Secret Meeting

by Jean Ure

  I settled myself at a little table in the corner and turned back the cover of my nice new writing block.

  BIOGRAPHY OF HARRIET CHANCE

  Harriet Chance was born in Epsom, Surrey, on 12th March 1962. She went to school at the Convent of the Sacred Heart. She was very good at English, French and German, and very bad at maths and geography. She hated playing hockey. (Just like me!)

  When she left school she went to university in London and did English. After that she went to teach at a school in Birmingham, where she met her husband and got married. She now lives in London with her husband and her daughter Lori, who is fifteen.

  Harriet Chance started writing books while she was at school. When she was twelve she wrote a book called PAPER DOLLS, but she never tried to get it published. When she was at university she wrote some poetry which was not very good. While she was a teacher she wrote a book for grown-ups, but that was not very good either so for a while she gave up writing.

  Then she got married and had a baby and didn’t work any more but she got bored just being at home all the time and so she started writing again.

  Her very first book that was published was called PATSY PUFFBALL, but now she wishes she had never written it. She would like all the copies to be put into a shredding machine. She really hates that book!

  Other books she has written include: CANDYFLOSS, VICTORIA PLUM, APRIL ROSE, SUGAR MOUSE and FUDGE CASSIDY. In all she has written fifty-four. Her latest one is called SCARLET FEATHER. It is about this girl called Scarlet whose mum and dad split up and Scarlet has to decide which one she will live with. I cannot say which one she chooses as the book is not yet published. But I can say that Harriet Chanceis my ACE FAVOURITE AUTHOR!

  I had just written the last words and put a little squiggly bit underneath to show that that was The End, when an old lady I had never seen before suddenly spoke to me.

  “And what are you writing?” she said. “Love letters?” My cheeks immediately went bright pink. (I don’t know why, but I am very easily embarrassed.) I said, “No, I’m doing a project for school.”

  “What is it about? Is it about love?”

  I shook my head, turning even pinker.

  “Is it about boys?”

  “N-no,” I said. “It’s about my f-favourite author.”

  “Does she write about love?”

  I shook my head again; more vehemently, this time.

  “So what does she write about?”

  “J-just … ordinary p-people,” I said. “And their p-problems.”

  “Ah. An agony aunt! I used to read Enid Blyton. Do you read Enid Blyton?”

  I said, “S-sometimes.”

  “I used to read her all the time. Which ones have you read?”

  “Um … F-Five on a T-Treasure Island?”

  “Ah, yes! The Famous Five. What else?”

  “N-Noddy?”

  “Noddy? I should have thought you were rather too old for Noddy.”

  “When I was l-little,” I said.

  “Oh, my dear,” said this strange old woman, “you are still little! But too old for Noddy. Try The Secret Island. That was one of my favourites!”

  With this she wandered off, and I was quite relieved. I didn’t mind talking to Birdy about aliens, but I don’t like the sort of conversations that make my cheeks go pink. It may be silly that they turn pink, but there is nothing that I can do about it. It is just something that happens.

  I watched the old lady shuffle across the room. I wondered how old she was. I thought probably about eighty. I mean, she was really old. Older than Gran, even though Gran sat staring and this old lady could still walk and talk. To think that she was reading Enid Blyton over sixty years ago! Over seventy years ago. I tried to imagine how it might be when I was her age, tottering about in an old people’s home, asking young girls who had come to visit their grans if they had ever read Harriet Chance. I couldn’t! I just couldn’t imagine being eighty years old. But I could imagine people still reading Harriet Chance. I bet they’ll still be reading her in a hundred years‘ time!

  “What was that all about?” said Mum, as we walked up the road to catch our bus back to town.

  “She wanted to know what I was writing,” I said.

  “And what were you writing?”

  “My biography of Harriet!”

  “Oh, yes … didn’t you say something about a new book being published?”

  “Scarlet Feather,” I said; and I sighed.

  “What’s the sigh for?” said Mum.

  “It’s in hardback … it won’t be out in paperback for ages.”

  “Well, who knows?” said Mum. She patted her bag. “Gran’s just given me your birthday present … so maybe you’ll be able to buy it?”

  Gran doesn’t really give me birthday presents any more. It’s Mum who buys the book tokens and then guides Gran’s hand as she signs the birthday card. But we both pretend. I always give Gran a big kiss and say thank you. Maybe somewhere deep inside she knows what it’s for.

  The phone was ringing as we got back home. It was Annie, all bright and bubbling. She is always bright and bubbling.

  “Hey! Guess what?” she went. “I think I know what your birthday prezzie’s going to be!”

  I said, “What? What?”

  “Can’t tell you! I’m still arranging it. But it’s something you’re absolutely going to love.”

  I went, “Hm!” thinking that if it was anything gluey I wouldn’t use it. I didn’t care how much it hurt Annie’s feelings. I didn’t want my eyes swelling up again! I looked like a football that’d been kicked by David Beckham.

  “I’ve been speaking to you-know-who,” said Annie.

  I squeaked, “Lori? You’ve been speaking to Lori again?”

  “For ages!”

  Now I’d gone all green and jealous.

  “What did you speak about?”

  “’Bout you.”

  “About me? What did you say?”

  “Tell you tomorrow! It’s so exciting!”

  “What? What is?”

  “What we’ve been speaking about!”

  “Annieeeee! Tell me!”

  But she wouldn’t. She just giggled, and bounced the phone back down. I went into the kitchen and said, “Mum, I’m so envious! I can’t help it.”

  “Envious of what?” said Mum.

  “Envious of Annie! She’s been talking—” I took a breath “— to Harriet Chance’s daughter!”

  “Oh, my goodness,” said Mum. “Where did she meet her?”

  “In a bookroom. On the Internet.” I could already see the frown lines gathering on Mum’s forehead. Hastily, I gabbled on. “It’s this special site, just for bookworms. That’s what it’s called … Bookworms.”

  “I see.” Mum smiled. The frown lines had disappeared. Hooray! “Now, I suppose, you’re just dying to get on there and talk to her yourself?”

  “Couldn’t I, Mum? Just this once? It’s not a chatroom! It’s educational. All about books. It would be just sooo useful, for my project!”

  “I’ll tell you what,” said Mum. “I’ll make you a promise … birthday treat! Next weekend we’ll ask Annie’s mum if we can both call round and you can use Annie’s computer and go and have a little chat. On your birthday! How about that?”

  Of course I said that it would be lovely; I didn’t want to sound ungrateful. But somehow I just couldn’t manage to feel enthusiastic. It was something to do with the fact that Mum would be there, and that it was all being planned in advance. Annie didn’t have to plan in advance! She just logged on, and started chatting. She didn’t have her mum looking over her shoulder to check what she was talking about. If I talked to Harriet’s daughter, I wanted it to be strictly confidential! Just the two of us. Otherwise I’d get embarrassed. There’d be things I couldn’t say, if I thought Mum was watching.

  “Tell Annie, tomorrow,” said Mum. “I’ll have a word with her mum. I’m sure it’ll be all right … Bookworms in the morning, party in t
he afternoon. Never say I don’t indulge you!”

  RACHEL’S DIARY (SUNDAY)

  That Annie! She’s up to something, I know she is. The phone rang this evening and I went to answer it and it was Mrs Hooper, wanting to speak Mum. I thought she was ringing to complain about me making them take a bit of exercise.

  Either that, or she’d discovered that old Tubby Scumbag had gone and got her dear little angel to visit a site with her, which would never surprise me. She is certainly up to SOMETHING.

  So, anyway, I braced myself for trouble, thinking either way I’d be the one to get the blame, I mean I always am. Leastways, that’s how it seems to me. Of course I may just have a persecution complex, but I doubt it. I don’t IMAGINE these things. Well, but hooray! This time it wasn’t anything to do with me. Wonders will never cease. For once in my life, I haven’t done anything wrong.

  All it was, was the little angel’s mum wanting to know if the little angel could come round on Saturday and play with the computer. UNDER SUPERVISION. Natch! Mum said, “I told her that would be all right. It seems there’s some special chatroom she wants to visit … something to do with books?”

  “Bookworms,” said the Scumbag.

  “Well, that sounds harmless enough. But her mum wants to be there with her.”

  “Really?” said Dad.

  “She’s read all these scare stories … people pretending to be what they’re not.”

  The Scumbag said that didn’t happen in the bookroom. “Everyone just talks about books. Children’s books. Grown-ups don’t read children’s books.”

  I said, “So what?”

  “So they wouldn’t be able to talk about them,” said my little clever clogs sister. I pointed out that they might be able to talk about Harry Potter, everyone can talk about Harry Potter, but she said Megan wouldn’t want to.

  “She’s not into Harry Potter. She’d want to talk about H.C.”

  Mum said, “Who’s H.C.?” but at this the Scumbag went all silly and dissolved into giggles.

  “I can understand her worries,” said Mum (referring, I suppose, to Mrs Hooper). “Megan’s her only child, and it can’t be easy, bringing a child up on your own … but I do think she keeps her a bit too wrapped up in cotton wool.”

  “Or maybe we’re being a bit complacent?” suggested Dad.

  “But they’ve got to learn,” said Mum. “How are they going to learn if they’re never allowed to take any responsibility? We’ve already been through this, haven’t we, Annie?”

  “Yes,” said the Scumbag, with a big saintly beam.

  “You never give your address to anyone, do you?”

  “No way!” said the Scumbag, beaming brighter than ever.

  “Or your telephone number?”

  “Mum, I wouldn’t!”

  “You see? Annie KNOWS,” said Mum. “Poor little Megan’s still a total innocent. She could never be left on her own, she’d get into all sorts of trouble. Anyway, they’re coming round Saturday morning, then you’re off to her party in the afternoon. Have you got her a present yet?”

  “Working on it,” said the Scumbag.

  “Well, don’t leave it too late. What are you going to buy?”

  The Scumbag said she wasn’t going to BUY anything.

  “You mean you’re making something?” said Mum. “That’s nice!”

  So then the Scumbag giggled again, for absolutely no reason whatever as far as I could see. That is what makes me suspicious. She is being all secretive and over-excited about something. I notice these things! With Mum and Dad, it’s like they’re wearing blindfolds.

  Another thing that makes me suspicious. A few minutes ago I angrily hammered on her bedroom door demanding to know what she’d done with my heated rollers that she keeps snitching. She actually APOLOGISED. Which come to think of it is quite suspicious in itself. The Scumbag saying sorry!!!

  “I forgot,” she said. “I put them in my cupboard.”

  While she was getting them out of the cupboard (but what cheek to put them in there in the first place!) I happened to glance down at some drawing she was doing.

  “What’s this?” I said. “Is this Megan’s birthday present?”

  “It’s her birthday card.”

  “Weird kind of card,” I said. She’d drawn this picture of a sticklike child on her knees, and a woman wearing a halo round her head, with a speech bubble coming out of her mouth saying, HAPPY BIRTHDAY! “What’s it meant to be?”

  By way of reply, the Scumbag picked up a felt tip pen and wrote H.C. in big bold letters with an arrow pointing to the woman.

  “Who is H.C.?”

  She wouldn’t tell me. All she did was giggle again. Definitely something going on! But I have washed my hands. It’s the parents’ job to know what their children are up to.

  I could hardly wait to get round to Annie’s the next day! I was, like, jigging up and down with impatience all the time Mum was getting ready. Usually in the mornings she just grabs her bag and that’s that, we’re off! Today, wouldn’t you know it, she suddenly decides her shoes are killing her and she’s got to change into different ones. Then while she’s changing her shoes she notices this teeny little hole in her tights, and instead of sticking it up with nail varnish, which is what she’d normally do, she has to take the tights off and find herself a new pair.

  I felt like screaming, “Mum! Who’s going to see them?” I mean, she works in an office, sitting at a desk. No one’s going to notice holes in her tights! Specially not ones you’d need a magnifying glass to find. But Mum likes to keep herself looking nice. She’s always very neat. Unlike Annie’s mum, who looks like a haystack! A very soft, comfortable sort of haystack; but still a haystack.

  “What’s the matter?” said Mum, as I stood in her bedroom doorway, wrapping one leg round the other. “Do you want to go to the toilet?”

  I said, “Muuum!”

  “Well, what are you jigging about for?”

  “It’s late,” I said. “You’ll be late for work!”

  Mum’s never late for work; she’s a very punctual sort of person. “It’s nearly half-past nine,” I said.

  “That’s all right,” said Mum. “I don’t have to be in till ten … stocktaking on Thursday, right? Late night. So I get a ten o’clock start the rest of the week! What’s your rush, anyway?”

  “Got things to do,” I said.

  “Oh! I suppose you want to talk to Annie about Saturday?” Mum laughed. “Come on, then! Let’s get you over there.”

  I did feel a bit mean, not being more enthusiastic about Mum’s idea of letting me visit the bookroom. I knew it was a big thing for her. She is not scared of technology as she uses a computer for work; but she definitely gets twitchy when I want to do some of the things that anyone else’s mum would let them do without even winking an eyelash. Or is it batting an eyelid? (But how could you bat an eyelid? It would hurt!) I knew she’d spoken to Annie’s mum and Annie’s mum had said it would be OK, and I was quite looking forward to it; but mostly I wanted to hear what Annie had been saying to Lori. What had she been telling her about me???

  When we arrived at Sylvan Close, which is the road where Annie lives, Annie’s mum and dad had already left for work and Annie was in the middle of a big shouting match with Rachel. You could hear them going at it as you went up the path.

  “This sounds serious,” said Mum. “Is it safe to go off and leave them?”

  “It’s OK,” I said, “they’re always having rows. They don’t do anything. They just yell.”

  It was all about heated rollers, which Rachel said Annie had taken, and Annie swore she’d given back.

  “I gave them back last night!”

  “So where are they, then?”

  “How should I know? You took them!”

  “I beg your pardon, you were the one that took them!”

  Rachel then shouted that she was sick of Annie just helping herself to things that didn’t belong to her and if there was any more of it she was g
oing to put a padlock on her bedroom door. “Because you’re a thieving little toerag!”

  Phew. I am sometimes quite glad that I am an only child.

  “Can we go upstairs now?” I said.

  “You can do whatever you like!” snapped Rachel. “I’ve washed my hands of you!”

  With that she stalked off in a huff and Annie and me went up to Annie’s bedroom.

  “Good riddance!” yelled Annie, as somewhere downstairs a door slammed shut. “I gave her back her stupid rollers! How should I know what she’s gone and done with them? W—”

  “Oh, look, just shut up!” I begged. “I want to hear what you talked to Lori about!”

  “Yes. Well!” Annie hurled herself down on to her bed. “I was telling her all about you, right? About you being a big fan, and everything. How you were doing this project for school. How you had all these books, and—”

  “Yes, yes, you told her that before!” I said.

  “So, OK, I told her again. I wanted her to know that you were this huge great admirer, and I said how it was your birthday on Saturday and how you really, really wanted this new book, this Feather thing—”

  “Scarlet Feather!”

  “Scarlet Feather, and—”

  “You weren’t trying to get her to send me one?” I said, horrified.

  “Why not? I thought you wanted one!”