Read Online Papa Georgio by Annie Murray - Free Book Online

back on the ground.
    ‘That’s better!’ he said cheerfully. ‘You know who that was, don’t you?’
    ‘No – who?’
    ‘The local priest. Fine chap – didn’t bat an eyelid, did he?’ he took my arm. ‘Come along.’
    When we walked back into the caravan field, the toilets were still going Whoosh! All by themselves.

III.
    LOG BOOK
    Where’s Grandpa gone this time? He’s gone off again and left us in this boring dusty campsite outside Vicenza where there’s nothing to do. Ever since we’ve been in Italy he’s been ‘sloping off’ – that’s what Brenda calls it. And he never takes me with him and I’m FED UP with it! I am affronted .
    Oops. I stopped writing. I’d already broken my rules about not putting moods and rants into the front of my Log Book. But I was fed up . I was sitting on the step of the caravan writing and I had a nasty feeling Brenda (who was also none too pleased) was brewing up some sewing. So I was trying to look busy. But why was Grandpa being so mean?
    Last time he took off it was outside Milan. After several hours he came back, triumphant.
    ‘Look at these beauties!’ Tucked under his arm was a parcel of soft felt, and out of it he unrolled two figures and stood them on the table next to the butter. They were both men, golden in colour, with wreaths of vine leaves round their heads. Otherwise they were stark staring naked.
    ‘Bronzes,’ Grandpa declared, running a loving finger down one of their spines. ‘Fine work. Marvellous, aren’t they?’
    ‘Er, very nice.’ Brenda eyed them, doubtfully. I think she thought they were a bit too realistic.
    I stared at them wondering why statues are allowed to go naked but no one else.
    ‘I need to lay the table,’ Brenda said frostily. ‘And should you be displaying those in front of Janey?’
    Grandpa rolled the bronzes back in their felt and stored them at the bottom of the cupboard.
    Now he’d gone off again. Brenda was in her apron, washing up.
    ‘There’s no telling where he’s gone or what he’s up to,’ she sighed. After a moment she turned to me. Trying to console one or the other of us but I wasn’t sure which, she said,
    ‘Tell you what. We’ll go and fetch the water, and then start on that patchwork, shall we?’
    Oh dismal, oh I knew it! I wanted my friends! I wanted Charlotte to be here and us running about having adventures, not stuck in, sewing! But she wasn’t here and what else was I going to do? It wasn’t Brenda’s fault. Trying not to sound sulky I said, ‘OK then.’
    It was a warm afternoon and we left the door open so that the smell of pine trees drifted in. Brenda sat me down on the back seat, with a big pile of material between us, which made me feel gloomier still. What were we supposed to do when so much of the material consisted of some old curtains which were the sludgy green of old pondweed?
    Rifling through the rest I found a pale pink piece with tiny roses on it.
    ‘Shall we start with that?’ Brenda looked eagerly at me.
    She showed me how to tack the material on to hexagons of card and then, placing the two front sides together, stitch them together along one edge. Every stitch Brenda made with her clever fingers with their red polished nails, was perfect. Mine were all baggy and the cotton kept getting knotted. Mostly I felt like screaming and throwing it across the caravan but didn’t want to hurt Brenda’s feelings.
    ‘There!’ she said as the first two hexagons were at last joined by one edge. ‘Lovely, isn’t it?’
    And it did look lovely. Patchwork might be a bit soothing after all.
    Suddenly, without looking at me, Brenda said, ‘Are you all right dear? Here with us, I mean? We do so want to look after you properly.’
    I nodded, not knowing what to say. They were looking after me perfectly well but I didn’t know how to tell her that.
    ‘Let’s do another one!’ Brenda said brightly.
    We worked away for a bit and I was just pinning a fourth hexagon – pale blue