I supposed to know what ghosts do?’
    ‘I don’t know if I should have liked to live in these times.   What about you, Fred?’   Lori asked, before a fight could develop between Angela and me.
    ‘I’m not certain.   The Elizabethan period would have been an exciting one for a sailor.   I think I should have liked to have sailed with Sir Francis Drake or Sir Walter Raleigh.’
    ‘Well, I wouldn’t have liked to live when Henry was alive,’ Angela said, frowning at the portrait of a girl who was probably about her age.   ‘I’d hate having to wear one of those dresses and a stupid hat.   I wouldn’t have liked not having electricity. Candles are all right, but I reckon you’d soon get fed up with them.’
    For once I had to agree with her.   I couldn’t imagine life without Dick Barton and cowboys and Indians.   I liked living right here and now, where I had everything I wanted: a bob for school dinners every Monday, a tanner for Saturday Picture Club, a Meccano set, a Bible and Spam once a week.   Best of all we’d swapped the Old Man for Fred.
     
    On the bus back home, Angela sat next to Lori in case she sicked up, which meant Fred sat next to me.   We talked about Hampton Court.
    ‘I’ve got some history books about the Tudor and Elizabethan periods in my room at home.   I’ll show them to you if you like.’
    ‘Thanks.’   I was interested all right, especially now we’d been to a real palace.   I doubted anyone in Blountmere Street had been there, but I wouldn’t say anything to Dennis and Herbie about liking old buildings or anything like that.   I’d still act like a dunce when Mrs Colby gave us a history lesson, although I’d already memorised Old Henry’s dates, and the names of his six wives.   I didn’t want to be thought a sissy like Harry Billings, who wore glasses, and had his hair parted in the middle and smarmed down.   Every lesson he asked questions and nodded and said “thank you so much” to Mrs Colby when she answered him, and he never looked at the rude pictures that got passed around the class.
    ‘Do you think Henry ever felt guilty for what he did?’ I asked Fred.  
    ‘Henry deserved to feel guilty, but often we load guilt on ourselves that doesn’t belong on our shoulders at all, especially after people have died.’   He squeezed my arm, and I knew he was talking about me and Dobsie.   If I hadn’t tried to go so high; If I’d slowed the