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DEBORAH England waved good-bye to the last of her school friends and settled herself more comfortably on the seat she now had to herself.

“Phew! It is hot! I wish some more windows would open!” she sighed to herself, almost relieved to be alone so that she would not have to make the effort to talk and appear cheerful.

The top of the London bus was certainly stifling, for it was the beginning of July and a heat-wave lay over the city.

Deborah felt tired and worried, for it was hardly the weather in which to tackle an examination, and she was in the middle of School Certificate. The worst was over, but she still had to face the French and English papers: the thought of them made her feel hotter than ever.

She began to wish that the term were over, and for the first time she realized that nothing had been said at home about this year’s holiday.

“Goodness! Why haven’t we thought about it?” She glanced towards the front of the bus, where Petronella, her thirteen-year-old sister, was talking eagerly with two of her contemporaries. Peta’s curly black hair was tossed back from her rather thin, pale face, but she looked exceedingly cheerful.

“Mother did say something about having to be thinking about making arrangements, but that was weeks ago. All the hotels will be booked up, unless we aren’t going till the end of August,” thought Deborah, with considerable gloom.

Suddenly the thought of the sea was very inviting, and she resolved to raise the question of holidays the moment she reached home. It really was very curious, now she came to think about it, that no plans had been made.

“Especially as we’ve all been ill,” she mused, for all the Englands had had a bad dose of measles not so long before, and that was why Petronella’s face was even paler than usual.

The bus rushed up Kensington High Street and the dusty, sun-baked grass of the Gardens appeared on her left. She rose, clutching her leather case, and made for the stairs. She would be sixteen in three weeks’ time, but she was short and slight, with a pale, clear-cut face and the black hair common to all members of the family. Peta was the only one who boasted curls. Deborah — next luckiest, as the envious Francesca was wont to say — had a good natural wave in front, but for the rest her hair swung straight and smooth nearly to her shoulders.

“I say! You might wait, Deb!” cried Petronella, scrambling down the steps and hurling herself onto the pavement.

“I knew you were coming. All I want is to get home and have a cool bath, and a long, cold drink and fruit salad for tea!” said Deborah, as they crossed the road.

“Hope you’re lucky!” said Petronella, hitching her satchel into a more comfortable position. “I’d like a swim. I say, Deb! Has it struck you that Mother and Father haven’t said a word about holidays?”

Deborah stared at her, and then laughed.

“Yes — just. I mean, I thought about it on the bus.”

“You don’t think — we always have a fortnight at the sea!”

“Of course we do. And I expect it’s all right. We’ll ask Mother the moment we get in.”

The pavements of Queen’s Gate were hot beneath their sandalled feet, and the glare made them blink. They walked rapidly, swinging round corners, and at last found themselves in Worcester Place where they lived.

No. 25 was a tall, grey house, with a flight of steps up to a scarlet front door. The door stood open and both girls darted thankfully into the shade of the porch. The Englands owned the house and lived on the first two floors, while the third was a self-contained flat.

The hall was wide and dim, with a slight breeze blowing up it, as though every window at the back of the house were open and perhaps the back door too.

“How blessedly cool,” sighed Deborah, already forgetting the worry and heat of the day. Usually she was fond enough of the High School, but worrying over School Certificate and the tired feeling that assailed her so often lately were making the term something of a burden. She knew herself to be a somewhat undistinguished member of the Upper Fifth, though she was popular and had plenty of friends.

“I’m ordinary,” she sometimes thought with regret. “I don’t do anything a bit well.”

“Mother! Mother, we’re back! And half-roasted!” called Petronella, but there was no immediate answer. Then there was a small, absorbed grunt, and a child’s voice said:

“Mother’s gone out. And I’m getting the tea.”

“Getting the tea!” cried Petronella, as her eyes swept round the sitting-room, which was high and, at the moment, shady. The big windows were open to the rather dusty garden and a bowl of fresh, pink roses filled the air with perfume. The polished table was devoid of cloth or any sign of a meal, and Francesca — lying on her stomach on two cushions on the floor — said calmly:

“Don’t fuss, Peta, please. I’m getting it right now. And of course you can help me, now you’re here.”

“Bless the child! She’s got another Ballet book!” gasped Deborah, bending over the thin little figure on the floor. “Oh, Pav! The Ballet in Britain! — 21/-! Where on earth did you get it?”

Francesca raised her small, pale face blandly, smiling up at her eldest sister. She was ten, and the youngest of the Englands, and her consuming passion was Ballet, hence her nickname of Pavlova, given her by Deborah long ago, before Francesca was ever entered at the Ballet School. She was a shrimp of a child, with long, thin limbs and a cloud of dead straight hair that she kept back from her face with a scarlet ribbon tied on top of her head.

“I’ve been saving my two birthday tokens, and Mother gave me the other five and six in advance of pocket-money. I do wish Ballet books weren’t so terribly expensive. But this one has some lovely pictures. Look at ‘Les Sylphides’, and ‘Spectre —’ ”

“We’d sooner have tea,” said Petronella. “Really, Pav, you might have got a move on considering you get in about three quarters of an hour before us. Where’s Mother gone?”

“Gone to see Mrs. Bets, she said. She won’t be long.”

Francesca rose reluctantly — and with grace. She never made an awkward or ungainly movement, though when not moving she looked an extremely ordinary little girl.

“It’s sort of half-ready,” she remarked, making her way towards the kitchen. “Potato salad, and cold meat, and a lovely fresh fruit salad.”

“I’m going to wash first. I do wish I’d time for a bath!” and Deborah bounded up the stairs to the bedroom she had to herself. She rummaged in the wardrobe until she found a clean, crisp cotton frock, then she slipped out of her tunic and white blouse and hurried into the bathroom before Peta could get there.

Petronella had just taken her place when a loud banging announced the arrival of the fourth member of the family, Everard, who was fourteen. He flung his books down in the hall and came bounding up the stairs two at a time.

“Phew! Isn’t it hot? I’m going for a bathe tonight. Deb! I say, Deb! D’you know about holidays? It’s just struck me —”

“It’s just striking all of us,” said Deborah, appearing on the landing in her clean frock, tidying her hair with her hand. “Funny we never thought before, but there’s been so much to think about at school, and —”

“What?” asked Francesca, pausing in the hall below with a plate of bread and butter in one hand, and a large fruit cake in the other.

“Holidays. Has Mum said anything to you?”

“Yes: she said just now that it was all fixed up, and we’d hear when she came back,” said Francesca. “Really? Where are we going? Eastbourne again?”

“I don’t know. I said I hoped it wasn’t on September 2nd, ’cos that’s when the new Ballet Company opens and I don’t want to miss it,” explained Francesca. “And Mother laughed.”

“Oh, Pav, can’t you think of anything but Ballet?” asked Deborah, moving round the table to put everything in place. “It’s awful to have such an obsession. You’ll grow up —”

“She’ll grow up a perfect little horror. She’s only just human now!” said Everard, pulling his sister’s sleek hair. Francesca shook off his hand indignantly.

“Don’t be hateful, Brit! Just because you’re only interested in those awful sports books, and can’t do a thing but kick a football —”

For answer, her brother threw up his arms and did a grotesque dance round the big room, leaping and twirling. He finished up with a clumsy curtsy at Francesca’s feet, and the little girl stamped her foot angrily.

“Don’t be silly, Pav! He’ll only tease you worse if you get mad,” said Petronella. “You ought to know that by now. Shall I make the tea? Or shall we wait until Mother comes?” Their father was always late getting back from his Government office.

“Oh, make it, for goodness’ sake! I’m like a dry ditch,” said Everard. “Mum won’t mind.” Deborah began to serve the potato salad and Petronella was just carrying in the teapot when the front door opened and there was a wild scuttling of feet on the hall floor.

“Here’s Jackie Tar come back!” cried Francesca, holding open her arms to the small and rather dusty terrier. He leaped into them, while Deborah protested vigorously.

“He’s simply filthy. Put him down, Pav. He wants a drink.

“So do I,” said Mrs. England, appearing in the doorway. “Jack Tar would come with me, though I told him it was too hot for him to be out. Were you all very hot? It is scorching, isn’t it?”

She seated herself at the table and accepted a cup of tea from Petronella. It was easy to see that all the children took after her, for she was small, slim and dark. Just now she looked tired and a trifle worried, and she sighed as she glanced round the table. “What a collection of pale faces! Are you sure you’re all right, Deb? Anyway, you’ll be the healthiest family in Kensington by the autumn, thank goodness! I’ve got news — did Pav tell you?”

“Are we going to the sea, Mother? We’ve all been wondering.” Deborah’s face was anxious. She was a Londoner born and bred, but somehow the heat-wave had made her remember the coolness of miles of sea and the delights of going out in a boat. Mrs. England glanced once more round the table, and she hesitated before she said:

“Not to the sea. To the country.”

The four faces fell.

“The country?” asked Petronella blankly. “But, Mother —”

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To order your copy of Chiltern Adventure see our online shop, visit our Edinburgh bookshop or one of our Stockists.