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Bonky, Bonky, Bonky
The next morning was grey and overcast, but at least Amy couldn’t hear raindrops on the flysheet when she woke. At about eight o’clock, she crawled out of the warmth of her sleeping bag and put her clothes on. The air was damp, even inside the tent, and the cloud hung low over the tops of the fells. There was something about misty mornings like this that called to her; she felt feeling there might be something hidden and she had to walk until she found it. This must be how Matt felt about running up into the fells, and she could understand what he meant about the freedom of losing yourself. There was no chance of losing yourself back home in Saddleton; there were always too many people to find you again and tell what a fool you were for getting lost in the first place, but here it was different.
She took the opportunity of Harry being fast asleep to go and have a shower — she knew Matt was already awake as she could hear him moving around inside the campervan, opening and shutting cupboards.
She scrambled out of the tent, spongebag in one hand and towel in the other.
‘Matt? I’m going to have a shower. Can you listen for Harry? He’s still out for the count.’
There was a loud creaking from inside the van. ‘No bother. I’m just folding the bed up, I’ll keep an eye on him for you,’ Matt promised.
He wasn’t the only one getting ready for the day ahead. Mr. Motorhome was taking a bag of rubbish up to the bins. He was whistling happily and greeted her with a big grin and a ‘good morning!’ He was happy to be moving on, no doubt — or something else was making him extra cheerful this morning.
When she came back out of the shower room, there was no cheery whistling from the motorhome, only the sound of the engine revving. Without room to turn, they were attempting to reverse the vehicle back up the field, but the wheels spun, and it was was going nowhere.
In the tent, Oliver and Harry were in there playing on Goat Gunge, keeping out of Matt’s way as he finished sorting out the campervan. The voices of Mr. and Mrs. Motorhome floated across the campsite towards them.
‘I can’t believe it. We’ve sunk into the ground. It’s ridiculous, shouldn’t be allowed to call itself a campsite if you can’t even park on it without sinking,’ whined Mrs. Motorhome.
‘It’s probably because they did all that bouncing about inside last night, isn’t it?’ said Oliver.
‘Yeah,’ agreed Harry, doing his best imitation of the noises which had been coming from the motorhome last night, accompanied this time not only by jazz hands but by jazz hands and bouncing up and down on his bottom.
Amy was hanging her towel over the back of one of the chairs to dry. ‘Harry! Please don’t bounce on your air bed like that. You’ll burst it!’
‘I’ll try not to.’ He zipped the door shut so Amy couldn’t see what he was doing.
‘Did your mummy and daddy do that when they were married?’ Oliver asked, curiously, obviously completely unaware Amy could still hear him now the tent door was shut. ‘Bonky, bonky, bonky!’ and there was some more audible evidence Oliver was bouncing on the airbed too.
‘No way. I bet yours did, though,’ said Harry.
‘I don’t think so. They wouldn’t do that. They didn’t even do snogging that much.’
‘Urgh. Mine neither. Gross. You snogged Darcey-Mae once, didn’t you, Oliver?’
‘I didn’t!’ he protested.
‘Darcey and Oliver, sitting in a tree …’ The chant was accompanied by some more bouncing on the airbed. She should put a stop to this before Harry made Oliver cry.
‘Boys, I can hear every word you’re saying and every bit of bouncing,’ she said.
‘We’re not bouncing!’ Harry protested. ‘Not now, anyway.’
‘Please make sure you don’t!’
Matt appeared in the doorway of the awning.
‘I’m going to go and help those people in the motorhome. They’re stuck, I don’t suppose you’d come and help to push too?’
‘Yes, I’ll come. Behave yourselves, boys, and no more bouncing, please!’
‘We’ll help to push,’ said Matt to the motorhomers. ‘I’ve got some special gripper tracks to put under the wheels where they’re spinning. That should help.’
‘We can manage,’ snapped Mrs. Motorhome.
‘Thanks, that would be great,’ Mr. Motorhome said, overruling her. ‘You get in and drive, sweetheart, and we’ll push.’
‘I’ll get the tracks in place.’ Matt was busy lining up the gripper tracks under the wheels of the motorhome. ‘Okay, ready, not too hard … Reverse!’
