Tthe Sleepover Club on the Beach Read Free

clock and was astonished to see it was practically bedtime! How had
that
happened?
    “It’s Frankie!” said Mum.
    I took the phone, still really out of it. “Hiya, Spaceman!” I said groggily. “How was Skegness?”
    “Oh, fab and groovy. NOT. Emily Berryman was sick on the coach. All over my trainers, would you believe.” Frankie had obviously rung up for a good moan.
    “Oh, poor old you,” I said vaguely, looking longingly at my book.
    Frankie sounded slightly huffy. “What are you up to, anyway?” she said. “You sound weird.”
    I explained sheepishly about my new addiction.
    Frankie snorted. “Oh, those! I totally despise those books.”
    “Oh, me too,” I agreed. “It’s just that Dad—”
    But Frankie was off on one of her rants. “Have you noticed how they all have samey titles? The Mystery of the Thingybobby, or The Thingybobby of Adventure, or The Secret Thingybobby? And it doesn’t matter which one you read, they’re all exactly the same.”
    “Yeah, but once you get into them, they’re surprisingly—”
    But Frankie wouldn’t let me get a word in. “Have you noticed how the grown-ups in those books always find some convenient excuse to pack all the kids off to stay with this like, long-lost relative?” she said in a scornful voice. “I mean, how many long-lost rellies have
you
come across recently, Lyndz?”
    “Well, none really—” I began.
    “Exactly!” said Frankie triumphantly. “And before you can say ‘gosh, golly and jolly good fun’, the little dears are running around in their big baggy shorts and seriously sadknitwear, on the trail of some totally daft mystery – smugglers, secret tunnels, messages in bottles and I don’t know what!”
    Once Frankie gets on her high horse, it’s pointless arguing. You just have to let her run down like an old-fashioned record.
    “The thing which REALLY annoys me,” she continued, “is how the girls always get so girly and upset. And the boy with the pet rat always finds disgusting old toffees in his pockets, and they’re all fluffy and icky and I’m like – ‘DON’T put it in your mouth, Betty-Ann or whatever your silly name is. It’s got rat germs!’”
    I giggled. “He keeps the rat in his
other
pocket, you lamebrain!”
    “But the dopey girl EATS it,” Frankie went on. “Not only that, but she like, cheers up INSTANTLY! I mean what is IN these sweeties, Lyndz? I think we deserve to be told!”
    That
did
crack me up. In fact I laughed so much, I started hiccuping. Ever had hiccups while you’re still recovering from earache?
    It’s AGONY.
    “Sorry, hic (ow!) hic, Frankie,” I whimpered. “Gotta, HIC (ow!) go!”
    Snivelling with pain, I rushed to find Mum, who was helping Dad measure alcoves for shelves.
    I hate being the middle child. My parents showed me absolutely NO sympathy.
    “Oh, not again!” Dad groaned.
    “Just hold your breath,” Mum said impatiently.
    Now I am the world expert on hiccups, OK? And I’ve tried every hiccup cure going and that holding-the-breath thing never worked for me ONCE. I was getting genuinely hysterical, but then my brother Tom came up with the most ingenious hiccup remedy since hiccups began.
    He put one arm around me and drew one of his lightning-fast cartoons with his free hand. And as I watched, hiccuping miserably, Tom’s scribbles suddenly turned into a brilliant caricature of me hiccuping and going “Ouch!”.
    I giggled. “My nose isn’t
that
big.”
    Then I clutched my chest. “Tom! You are
such
a cool brother! They’ve gone!”
    “Tom Collins, Hiccup Wizard!” he joked. “That’s me!”
    “Yippee, yippee! I’m hiccup free!” I sang idiotically.
    And I flew back upstairs to finish my book. Everything Frankie said was true, but I didn’t give a hoot. I had totally fallen in love with those old stories. Actually, what I really wanted was to climb
inside
that world and stay there for ever.
    I was still reading when Mum came in to give me my last dose of