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About the Author

Susie Day grew up in Penarth, Wales, with a lisp and a really unfortunate choice of first name.

She has had lots of jobs, including guiding tourists and professional nappy-changing – but she always wanted to be a writer. Her first book, Whump! in which Bill falls 632 miles down a manhole, won the BBC Talent Children’s fiction prize, and was published in 2004.

Susie now lives in Oxford, England, and eats a lot of cake and drinks a lot of tea.

About the Book

Help! It’s the summer holidays at last – but Mum’s got completely stuck writing her new book. Our camping holiday with lashings of ginger beer and smugglers is cancelled. Everyone says I’m very sensible, so I have to try and fix it all.

Somewhere inspiring to stay – like Corfe Castle, where Enid Blyton invented the Famous Five stories

RHCP Digital is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.

A CIP catalogue record for the print edition is available from the British Library

All correspondence to:
RHCP Digital
Penguin Random House Children’s
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL

GOODBYE, CLOVER

It was forty-nine minutes and fifty-four seconds past nine, on the very first day of the school holidays.

‘Ten-minute warning!’ yelled Tinkerbell, speeding out of the kitchen, a damp and drippy Wuffly at her heels. They leaped up the stairs two at a time. ‘Clover! Mum! Ten-minute warning!’

‘I’m still in my dressing gown! I can’t go to theatre camp in my dressing gown!’

‘Then you should probably get dressed, flower,’ called Mum from the bathroom.

‘Only grey bobbly ones – not good ones for showing off to important actor people.’

‘Argh – wet dog in my suitcase! Shoo, Wuffly! No, don’t chew that. Help, Tink. Help!’

Wuffly bounded back down the stairs, Clover’s Best for Blondes shampoo bottle clutched triumphantly in her jaws.

‘I’m getting it!’ yelled Tinkerbell, chasing Wuffly’s wet tail past Pea and back into the kitchen.

‘That was my job,’ said Pea softly, to the clock. ‘I was doing the ten-minute warning.’

The kitchen door banged shut. There was a scuffle, a yelp, then silence. Upstairs fell silent too. All Pea could hear was the sound of the rain, tapping at their raspberry-red front door.

The Llewellyn house was not often so peaceful. Once upon a time the family had travelled all over the world and lived in all sorts of exotic locations – Madagascar, Norway, Prestatyn – but now they lived in Kensal Rise, north London. They did try to be sensible, mostly. But Clover (who was fourteen, with a sweet pink face and tumbling blonde hair like Mum’s) liked to sing show tunes in the bath, and in the garden, and in bed. Tinkerbell (who was eight, with brown skin and tight black curls like her father) liked explosions and hitting things with hammers – which meant Mum did quite a lot of shouting. The fact that Pea (who was twelve, with violently red hair) spent a lot of time reading books and writing stories in her little attic bedroom – quietly, without bothering anyone – hardly mattered.

Fortunately the Llewellyns had very kind next-door neighbours, the Paget-Skidelskys, who didn’t mind singing or explosions, and sometimes shouted at their children too.

In ten minutes’ time – more like eight, now – Clover would go off in a taxi to Cheseman Hall theatre camp for the whole school holidays. There would be classes on voice projection, singing, even sword-fighting.

The next day, Pea and Tinkerbell would be whisked away too – by Tinkerbell’s dad, Clem: first for two weeks of camping in the Lake District, then back to Clem’s new flat in Tenby until the end of August.

Meanwhile Mum would stay at home in London, all alone, to finish writing her book.

Mum was simply Mum at home, but the rest of the world knew her as Marina Cove, superstar author of the Mermaid Girls books. Now she was beginning a whole new series called Pirate Girls – although, to Pea’s relief, the ghostly mermaid Coraly (who had bright red hair just like hers) would be in the new stories too. Mum had already been locked away in her study for weeks, but the first Pirate Girls book had to be finished by the end of the holidays, or Nozomi Handa, Mum’s Dreaded Editor, would be very angry.

The Llewellyn girls would be separated for the summer. For the first time ever, Pea would be the older sister, not the middlest. The big girl. The boss. The one who absolutely, definitely had to be listened to, all summer.

Behind her, Pea could see a crushed shampoo bottle oozing lemon-scented goo across the kitchen floor – and an even more forlorn Wuffly, tail drooping, hairy grey jaws covered in froth.

Pea sighed. Perhaps being the oldest wouldn’t make that much difference: Tinkerbell would still be Tinkerbell.

Wuffly tried to lick the bubbles off, then sneezed, whined, and sneezed again. Bubbles frothed out of her nose. She whimpered, her paws doing an unhappy jerky dance across the floor – into the puddle of goo, which made her skid and slide and froth even more.

‘All right – it’s OK, don’t panic,’ said Pea as Tinkerbell’s eyes grew very wide.

Pea sent them both out into the back garden to defrothify in the rain, while she cleaned up the goo with kitchen paper. The Best for Blondes bottle went in the bin.

Suddenly the house rang out with noise: three alarm clocks, her own beepy digital watch, and the chorus of ‘Part of Your World’ from The Little Mermaid from Mum’s mobile phone.

There was a series of thumps and bumps. Clover arrived at the bottom of the stairs, pink-cheeked and beaming, a fat blue suitcase at her feet. ‘See? Nearly five minutes early. I told you there was no need for all the fuss.’

The fat blue suitcase creaked. Then it burst open, like two halves of a clam. Out spilled hairbands, cotton balls, and an enormous quantity of socks.

‘Clover!’ Mum hurried down the stairs behind her, and stared in horror at the exploded case. ‘I thought you were taking the wheelie case we borrowed from next door?’

‘I like yours better,’ said Clover, shovelling socks back inside. ‘It’s vintagey. Old blue suitcases are much more actor-ish than zippy ones with wheels.’

‘Not if you can’t fit half your things in them, they aren’t. Although . . . why do you need this, exactly? Or these?’

Mum held up a top hat, a pair of oversized spectacles with no glass in the frames, and a collection of stick-on moustaches.

‘In case we decide to put on a show and need to improvise costumes!’ said Clover. ‘Cheseman Hall theatre camp encourages its students to follow their own creative pathways – it said so in the brochure. It’s an actor thing, Mum. You wouldn’t understand.’

‘I suppose that explains why my best blue skirt is in here too, hmm? Well, that reduces the pile by one, at least. Hang on – where’s your raincoat? Have you packed any warm clothes? Come on, my pumpkin. Even actors have to be a tiny bit sensible.’

Pea knelt down beside Clover, and helped her sort the spilled packing into three piles: necessary (knickers, mobile phone for emergencies, her notepaper with tiny blue forget-me-nots round the edges); maybes (Mum allowed the moustaches, but not the top hat); and definite nos.

At the very bottom of the case was a large photograph in a pale wooden frame of them all gathered around last year’s Christmas tree. Mum was halfway through eating a mince pie. Pea had her eyes shut. Tinkerbell was mostly obscured by a blur of hairy grey dog. But it was a beautiful picture of Clover: perfectly posed, with sparkly eyes and a warm smile.

The real Clover had the grace to look slightly ashamed. ‘I know,’ she said, clutching the photo to her chest. ‘Sorry. But it’s the nicest one I’ve got of me – and I couldn’t go away all summer without a picture of you all to put on my bedside table, to say goodnight to. Look, it’s even got Clem in it.’

She held out the picture, and pointed at the reflection in the mirror on the wall behind the Christmas tree. If you squinted, you could just make out Clem’s elbow.

Pea felt guilty. She’d already started a packing list of essentials for their camping trip.

Mum gave Clover a kiss on the nose. ‘That’s sweet, my petal.’ She slipped the picture out of the heavy frame and tucked it back into the case.

‘No-minutes warning!’ yelled Tinkerbell, racing back in from the garden, soaked to the skin, as a sopping Wuffly bounded down the hallway to bark at the noise. ‘Off you go to Cheese Camp!’

‘It’s Cheseman Hall theatre camp, not Cheese Camp,’ said Clover hotly.

Since she was already wet, Tinkerbell was sent out into the rain to tell the taxi to wait.

Clover flung on as many of the spilled clothes as she could fit over what she was already wearing – three jumpers and a pair of stripy leggings doubling up as a quirky scarf – and the rest were shovelled back into the suitcase. She sat on it until it clicked shut.

Pea fetched brown parcel tape from the study, and they looped it around the case three times, just to make sure.

Clover smiled. ‘It looks more actor-ish than ever,’ she said happily. ‘Oh, I’m so excited! I’m going to learn so many things – tap dancing, and how to sound like a Cockney urchin – and I’m going to meet the most amazing people . . . But I promise I’ll write, and phone, and in the bits when I’m not too busy actor-ing, I expect I’ll miss you terribly. Give my love to Clem, and enjoy your camping, and good luck with the new book— Oh, he’s honking again, I’d better go!’

Then Clover was dragging the fat blue suitcase out into the rain and along the crazy paving.

Mum picked up the top hat, ran after Clover, and plonked it on her head. ‘Go on, take it. It’ll keep the rain off, at least.’

A YELLOW TENT

Pea lay flat on her sleeping bag, and listened to the rain thrumming on the roof of the tent.

‘What are you two doing out there?’ shouted Mum from safe inside the house.

‘Camping practice,’ Tinkerbell shouted back. ‘We’re pretending to be outdoors holiday people, in the countryside. Go away – you’re spoiling it.’

The tent was big and yellow, not quite tall enough to stand up in, with a new plasticky smell. Pea’s friend Molly’s mum had lent it to them, with a confession that she’d never actually taken it out of its bag – so to check there were no missing poles or pegs, Pea and Tinkerbell had put it up in the back garden last night.

It had begun to rain the moment the last peg had slid into the lawn, and hadn’t stopped since.

‘At least it’s definitely waterproof,’ said Pea, prodding the groundsheet to check for leaky holes.

‘No!’ Tinkerbell put her book down crossly, and rolled over to lie on her front and glare at Pea. ‘That’s cheating. It has to be mattresses made from heather covered by a rug, or we’re not doing it properly.’

Pea herself had always been the reader in the family. Tinkerbell didn’t mind fact books with pictures of spiders, or instructions for how to make an indoor volcano, but she was usually too busy plotting her own villainous schemes to bother with made-up ones in stories. Back in June, however, Tinkerbell had been laid up in bed with a weeklong sicky bug, of the sort that makes the whole house smell queasy and chicken soupish. Pea had tried to cheer her up with a pile of comforting books from the library – audio ones, on CD, since she was too sicky to read for herself.

Tinkerbell had played Enid Blyton’s Five on a Treasure Island over and over until the whole family could recite great chunks of it, from hearing it float across the landing.

Ever since, Tinkerbell would come home from their Saturday morning library trip with armfuls of Blyton: Secret Sevens and Five Find-Outers, but especially Famous Fives. The Famous Five solved mysteries, usually by doing dangerous things in caves or boats. They had a dog. They ate a gigantic amount of food, and no one ever told them off for being spectacularly rude – which they were, quite often. It was like Tinkerbell’s dream life, in a book.

Pea had never been all that keen on pictures of spiders, or villainous schemes. She herself preferred the school stories Enid Blyton had written – Malory Towers, and St Clare’s – but she’d loved the Famous Five books too. It was nice, having a thing they shared.

So when Clem had asked what sort of holiday they might like to go on together, the answer was obvious. (Tinkerbell at first requested a castle with dungeons full of smuggled treasure, but it had been agreed that camping was sufficiently Famous Five-ish, and a lot easier to book on the internet.)

‘Go on – add heather and rugs to the packing list,’ said Tinkerbell, nose back in Five Run Away Together. ‘We should take some with us, in case they don’t have any in the Lake District.’

Pea wasn’t sure they had any in Kensal Rise, either. In fact, she thought having a yellow plasticky-smelling waterproof tent meant they might already be cheating enough for a pillow or two not to matter – but it didn’t seem worth arguing.

‘Are you cold, my chicks?’ called Mum. ‘I could bring you woolly jumpers? Or hot chocolate?’

‘No!’ shouted Tinkerbell, unzipping the tent just enough to poke her head out into the rain. ‘Stop bothering us! Leave us alone to practise being proper campers!’ She zipped the zip shut again, and folded her arms crossly.

Mum and Clem were still friendly – not always cross with each other like Pea’s friend Molly’s parents were – but they hadn’t lived together for a very long time. Ever since they’d moved to London, Clem had come to visit and do Dad-like things – with all of them, not just Tinkerbell. (Clover’s dad had died when she was a baby, and Pea had never met hers: she’d tried to track him down not long ago, but he remained a sort of mystery – and not the kind it might be fun for the Famous Five to solve.)

But still, it wasn’t like having a mum and a dad who did all their family things together. Mum did the parent-stuff, like bedtimes, and making sure their plates had vegetables on, and hugs when they were sad. Clem was more of a fun person who popped up at special moments, and birthdays. Like Father Christmas, but more often. And more Jamaican. And he didn’t always bring presents.

Having a whole summer with just him looking after them was like a special treat. And Mum wasn’t invited. Pea could see why she might feel a bit left out.

Pea unzipped the tent just enough to stick her head out into the rain. ‘Mum? If we’re sorry for being horrible, can we have hot chocolate after all?’

After a bit of nudging, Tinkerbell stuck her head out too. ‘If you aren’t very busy, you could come out here and help us practise camping as well. If you promise to have a small bottom, because the tent is quite full of books and us already.’

Mum reappeared at the kitchen door, and gave them a thumbs-up and a grin. A moment later, they heard the swirly sound of water filling up the kettle.

Pea zipped them back in, and bundled herself up in her sleeping bag, shaking raindrops out of her eyes. ‘Do you think Clem knows about bedtimes? And having to eat your sandwiches before the chocolate biscuit in your packed lunch?’

‘Quick, quick – come inside, my ducks!’ Mum called from the back door. ‘Clem’s on Skype, and he says he needs to talk to you both!’

They scrambled out of their sleeping bags and dashed through the rain back into the house.

In the study, Mum’s old computer was on, with Clem’s big pixelly face filling the screen. He looked awfully tired, Pea thought. His eyes were red. There were grey tufts in his curly black hair, and instead of his usual cosy jumper, he was wearing some sort of pastel-coloured top with what looked like a ribbon round the neck.

‘There’s my girls,’ he said, smiling weakly. ‘How are you doing, babes?’

Tinkerbell gave the screen a wave. ‘We’re brilliant, Dad – we’ve put the tent up so we know how to do it – there’s three poles and they spring together with elastic bits, and me and Pea did it all by ourselves without even any help, and we’ve checked it’s waterproof, and I’m going to build a campfire – not yet, Mum, when we go, don’t worry – and I’ve read twenty-three pages of my Famous Five book just this morning, and I’m going to bring ten books or maybe more, and if I run out I’ll read Pea’s, and do you know if they have heather and rugs in the Lake District? Because if not, we’ll bring some.’

Clem laughed, then coughed, the sound coming out strange and bubbly through the computer speakers.

‘Steady on, Stinks, yeah? That all sounds amazing. But I’ve got news, girls. Bad news. I’m so sorry about this, but . . . we can’t go. I can’t take you camping. I’m in hospital. The holiday’s off.’

MORE BAD NEWS

On the computer screen, Clem’s face froze for a moment – lips parted, eyebrows crunched together in confusion. Then he came back to life, halfway through a sentence.

‘. . . thought it was just a cold, like, but the cough wouldn’t go, and then my back started to hurt, and . . .’

‘. . . double pneumonia, apparently. I’m on a drip, antibiotics, the works.’

Pea was wondering the same thing – but she could see Mum in the corner of the screen, giving Tinkerbell a severe look.