The Exiles

Brocklebanks’ was marked by the familiar crash of falling china as she ferreted through the larder for something to eat.
    ‘Do you know where Phoebe is?’ asked Ruth, running downstairs from Big Grandma’s bedroom where she had been saying a wistful goodbye to the locked storeroom door. ‘What have you been crying about?’
    ‘Nothing,’ said Rachel. ‘Anyway, I haven’t. What have you been crying about?’
    ‘Nothing. That door’s still locked – I’ve just checked. And I’ve tried picking the lock like Naomi said, but it only bends the screwdriver.’
    ‘Perhaps there’s something in the shed we could use,’ suggested Rachel hopefully.
    Ready to try anything they set off to ransack the garden shed and there discovered Phoebe. She was sitting on an upturned bucket, a large book open across her knees, and a large, complacent smile across her face. Here was one Conroy at least who had not been crying.
    ‘Where did you get that book?’
    They seized it from her and examined it: The Little Bookroom . ‘Mary, with love from Mother’, was written inside.
    ‘I haven’t seen this before!’
    ‘It must have been Mum’s!’ and ‘How did you get in there?’ demanded Ruth fiercely, for it was perfectly plain where the book had come from.
    ‘Found the key!’
    ‘How? Why didn’t you tell us?’
    Phoebe was beginning to look extremely uncomfortable. ‘I was going to tell you.’
    With great difficulty they dragged the story from their disgraceful little sister. Even Rachel was shocked.
    ‘Spying through keyholes,’ declared Ruth, ‘is disgusting! You know it is!’
    ‘It was only till I saw where she put the key. I knew she must lock it up at night; she was reading in bed once when I went to the bathroom and the book wasn’t there in the morning. I couldn’t help it. I wanted to see the books. I couldn’t think of any undisgusting ways!’
    ‘Where’s the key now?’
    ‘In her glasses case.’
    ‘Come on –’ Ruth and Rachel were running back up the garden path to the house ‘– we’ve just got time for a look before they get back!’
    ‘I thought you said it was disgusting!’ Phoebe arrived panting in Big Grandma’s bedroom as Ruth fitted the key in the lock.
    ‘Well, it’s too late now, you’ve done it.’ Ruth pushed open the door and they fell down a step into a shadowy room, lit only by one small window which was half obscured by piled boxes. The walls were the same raw pine and breezeblock as the garage below, and the floor was rough bare planks, but the books – stacked in heaps and over-flowing boxes, a few scattered, open and face-downward – the books were a wealth and glory. They had time for one awed glance around, and then the sound of Big Grandma’s car engine sent them flying back into the bedroom, where they replaced the key and skidded down the stairs to saunter as casually as they could to meet the travellers. Fortunately, Big Grandma and Naomi were in such high spirits, having utterly vanquished Naomi’s doctor with the list of complaints, that they noticed nothing unusual about the others.
    ‘He didn’t say anything,’ Naomi told Ruth as they changed to go to Graham’s Good Riddance tea. ‘He just sat there with his mouth opening and shutting. I think he was ashamed. What’s the matter with you?’
    ‘Last night,’ began Ruth, and explained what Phoebe had seen that night.
    ‘I thought I heard someone creaking about!’ exclaimed Naomi, ‘while I was waiting to get up to do the digging! Go on, then what?’ and her face grew more and more dismal as Ruth related the events of the afternoon.
    ‘We only had time to just look in before you came back. There must be hundreds.’
    ‘And we’re going tomorrow!’
    ‘Yes.’ In the excitements of the afternoon the girls had almost forgotten it.
    ‘It’s not just the books,’ said Ruth, ‘it’s everything.’
    ‘I’m too sad to eat,’ Rachel told Mrs Brocklebank at tea time. Graham looked astonished and Big Grandma burst out laughing.
    ‘Try just nibbling then,’ suggested Mrs Brocklebank kindly, and Rachel, with great courage, nibbled her way through three slices of cheese and mushroom pie, several ham sandwiches, chocolate mousse and lemon cake.
    They talked about the summer and when they would come back.
    ‘Never,’ said Ruth dolefully. ‘Not unless Mum and Dad get another five thousand pounds from somewhere.’
    ‘Why are you all so fed up?’ asked Graham. ‘In