Camp Crackers

Lisa Stewart

Description

Reluctant siblings Sunny and Gil are persuaded to spend their summer holiday renovating their uncle's shabby country cottage only to discover an invasion of mad campers in his back garden.Sunny McIntosh is a redheaded, offbeat 23-year-old who dabbles in laziness. She has spent her life overshadowed by Gil - her perfect nerd of a brother. But this is her story - how she is thrown into hosting "the worst campsite in Scotland", battles to restrain a fanatical sci-fi brigade and is desperate to finish the DIY so she can return home to Edinburgh and her precious Mathew.Four townies, two weeks, one field.

Informations

• Publié par: Brown Dog Books
• Date de parution: 16 août 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781839522505
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

First published 2021
Copyright © Lisa Stewart 2021
The right of Lisa Stewart to be identified as the author of this work has been
asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a
retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic,
electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or
otherwise, without the written permission of the copyright holder.
Published under licence by Brown Dog Books and
The Self-Publishing Partnership, 7 Green Park Station, Bath BA1 1JB
www.selfpublishingpartnership.co.uk

ISBN printed book: 978-1-83952-249-9
ISBN e-book: 978-1-83952-250-5
Cover design by Patrick Knowles
Internal design by Andrew Easton
Printed and bound in the UK
This book is printed on FSC certified paper

CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 1
I had imagined running my own business in a sleek designer suit and making executive decisions from behind a glossy desk. Not sharing a cheerless café with an awkward teenage couple and their three-legged dog. I sighed, eking out the mug of hot chocolate. Well, I say ‘hot’ chocolate – the murky brown liquid might once have been stirred in the same annexe as a microwave, but I wasn’t about to complain. The pockmarked girl with amber hair and lime dungarees had the sour expression of someone who had been slapped in the face. Hard. She swiped at the tables with a damp sponge, shoving each chair back into place with an irritating grating noise. Granted, this was my second mug and, okay, so I might have been hogging the prime spot in the café, but it was the only table with a view. The nodding masts of the docked yachts took me back to a time of seaside holidays and sand-filled sandwiches. Despite the gloomy grey of a Scottish summer’s evening, it was unlikely to get dark until after ten. Clinging to my window seat I passed endless minutes observing the dog-walkers and cyclists criss-crossing the harbour promenade. An impatient child lobbed handfuls of bread to the diving birds, which were expert at snatching crusts mid-air. One greedy gull - swooping too close - was thumped off course by a stale bap.
Despite the frequency of requests for me to chaperone newly introduced couples of the retired variety, evening dates tended to be uncommon. Just as well, since hanging around cafés after office hours when I could be at home doing … actually, anything else … had rapidly lost its appeal. But I’d got lazy recently with my own business, Do Me A Favour, and over-reliant on the easy money generated by love-seeking pensioners.
My phone pinged, attracting a further glare of disapproval from Happy Hannah. A text: 'help we r stuck'. I snatched up my phone and stepped outside.
‘Grace? What do you mean, “stuck”?’
‘Oh, Sunny, thank goodness you answered!’
‘What’s up, Grace? Where are you stuck?’
‘Well, Stanley and I were just taking a stroll along the esplanade when he offered to give me a wee tour of the old barrack ruins here, so we walked out along the pathway and now we’re sort of on an island, but the tide has come in and …’
‘What the—?’
‘Please don’t be angry.’
‘Don’t be angry? I’m furious !’ I dodged back into the café, threw a fiver on to the table – that wouldn’t have improved Happy Hannah’s spirits, as my bill, I realised later, was over six pounds – grabbed my bag and jacket and strode towards the harbour wall. I scanned the khaki water, which had lapped over the Cramond Causeway, leaving the island cut off from the mainland. An event that happened twice every day yet still caught the ignorant off-guard.
‘Sunny? Are you still there? What are we going to do?’
‘I’m thinking,’ I growled, speed-reading the instructions on the public noticeboard. ‘I’m going to have to call out the Queensferry lifeboat.’
‘Right. So what shall we do?’
‘ Do? There’s nothing you can do. Just stay in one place and we’ll get to you as quickly as possible. Are you warm enough?’
‘Not really. I’ve only got my light jacket that I bought in a Debenhams sale and it’s really just meant for when I go out to the club or something and even then I always get the bus. It doesn’t even have a proper lining. What’s that, Stanley? Oh, Stanley’s just given me his blazer. Thank you, love. Now he’s in his shirtsleeves. What’s that, Stanley?’
‘ Grace! I need to get off the phone so I can call out the lifeboat.’
‘Oh, rightio. Stanley’s asking if we should build a fire.’
‘ No! The last thing we need is for you to set the island on fire. Hold tight. I’ll call you back.’
I too noted the drop in temperature as the wind picked up and the choppy waves slapped at the stone pillars marking the one-mile causeway. I squinted at the island, but it was too far out for me to detect any figures on the rocky bulge.
‘Right – the RNLI boat is on its way.’
‘That’s good. Will it be long? Only Stanley’s lips have gone a funny blue colour.’
‘I’m sure they’ll be as quick as they can.’
‘We’re thinking of getting married.’
‘Really, Grace? That’s nice. But this is your first date. I’m not sure you should be rushing into this.’
‘No – I mean now. We’re thinking of getting married now.’
‘Eh?’
‘Well, apparently Stanley is ordained and has married quite a few people over the years. He hasn’t done one for a while but says it’s like riding a bike.’
‘Grace – don’t be ridiculous. He can’t marry you himself.’ Can he? I was on tricky ministerial ground here.
‘He says he doesn’t want to die a bachelor.’
‘No one’s dying,’ I reassured her. Not until I get my hands on you both, at any rate.
‘What’s that, Stanley? Oh, yes, sorry, I will.’
‘Will what?’
‘Take him to be my lawful wedded husband.’
‘ Grace! Stop this charade right now. The boat will be here any minute and you’ll both be back on dry land before you can toss your bouquet.’
‘Hang on a minute, Sunny – my husband wants a word with you.’
‘Grace, I— Oh, hello, Stanley, how are you doing?’
‘If you’re worried about my intentions, they are entirely honourable, I can assure you.’
‘No, it’s not that.’ I groaned. ‘I’m just really tired and cold and want to get home. This evening hasn’t exactly gone to plan.’
‘You’re spot on! But isn’t that what’s so marvellous? You go out for a summer’s stroll and you come back a married man!’
‘I’m not sure if— Boat! There’s a boat! Got to go – over and out.’
As the RNLI dinghy bounced over the waves into the harbour I could see Grace and Stanley huddled together on the bench, wrapped in Bacofoil like a couple of doomed turkeys. The two crew members helped the shiny couple to negotiate the stone harbour steps. I thanked them profusely, making a mental note to donate more generously in future. They shook their heads in bemusement as Stanley asked for their blessing, launching into his groom’s speech about him and his wife. The boat sped off, leaving a wide foam wake.
‘Right, you pair, the taxi’s waiting and we’re getting you home.’
‘Oh, but we’ve got our bus passes,’ Stanley protested. ‘And the night is young – we should be out celebrating!’
‘I don’t care if you’ve got backstage passes to Holyrood Palace, we’re going home – now !’
I bustled them into the idling taxi, relieved it would be the last I’d see of this mad pair. As I fastened Grace’s seatbelt, she whispered in my ear. ‘I don’t think I’m going to like being married.’
I patted her knee. ‘I wouldn’t worry. I don’t think that counts.’
‘Really? I hope not. I only came out because there’s nothing on the telly on a Tuesday.’
Chapter 2
After last night’s stress of Two Get Stranded on Cramond Island I allowed myself a lie-in. There’s nothing like eleven hours of sleep to make me feel perky. Or not. I drifted through to the kitchen, stuck the kettle on and selected my favourite mug. I reached into the fridge for the milk, reading Gil’s accusatory note: ‘Much as I support all life, spore-formers play havoc with coffee’. Gil’s polite way of informing me I’d let the housekeeping side down. Again.
The sun felt surprisingly warm on my freckled face as I returned from the corner shop with a pint of milk. I opened the door to the building’s communal hall and browsed the small pile of post and circulars. I had my key poised when, from nowhere, out sprang an anxious-faced youth dressed in a faded grey hoodie and torn jeans. His glasses looked like they’d been cleaned with a discarded chip wrapper.
‘You’re Gil’s sister, right?’
I sighed, my key halfway to the door. So close!
‘Look, I’ve told you and your buddies that I’m not passing him any numbers, notes or fan mail.’
‘I just think if he could give us five minutes …’ He hopped in agitation.
‘Anyway, who let you in here?’
He blushed and mumbled something about the postie. ‘It’s really important,’ he urged.
‘I’ve told you lot before – he’s not interested.’
‘But it’s not just me – the whole world is waiting to hear his account.’ Tears sprang to his eyes.
‘And the world sent you?’
He placed his hands together as though praying and I caught a whiff of garlic mixed with petrol. ‘Please? Here.’ He held out a torn scrap of paper with a mobile number scrawled on it. I let him hold it out.
‘Go,’ I ordered.
‘But—’
‘Leave now or I’ll call the police.’ I tried to look as menacing as possible for a five-foot troll with ginger hair. He sniffed, wiped his nose on his sleeve and sloped off towards the door, which I slammed behind him. Wait till I get hold of the postman. If I ever give a Christmas tip, his is being withheld.
These spods were getting crazy. Ever since Gil’s testimony in court he had been badgered relentlessly (I