The Burying Beetle Read Free Page B

dressing-gown with a towel on her head. She has no shame.
    ‘You must keep very fit running up and down this hill every day,’ says Mum, eyeing him up and down.
    ‘Training for the London Marathon,’ says Eugene and runs back up the steps. He delivered a birthday card from Daddy – Sorry this is late, Babe, hope you liked the flowers – buy yourself a pretty dress . A dress? No way! Fifty pounds! Riches beyond my wildest dreams! Mum says she’ll take me to Dorothy Perkins in Truro tomorrow.
    Today I’m wearing the cool jeans and the sky-blue T-shirt Mum bought me for my birthday.
    Summer sent me a card too, from Italy. At least she remembered. Mum says the Postal Service here is Lousy. Summer says she won’t be coming to stay before the autumn term starts. And she promised me, the cow. She’d probably hate it anyway. No designer shops, no stars to bump into in the streets of St Ives. She’d hate this house, I know, it’s not sophisticated enough for her taste. It’s got odd dining chairs and odd crockery and holes in the wooden walls where draughts come through. She’d probably refuse to sleep on the sofa bed too. She can be a bit Princess and the Pea sometimes, Summer.
    Still, I’m very pissed off that she’s not coming. I cried when I read her card, but I didn’t let Mum know. She gets rather emotional at times, and I try to keep her happy. Life’s easier that way.
    The floor boards are painted black and there’s white or cream curtains or blinds on all the windows. None of them match, some are in heavy fabric and some in thin cotton, but it doesn’t matter, the sunlight gets through them and wakes me in the morning. The house faces east so we get good sunrises. I do find the climb up the hill to the car hard. We have to cross the railway track to get here, which I think is cool. There’s this little train – well, it’s full size but only one carriage – that trundles by once an hour or something and goes toot toot when it gets near the crossing. It’s like being in The Railway Children .
    Mum is making a herb garden outside the kitchen door. I don’t see the point of it if we’re moving, but she says she likes to plant things wherever she is. And she likes to use fresh herbs, and she doesn’t like the prices they charge in Tesco’s. And when you get the pots of coriander or basil home they immediately wilt and you have to throw them away.
    ‘I’m just going for a little walk.’
    ‘Oh, are you sure, darling? Shall I come with you?’
    ‘No, thanks, I vant to be alone.’ I say this with a heavy German accent, but Mum doesn’t notice.
    ‘Be careful, darling. Must you wear that hat? Where did you find the binoculars?’
    ‘In a cupboard. I don’t think Mr Writer would mind me using them.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Mr Writer. I think the man who owns this house is a writer.’
    ‘Don’t fall over the cliff.’
    ‘Of course not, silly.’
    ‘Take the little backpack.’
    ‘Mum, stop fussing. I’m not a child.’
    This is the first walk I’ve had here on my own. Mum showed me the short circular route and we’ve done that a few times, including when we watched the non-eclipse.
    She’s a bit overprotective, my mother. Whenever anyone came to the house in London with a cold or cough, even if it was a plumber or decorator, she wouldn’t let them in, in case I caught it. She says I won’t catch colds here. Bloody right, I won’t, there’s no one within a mile to catch anything from.
    I clamber through the tangle of branches – hawthorn, I think – and go out the gate at the far end of the garden. Flo and Charlie have followed me but they’re scaredy cats and stay there, gazing after me, looking insulted. They really love it here after London. It must be like being in a small cage and suddenly set free into a lovely jungle full of delicious four-legged and two-legged delicacies, just waiting to be caught and eaten. And they can climb trees and things, after only having had brick