Free The Forget-Me-Not Summer by Katie Flynn Page A

‘I’m havin’ toast wi’ raspberry jam. What’ll you have?’
    Miranda knew that this was a rhetorical question. The raspberry jam, her cousin’s favourite, was most certainly not on offer so far as she herself was concerned. Not that she minded; porridge with just a sprinkling of brown sugar was her favourite breakfast, and if she helped herself to a full dish it would not matter if she did not come in for the midday meal.
    However, when she examined the saucepan there were only about two spoonfuls of porridge left in it, so her hopes of a good filling breakfast were dashed. She put it into her dish, however, then cut herself a round of bread, keeping one hand on it so that no one should filch it whilst she ate her porridge.
    A rich smell of burning caused Beth to give a squeakof dismay and throw the cindered slice down on the table, then reach for the slice of bread beneath her cousin’s palm. ‘Gimme!’ she commanded. ‘You can have the burned bit.’
    â€˜Beth Smythe, you are the most selfish . . .’
    Aunt Vi’s hand clipped Miranda so hard across the ear that she nearly fell off her chair, making Beth give a muffled snort of laughter. ‘Serve you right,’ she said tauntingly. ‘What’s to stop you cutting yourself another slice, if you don’t like a bit of burn?’ But Aunt Vi was already scuttling pantry wards with the remains of the loaf clutched in her hot and greedy hands, so Miranda jammed the piece of bread into her skirt pocket, ignored her aunt’s shout that she was to bleedin’ well wash up before she took one step out of the door, and crossed the kitchen.
    â€˜No time; I’m meeting a friend,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘See you later, Beth.’ Miranda was sure her aunt would think nothing of pursuing her down the Close, so she decided that loitering outside Number Two was not a good idea and turned right into the main road. Because the summer holidays were now in full swing there were a great many children about, one or two of whom Miranda knew. She stopped and spoke to Jane and Elizabeth Meredith, twins who were in her class at school, and they told her that they had just returned from a wonderful week down on the coast; at Rhyl, in fact. ‘Oh, girls, how lucky you are!’ Miranda breathed. ‘My mother was always promising to take me down to the coast, but somehow she never got round to it.’
    She had heard much of the delights of seaside resorts in summer and remembered her mother’s description ofgolden sands, gentle blue seas and the enthusiastic audiences who had attended the shows on the pier. One day, Arabella had assured her daughter, they would go to Rhyl, or Llandudno, or even further afield, but at present she was content to stay with the theatre over the summer, helping with scenery painting, costume repair and other such tasks which were best done when the theatre was empty.
    Lizzie was a sweet-tempered girl, but it was her sharp-tongued twin who responded. ‘Your mam, your mam!’ Jane said contemptuously. ‘That were when you were in that posh private school, I suppose? I bet they never knew your mam was on the stage, ’cos that’s common that is . . . bein’ on the stage, I mean. If she took you to the seaside at all you’d have had your face blacked up and a black curly wig on your horrible head, so’s you could earn a few pennies in the black and white minstrel show . . .’
    Miranda was interrupted just as she was contemplating handing out a punch on the nose. Someone caught her arm and a voice spoke warningly in her ear. ‘Hello-ello-ello? Hangin’ round waitin’ for me, was you? Gorrany grub? That bleedin’ aunt o’ yours might hand over a bit of cake or a chunk of bread and cheese. Still, I’ve got some of each so we shan’t starve.’
    It was Steve, of course, and as he spoke he had been drawing her