We set off really early on Saturday morning, carrying suitcases. Dad just had a light sports bag that he slung over his shoulder. He’d be wearing his uniform every day, so he only had to take clean shirts and underwear and pyjamas, with one open-necked casual shirt and a pair of flannels for an off-duty evening. He was also hauling along Mum’s big case. She’d packed most of her wardrobe, even putting in her bulky mackintosh though it had hardly rained all summer long.

I had my holiday clothes in a big shopping bag and I’d stuffed my school satchel with a couple of my old Noel Streatfeilds and a lost property paperback of Young Bess, because I liked the idea of a Virgin Queen. I resolved to keep to myself as much as possible, reading all the time so I didn’t have to make conversation. When my eyes got tired, maybe I could go off for long solitary walks in new white plimsolls. I insisted on wearing them without socks so I wouldn’t look too childish, and I already had two red marks on my heels.

When we got to the Happy Holidays coach park all the other drivers were hanging about, having mugs of tea and buns and cigarettes. They greeted Dad warmly, larking around, telling him he wouldn’t be able to get up to any hanky-panky with his missus and kiddie on board. Mum bristled a bit, but she could tell they didn’t mean it seriously. They were very polite to her, offering her tea in a proper cup and saucer. They made a fuss of me too, calling me Tuppence and gently pulling my ponytail.

Dad seemed so different with them, laughing and joking. He had a cigarette too, though he didn’t usually smoke – Mum didn’t like the smell and said it lingered in the house. But at eight o’clock Dad straightened his cap and brushed his shoulders, ready for action. We all queued for the one lavatory – the men let Mum and me go first. I didn’t really need to go but Mum insisted.

‘It’ll be several hours before the first stop. You need to go now!’ she hissed.

‘But isn’t there a toilet at the back of the holiday coaches?’ I asked.

‘Yes, but you mustn’t use it unless it’s an emergency. They’re horrible chemical things and you don’t want to make the coach smell,’ said Mum. ‘We’ll be sitting right at the back too. We can’t bag the good front seats with the views because all the other passengers will think it’s favouritism.’

‘Oh God,’ I murmured.

‘Now then. Don’t blaspheme. And take that look off your face. I’m not having you showing me up,’ said Mum. ‘We’re going to have a lovely holiday, just you wait and see.’

I tried to believe her while we waited for the first passengers to start rolling up. I knew the majority would be elderly couples, but I hoped there might be a few families with children so I didn’t stick out so horribly. Maybe a girl around my age? A small boy as funny as Little Richard? An older boy as kind and interesting as Daniel?

Then they started to arrive, loaded with cases, handing them over to Dad to stow in the luggage compartment at the side of the coach. They were all in their fifties or sixties. A few were really ancient, with walking sticks, and Dad had to give them a helping hand up into the coach. He was endlessly cheery with everyone, welcoming them with seemingly spontaneous patter, but after a while I could chant his little spiel backwards.

They mostly laughed along with him, glad he was so friendly, but two schoolmarm ladies were quite fierce with him and got tetchy when he wouldn’t let them drag their cases up into the coach so they could keep an eye on them. They were put out that two other couples had already bagged the front seats and said we should start a rota so that everyone had a turn.

I kept my head down, reading Young Bess, not wanting to say hello to any of them, though Mum was nodding and smiling cravenly.

‘Hello, dear,’ said one of the schoolmarms, managing to make the word dear sound like an insult. ‘That looks a good book.’

‘She’s a great reader, my Laura,’ said Mum.

‘What is it?’ said the other old girl. ‘A detective story?’

‘It’s a history book,’ said Mum proudly.

‘Hardly serious history!’ said the first schoolmarm, peering at the title.

‘Still, it’s good if it gives her an interest in the Elizabethans,’ said the other.

When they’d stopped paying us attention Mum dug me in the ribs. ‘What were they on about?’ she whispered. ‘Isn’t it suitable?’

‘Of course it is,’ I said.

‘Well, I don’t know, do I?’ said Mum.

She read a lot herself, but mostly Mills and Boon romances.

I tried to read when the coach set off at last, twenty minutes late because a couple came scurrying up long after the allotted time, red in the face and perspiring, blurting out tales of missed buses.

‘There’s always one!’ said the schoolmarm, and her companion tutted again.

Mum tutted too, because Dad was always complaining about the late-comers, hating his carefully planned schedule being disrupted.

I found Young Bess a surprisingly easy read and riveting right from the start. I wished I had the knack of flirting with eager courtiers but keeping them at arm’s length. But I soon started to feel travel-sick, even though the story was engrossing, and after ten minutes I felt so awful I had to close the book and lean back with my eyes closed. Oh God, was I going to feel like this the entire holiday?

When we got to the first rest stop I could barely stagger off the coach. Dad helped everyone down the steps. He looked at my white sweaty face.

‘Oh dear, feeling sick, buttercup?’ he said in his professional cheery manner. He reached in his pocket and brought out a little packet of pills. ‘Take a couple of these and you’ll feel much better.’

‘You can’t give her drugs, William!’ said Mum, horrified.

‘They’re just Kwells, travel-sickness pills. They work a treat. The driver’s little friends. I don’t want any puking on my coach!’ said Dad.

I swallowed the pills with a cup of tea in the cafe. I’d have swallowed anything just to stop feeling so dreadful. And in ten minutes I felt normal again, and even fancied a currant slice with a second cup. Mum herded me to the toilets afterwards and started chatting to some of the other ladies. They talked about the luck of having such lovely weather, and how the itinerary seemed very promising.

‘And the coach driver seems a lovely fellow, so helpful!’ said one woman, and the others all nodded and agreed.

Mum glowed – and I felt proud of Dad too. But it was totally cringe-making when we drove across the border into Wales and Dad started warbling Welsh songs, ‘Men of Harlech’, even Shirley Bassey’s ‘Kiss Me, Honey Honey, Kiss Me’ – but the whole coachful joined in, even the two schoolmarms.

‘He’s got them in the palm of his hand,’ said Mum. ‘He’s a right card, your dad.’

I wondered if we were going to keep quiet all holiday that we were related to the ‘right card’, but we sat at his table that evening at dinner in our hotel.

‘Isn’t it grand?’ said Mum. ‘And we’re staying here for nothing!’

I thought the thick white tablecloths and the potted plants in the corners of the dining room were grand too, but the food wasn’t very nice: watery Brown Windsor soup, beef and carrots and lumpy mashed potato, with tinned fruit and custard for pudding. We had better meals for school dinners, but I knew Mum and Dad would be upset if I pointed this out.

When the meal was finished some of the coach party made a beeline for the bar next door. Mum and Dad were teetotal at home, apart from Christmas and the odd beer for Dad now and then. He looked apologetically at Mum. ‘They’ll expect me to go. It’s part of the job, being the life and soul of the party,’ he said. He lowered his voice. ‘The more they like me the higher the tip at the end,’ he murmured.

‘Well, I don’t like the idea of you going off drinking, especially with all these women on their own,’ said Mum semi-seriously. Did she really think the two schoolmarms and the other grannies in their short-sleeved frocks showing off their flabby white arms would start flirting with Dad the minute her back was turned?

‘Why don’t you go with Dad?’ I said quickly. ‘I’ll go up to the room and read. I’ll be fine. I’d like that,’ I said.

So Mum gave me the room key and I went up by myself. Mum and I had a double room at the front, with a glimpse of the distant mountains. Dad had a small single room right up in the attics. I wished they’d let me sleep up there, but it was the rules that the driver had this faraway room which no one knew about.

‘It still doesn’t seem right that you just have a little cupboard of a room when you’re working so hard all day,’ said Mum.

‘It stops them forever knocking on my door because their water wasn’t hot enough for their bath or wanting a blow-by-blow account of tomorrow’s itinerary,’ said Dad. He tapped his head. ‘There’s method in my madness.’

So I was stuck having to share a double bed with Mum. Still, I reckoned I had an hour or so with Young Bess by myself, so I got washed and undressed quickly, leaped into bed (the mattress sagged in the middle, but then so did mine at home) and started reading. The story got better and better and I kept looking at the time, hoping Mum wouldn’t come back too soon. It got later, past my usual bedtime, and then later still. I was so tired now that my eyes kept blurring and my head nodded.

What on earth had happened to Mum? Could she still be in the bar? But she hated bars, saying the smell of drink and cigarettes turned her stomach. Had she and Dad gone for a walk? Mum had worn her high heels down to dinner – she surely couldn’t walk for more than five minutes wearing them. Anyway it was dark outside and they didn’t have a torch.

Perhaps she’d tripped in the dark? Or had Dad suddenly collapsed after using up all that energy being the life and soul of the party? I couldn’t help getting worried, though I saw the funny side of it. I was like the parent, fretting because my children were late coming home.

Then at last, at quarter to eleven, I heard a tentative knock on my door. I shot out of bed and ran to see if it was some hotel staff person come to break the news that my parents had been in a terrible accident – but it was Mum herself, her hand raised to tap again. We both jumped.

‘Mum! Why are you knocking?’

‘I wasn’t sure if this was the right door! I couldn’t remember the exact number. I was terrified of walking in on a complete stranger!’ Mum giggled. She walked in, swaying slightly, and then threw herself on the bed, letting out her breath in a huge whoosh. ‘My goodness, what a day!’ she said, kicking off her shoes. ‘This is the life, eh, Laura?’

I stared at her. She was acting so oddly, seemingly unaware that it was so late. Could Mum possibly be a little bit drunk? It was so unlikely that I started giggling too, joining Mum on the bed.

‘Have you been down in that bar all this time?’ I asked.

‘Well, I had to keep your dad company, didn’t I?’ Mum said. ‘But I’m so tired now.’ She nestled into her pillow. ‘Don’t think I’ll bother with my rollers just this once,’ she murmured. ‘Night night, dear.’

‘Mum! You can’t go to sleep in your frock! Come on, I’ll unzip you,’ I said. ‘You’ve had too much to drink, haven’t you?’

‘No, I haven’t, you cheeky baggage!’ said Mum, laughing merrily. ‘You know I always stick to bitter lemon. Though someone bought me a port and lemon when they treated your dad to a beer. It would have been rude to refuse it, you see. And then it was our turn to treat the other couple – you’ve got to stand your round, and I suppose I had another little port, but I wasn’t really drinking as such,’ she protested.

She stood up to take her frock off and staggered a little. ‘Whoops! I’ve gone a bit dizzy!’ She clutched hold of me. ‘Any port in a storm! Hey, I’ve made a joke! Any port in a storm – do you get it?’

‘Oh, Mum! You’re really drunk!’ I said.

‘I’m not, am I?’ she said. ‘Oh dear! And in front of my own daughter!’ She looked suddenly anguished.

‘Don’t worry, Mum. It’s funny. I like you like this,’ I said, helping her undress. She was so much warmer and softer and sillier drunk, and I loved the way she was holding onto me.

‘My little Laura!’ she said, breathing port fumes into my face. ‘I really think I need to go to sleep now.’

She climbed back on the bed without bothering to wash her make-up off, cream her face or do her hair. She didn’t even bother with her nightie, staying in her nylon petticoat. She was asleep in seconds. And snoring too.

It was so astonishing that I couldn’t stop giggling, but after a few minutes it started to get annoying. I hoped Mum hadn’t made a complete fool of herself down in the bar. I wondered if Dad was in a similar state up in his attic, but I expect the ‘life and soul of the party’ was more used to drink. I was wide awake now and wanted to read some more of Young Bess, but when I switched my bedside lamp on again Mum told me to put out that light this instant. ‘You’ll wake people up!’ she had the nerve to murmur.

I lay on the very edge of the bed and tried to imagine I was a future queen with all the boys flocking round me. It was unlikely to happen in real life. Daniel was so kind to me, but it was probably because I was Nina’s friend. The only boy who had showed any interest in me was Léon, and I’m sure that was only because his friend had bagged Nina. Anyway, I wasn’t going to think about him ever again. Thank goodness he had only been here on holiday so there wouldn’t be any chance of bumping into him again.

Mum was up and washed and dressed by the time I woke up. She was even wearing make-up, a smudge of rouge on each cheek and a dark red lipstick, perhaps because she looked so pale.

‘Come on, up you get, Laura. The breakfast gong will go in ten minutes,’ she said.

‘How do you feel, Mum?’ I asked.

‘Perfectly all right,’ she said calmly.

‘Didn’t you have too much to drink last night?’ I said.

‘Don’t be so silly!’ said Mum. ‘You know I don’t drink. I had a bitter lemon just to be sociable, that’s all.’

However, Dad looked at her anxiously when we went down to breakfast, though he didn’t say anything. I saw her surreptitiously swallowing two aspirins when she had her cup of tea. She gave me two Kwells too.

‘I don’t really want them, Mum,’ I protested. ‘They make me feel so sleepy. I’m sure I’ll be OK today.’

‘Take them!’ Mum repeated.

I was glad she’d insisted, because we went on a very narrow windy road up in the mountains. We were in our place on the left-hand side of the coach, and I had the window seat. When I looked out it seemed we were teetering right on the very edge. I couldn’t help catching my breath. Some of the other passengers squealed.

‘Soppy dates!’ said Mum, though she was even paler now, her rouge standing out like the cheeks on a Dutch doll. ‘There’s no real danger, and your dad’s a really steady driver.’

However, when we rounded a really tight bend Mum gripped my hand, and hers was as sweaty as mine. When we parked at the viewing place at the top someone shouted, ‘Three cheers for the driver!’ and Dad stood up and gave a funny little bow. The passengers all knew that I was his daughter now. Mum had been telling everyone our life story while they were in the bar last night. Now one of the more smiley ladies grinned at me.

‘I bet you’re proud of your dad, poppet!’ she said.

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ I said awkwardly.

‘I think it’s lovely that you and your mother go on holiday with him, all of you together!’ she said.

I didn’t think it lovely at all, but it would seem churlish if I disagreed. I just nodded and wandered off, pretending I wanted to have a proper look at the view.

‘Funny little thing!’ I heard the lady say to her husband. ‘She’s so shy!’

I felt my cheeks burn. I didn’t want to be shy. Inside I could be as fierce and rude and imperious as Nina. But as I stared across the green valley to further blue mountains beyond I calmed down. The breeze soothed my cheeks. It had been hot for so long that it felt wonderful to be in such cool, clean air. I breathed it in deeply, trying to imprint the view on my mind, watching a bird soar and feeling my spirits soar with it.

‘Don’t get so close to the edge, Laura! For heaven’s sake, come here, you silly girl!’ said Mum, grabbing the back of my dress and probably showing my pink knickers off to the whole coach party.

She got on my nerves all day long, nagging me about this and that, sometimes shaking her head at one of the other women and going ‘Kids today!’ in a world-weary fashion. I was so fed up and bored that I fell asleep on the coach, my head resting uncomfortably on the hot glass window, though Mum tried to get me to turn round and put my head on her shoulder.

I slept so long that I couldn’t fall asleep that night in the next hotel.

The days passed, each one blurring into another. Even the castles seemed indistinguishable to me. They even all started with the same letter: Conway, Caernarvon, Criccieth, Cardiff. The two schoolmarms (they really were teachers at the same grammar school) seemed really excited by them all. They took notes if we had a guided tour and even attempted sketches in black biro.

Mum had told them that I was at a grammar school too, and they thawed towards me.

‘Why don’t you take notes too, Laura? You could do a special castle project,’ History schoolmarm said brightly.

‘I’ve already done one, at primary school,’ I said.

‘She made a lovely castle. It was on display on Parents’ Evening,’ said Mum.

‘I’m talking about a proper project, not messing about with cardboard and plasticine,’ said the schoolmarm briskly.

‘Or maybe you could find a novel set in medieval times,’ said English schoolmarm. ‘You like reading, don’t you? Why not give Dorothy Dunnet a try? There’s a brilliant second-hand bookshop where we have our afternoon stop. I’m sure you’d find some of her novels there.’

I nodded weakly in acknowledgement, resolving to stay on the coach when we had the afternoon stop so she couldn’t boss me into buying books I didn’t want – but actually the big bookshop was a total delight. Dad stayed chatting to another coach driver in the car park – he wasn’t keen on bookshops – but Mum and I went there. It was in an old converted fire station, with thousands of books on two floors. Mum went to look at the Romance section while I wandered upstairs and looked along the literature shelves.

There was a woman sitting comfortably on the bare-board floor with her legs stretched out, absorbed in a book. She was wearing a man’s blue linen shirt and tight trews. They were teenage clothes and her blonde hair was tied up in a ponytail, but she seemed older, maybe in her twenties.

I cast a shadow over her as I browsed. She raised her head and blinked at me.

‘Oh, sorry! Am I in the way? Are you looking for anything in particular?’ she said. ‘We’ve got a big children’s section downstairs.’

She obviously worked here. It seemed a very pleasant kind of job. Maybe I could work in a second-hand bookshop too if I didn’t make it as an actress?

‘Actually, I only read adult novels nowadays,’ I said. ‘I’ve just finished Madame Bovary. You know, by Flaubert.’

I was trying to show off, but I wasn’t sure how to pronounce his French surname. I tried ‘Flough-bertte’. Her face didn’t move a muscle but I could tell from her eyes I wasn’t saying it correctly.

‘Or however you pronounce it,’ I mumbled.

‘Have you really read Madame Bovary?’ she said.

‘I think it’s the greatest book ever, but very sad,’ I said.

She nodded. ‘Absolutely! Well, I think we’ve got some other books by Flo-bear, but I don’t think they’re anywhere near as gripping.’

‘Oh well,’ I said.

‘Do you know something? I think you might like this,’ she said, handing me the book she was reading.

‘Selected Short Stories by Katherine Mansfield,’ I read. ‘Oh, I’m not sure I like short stories. By the time you get into one it’s almost finished. It’s too much effort.’

‘I know exactly what you mean,’ she said. ‘But these are very easy to read, honestly. The characters are all so real, especially the children. Try it.’

I looked at the pencilled price inside the front cover. It seemed alarmingly expensive, more than a brand-new book.

‘It’s a first edition, though it’s a bit scruffy, and of course it hasn’t got a dust wrapper,’ she said. ‘Still, I think we could reduce it.’ She took a stub of pencil with a rubber on top out of her trews pocket and rubbed out the price. She substituted one that was half the amount and looked up at me quizzically.

‘Is it your bookshop then?’ I asked.

‘No. I just work here. I like books – and I like the countryside. You should try walking up into the mountains. There are wild ponies!’ she said.

‘I’m only here for the afternoon, worst luck,’ I said.

‘That’s a shame. Well, what do you think? Have you got enough pocket money for the revised price?’

‘Not really,’ I said. ‘And Mum will probably think it’s still much too much.’

As I spoke I heard Mum in the distance. She was calling, ‘Laura! Laura! Laura!’ like an agitated bird.

‘That’s her,’ I said, sighing.

Then Mum came rushing up, very pink-cheeked, clutching a doctor-and-nurse romance in one hand. ‘Laura, for goodness’ sake! I’ve been looking for you all over the shop. We’ve got to be back at the coach in five minutes and you know how embarrassing it will be for your dad if we’re late,’ she said. Then she looked at the woman still sitting on the floor and the colour drained from her face. ‘Susan!’ she breathed.

‘Oh my God! Kathleen!’ she said. Then she looked at me. ‘So you’re Laura! Hey, I’m your aunty!’

‘You’re Aunt Susannah!’ I said, delighted. She was a wonderful surprise. I could see now she looked a little like Mum, but her style was so different. She seemed an entirely different generation. She could almost have been Mum’s daughter.

‘Susannah!’ said Mum, spitting out the word contemptuously. ‘She’s plain Susan and always will be. What on earth are you doing here? Did you follow Laura deliberately?’

‘Mum! Aunt Susannah works here!’ I said. ‘She didn’t even know who I was. She was being lovely to me, talking to me about books.’

‘Working here, in a dusty old bookshop in Wales?’ Mum said incredulously. ‘What happened to the posh office job then? And the posh Managing Director?’

‘Oh, Kathleen, for God’s sake,’ said Aunt Susannah, shaking her head. ‘You haven’t changed, have you? Don’t you want to make friends after all this time?’

‘No, I don’t! And you keep away from Laura. I don’t want you to have anything to do with her,’ said Mum.

‘She’s my niece!’

‘And I’m her mother and I’m doing my best to bring her up decently. You’ve got a nerve expecting anything different, especially after what you did to our own mother,’ Mum hissed.

‘Oh God, not that again! You’re acting like I murdered her!’ said Aunt Susannah. ‘It was a blood clot that gave her a stroke – not me!’

‘Brought on by the shock,’ said Mum. She seized hold of me by the arm. ‘Come away, Laura. We’ve got to get back to the coach!’

‘But I want to talk to Aunt Susannah!’ I said. I turned to her. ‘I don’t know what Mum’s on about, and I don’t care anyway. I want to be friends!’

‘I wish we could be,’ said Aunt Susannah. ‘It was lovely meeting you, Laura. It’s so cool that you like reading. You’re a girl after my own heart.’

‘No she’s not! And I think she just reads these difficult books to show off half the time,’ said Mum. She gave my arm a big wrench, almost pulling me off my feet. ‘Come on!’

I looked helplessly at Aunt Susannah. I’m sorry! I mouthed at her. She just smiled sadly and shrugged. People book-browsing further along the shelves were staring, wondering what was going on. Mum gave a little groan of embarrassment and hustled me down the stairs and out of the shop.

‘Why did you have to make such a scene, Mum?’ I protested breathlessly as she hurried me along, still keeping a firm grip. ‘Aunt Susannah – Aunt Susan, whatever – she’s nice. Why can’t we be friends with her? What has she done?’

‘Never you mind,’ said Mum. ‘And don’t say anything to your dad either. That woman’s poison, even though she’s my own sister.’

‘Well, at least she’s not a thief like you,’ I said, as we got to the car park.

‘What do you mean?’ Mum panted.

‘You’ve not paid for that book!’ I said, pointing to her paperback romance.

Mum stared at it in her hand. ‘Oh, good Lord!’ she gasped. ‘I’ll have to go back!’

But Dad was standing at the front of the coach, his hands on his hips, scowling in our direction. We were obviously late.

Mum panicked. She put the book on top of the little wall round the car park. ‘Perhaps someone will take it back to the shop for me,’ she said. She rushed over to the coach. ‘I’m so sorry, William. It wasn’t our fault. There was a bit of a disturbance in that big bookshop. But we’re only a few minutes late, aren’t we?’

Dad tutted at us. ‘Keeping us all waiting,’ he muttered, though if we’d been any other passengers he’d have laughed it off.

I begged Mum to tell me why she was still so angry with Aunt Susannah but she told me sharply to be quiet.

Neither of us could get to sleep that night. After a while I heard Mum making soft snuffling sounds. I thought she was snoring at first. Then when she reared up on one elbow and blew her nose on her hankie I realized she was crying.

‘Oh, Mum,’ I said, reaching out across the double bed to her. ‘Don’t be so upset. Is it because of Aunt Susan?’ I didn’t dare add the ‘annah’ part because it enraged her so.

‘No!’ Mum said, though it obviously was.

‘Look, I’m really sorry if you can’t stand her because of something she’s done. But she hasn’t done something to me, has she? And she is my actual aunt. Why can’t I still be friends with her?’

‘Because,’ said Mum.

‘Because what?’ I asked, though I knew what she would answer.

‘Because I say so.’

When we got back to the prefab late on Saturday night, all three of us disgruntled and exhausted, there was a slim package lying on the hall floor, along with several bills. It was addressed to me. Mum flinched when she saw the handwriting, but I snatched it from her before she could stop me.

It was the Katherine Mansfield book, and a postcard with a picture of wild ponies on a rugged mountain.

Dear Laura, I read.

It was a joy to meet you. You’ve changed so much since I last saw you! I hope you enjoy these stories. I like ‘The Doll’s House’ best. Your mum and I shared a doll’s house when we were kids, but it didn’t have a real little lamp.

I hope we can be friends one day.

Love

Susannah xx