by Jean Ure
I felt very privileged and important, sitting next to a famous author as she rang home. I wondered who she was going to talk to. Could it be Lori? I knew it wouldn’t be her husband ’cos I’d read somewhere that she was divorced.
Harriet pulled a face. “Answerphone … I hate when it’s the answerphone!”
Me, too. I knew how she felt. Sometimes if I get an answerphone I just hang up, though I know it’s a bit rude and you ought really to say who you are and leave a message, which was what Harriet was doing.
“Darling, where are you? This is Mummy here! Where have you gone?” She sounded a bit upset. I guessed that Lori had gone off without telling her. “Can you hear me? Are you listening? Please speak to me! If you’re there … please! Pick up!”
Just for a moment it was like really tense. Even Annie must have felt it. She leaned forward intently across the back of the seat as we waited for Lori to pick up the phone. But she didn’t.
“Call me,” whispered Harriet. “Please, darling, call me!”
After that there was this long silence, and then she gave a little laugh, sort of half ashamed, like pulling herself together, and said, “Oh, dear! Mothers do worry so. Does your mother worry, Megan?”
I said that she did.
“Megan’s mum gets into total flaps,” said Annie.
“I’m afraid I do, too. You just never know … what might have happened …” Harriet’s voice faded out.
Trying to be helpful, I said, “Couldn’t you try her mobile?”
“Her mobile? No, she doesn’t have a mobile. If only she had had a mobile. She’s not answering … she doesn’t answer … I hope you have your mobile with you, Annie?”
Annie confessed that she hadn’t. “We came out in such a rush. I think it’s on the kitchen table.”
“That’s naughty! What would you do if Megan’s ran out?”
“Find a call box,” said Annie.
“Not good enough! You should always take your phone with you. If only—” Harriet stopped. “Well, anyway!” she said. “Let’s get on. I’m so sorry if I’m sounding a bit vague, but I’m in the middle of writing a new book and it’s going round and round in my head.”
“What’s it called?” said Annie. “Has it got a title?”
“Um … yes. How about … Jampot Jane?”
I giggled. Annie, in her bold way, said, “That’s a funny title! What’s it about?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,” said Harriet. “I never discuss my books before they’re published!”
I hoped that Annie felt properly put in her place. Such nosiness! It was one thing to be a fan, and to show interest; but to poke and pry was just bad manners.
“I’ll keep the phone by me, Megan, if I may,” said Harriet, “just in case. And I’ll try to stop thinking about work and concentrate on you, instead. This is your birthday treat, and I want you to enjoy it.”
RACHEL’S DIARY (THURSDAY)
I am just so absolutely ANNOYED. That little fat freak and her skinny little friend have gone and done a runner. They have had the NERVE to leave me a note. Gone to tea with Harriet, whoever Harriet is. How dare they??? They know perfectly well they’re not supposed to go off without telling me. They’d better just get back before Mum comes home or we shall all be in trouble. AND it hasn’t taken its phone with it. What’s the point of having a mobile if it’s just going to leave it lying around on the kitchen table when it goes out? It shouldn’t be out! It’s just taking a mean advantage. It thinks it can get away with it because I daren’t tell Mum. It’s a rotten thing to do! It knows how I feel about Ty.
Oh, and I was so happy! It’s Jem’s day off so me and Ty had lunch together, all by ourselves. He’s going to call round at seven on Saturday, to take me to the party. Jem is going as well, with Kieron, so it should be lots of fun.
I wasn’t a bit tonguetied today, on my own with Ty. We just have so many things in common. So many things to talk about! We are both into sport in a big way, are both huge fans of Man U, and our ace fave band is Hot Brits. So no embarrassing pauses while I rack my brain trying to think what to say! We could just go on for ever. I think it’s truly important that when you are attracted to someone it should be more than merely physical. Ty is gorgeous – but we can TALK. For instance we had this really in-depth discussion about our aims and ambitions. Not just to stack shelves from now till the end of time! Ty is thinking of going into the army, but I am trying to persuade him to join the police. He is definitely interested!
In the meantime, I WAS going to go and try things on ready for Saturday. I have to look my best!!! But now I’m too cross and angry, because of the Scumbag taking advantage. She might at least have given me a telephone number. I bet she didn’t on purpose. I bet that’s why she left her phone, as well, so I couldn’t get hold of her. Then she’ll pretend she just forgot. It’s such a scummy thing to do! I’m surprised at the Stick Insect; I should have thought she’d know better. She always comes across like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, and for an eleven-year-old she is quite sensible, on the whole. Unlike my dear little sister, who is just one great big PAIN.
To think that out of the goodness of my heart, because I was feeling so happy, I actually brought back some cakes for tea! Squidgy ones full of cream, as a special treat, to make up for yelling at her about the music. I think I’ll try ringing Jem and see if she feels like coming over and helping me eat them. Then we can go through my wardrobe together and decide what I’m going to wear. I am NOT going to worry myself about little Tubby Scumbag. She is old enough to know better, and I don’t see why I should.
We drove on through the countryside, down lots of twisty turny lanes, just like Harriet had said. I opened the window and ate peppermints and didn’t get sick, but it did seem a long way to drive. Well, to me it did. I thought probably it was because I wasn’t used to car journeys. Mum can’t afford a car, so we don’t really travel very much. It obviously didn’t bother Annie. She was bouncing all over the place like a rubber ball. She kept suddenly appearing over the back of my seat and poking at me.
“Hey, look! There’s a rabbit!” “Oh, look! Donkeys!” “Look, look! Lambs!”
“Yes, we’re way out in the country now,” said Harriet.
Rather shyly, not wanting it to seem like I was prying, I said, “I thought you lived in London?”
“Oh! Yes. London’s where I live. But in the country is where I write my books. Not many people know where I do my writing! I like to keep it a secret.”
She explained how nothing was worse, when you were concentrating really hard, and trying to think what to write next, than to have people come knocking at the door expecting to be invited in for a cup of tea, or ringing you up “just for a chat”.
I knew how she felt. It was what I sometimes feel when I’m writing an essay for school and Mum says, “Megan, put that away now, it’s time for tea.” I always wail, “Mum, I can’t stop in the middle of something!” But Mum never understands, because Mum isn’t a writer. By the time I’ve had tea and gone back to my essay, I have totally forgotten what I was going to write. I said this to Harriet, and she said, “Oh, you understand! We are obviously on the same wavelength.”
I just, like, glowed. I felt so proud at being taken into Harriet’s confidence! If I hadn’t been in the car I would have written things down in my reporter’s book that I had brought with me; but I can’t write – or read – in cars, because of car sickness. However, I knew that I wouldn’t forget it. It was something that Harriet and I had in common. We were both writers! And we didn’t like to be disturbed.
“This was another reason,” said Harriet, “why I didn’t want you telling anyone about our secret meeting … if readers discovered my hideaway, it would be the end! I’d never have a moment’s peace. I would have to move.”
Earnestly, I assured her that we hadn’t told a soul. “And we won’t. I promise!” I then turned round and pulled a face at Annie, ’cos Annie very nearly had told.
“Wouldn’t have made any difference,” said Annie.
“What’s that?” said Harriet. “What wouldn’t have made any difference?”
“If I’d told my sister we were coming to meet you.”
“But she didn’t!” I said, quickly. “I stopped her.”
“Good girl,” said Harriet.
“She still wouldn’t have known where you lived,” said Annie.
“She might have found out,” I said.
“Well, she probably wouldn’t have been able to,” said Harriet, “because not even my publishers have my country address. I don’t give my country address to anyone! It’s my very secret hideaway where I can be private.”
“Even from Lori?” I said.
“Lori? Oh, no not from Lori. of course not. But from the rest of the world … You have no idea what it’s like to be constantly bombarded by total strangers turning up on the doorstep wanting autographs, or wanting books signed, or just to come in for a chat.”
“It must be horrible!” I said. I really meant it. I wouldn’t want to be a celeb! Annie, however, said she thought it would be quite fun.
“It might seem so, just at first,” said Harriet, “but in the end it wears you down.”
“That’s right,” I said. “You want to write books, not keep on being bothered all the time.”
“Oh, Megan! You and I are kindred spirits,” said Harriet. Which made me glow all over again!
We finally reached what Harriet called her secret hideaway.
“Wasn’t there some writer,” she said, “who had a shed in the garden?”
“Roald Dahl,” I said. “Roald Dahl! I knew it was someone famous. He had his shed, I have my cottage.”
The cottage was at the bottom of a narrow lane. The lane ended up in a woody area, with a field on one side. It was rutted and bumpy, and hardly wide enough for a car.
“Sorry for the rough ride,” said Harriet, as we jolted and bounced. “Not many people come down here – which is why I love it so! Complete peace and quiet.”
“Don’t you get lonely?” said Annie.
“Lonely? Not at all! How could I get lonely when I have all my characters for company?”
“I would,” said Annie.
“You’re not a writer,” I said.
Harriet’s hideaway was like a little dolls’ house. Really cute! Harriet apologised for the fact that it was a bit tumbledown. She said, “It needs a lot of work done on it, but it’s such an upheaval!”
“It’s like the one in Hansel and Gretel,” said Annie.
“The witch’s cottage? Was that tumbledown?”
“No, but it was kind of … spooky.”
“Annieee!” I was horrified. How could she be so rude? “It’s not spooky, it’s lovely!”
I thought that if I were writing a description of it for English, I would say that it was picturesque. Just right for an author!
“I always have to watch my head,” said Harriet, ducking as she opened the door.
The door gave straight on to the sitting room, which was quite bare. Just a chair and table, and an old saggy sofa. No books! That surprised me, but Harriet explained that if she had books there she would keep breaking off to read them.
“I am so easily distracted! I have a mind like a flea.”
I was a bit puzzled by this as I had once read how Harriet Chance liked to sit at her kitchen table and write her first draft by hand, surrounded by her four cats. Surely cats would distract her? The lady who lives downstairs from us has a cat called Biddy, and when she comes to visit us, Biddy I mean, she always spreads herself out across my homework, if I’m doing homework, and starts grooming herself or purring. I find that very distracting!
I told this to Harriet. “Sometimes,” I said, “she even tries to chew the paper!”
“Oh, I couldn’t be doing with that,” said Harriet. “I couldn’t write with cats around! And I couldn’t write on paper … far too slow!”
Falteringly, I said, “I read this interview where you said how you always did your first draft by hand … you said you couldn’t write straight on to a computer.”
“Did I?” She laughed. “Well, I’ve been dragged kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century! One has to move with the times.”
“I still write by hand,” I said.
“That’s only ’cos you don’t have a computer,” said Annie.
“They are one of the blessings of modern technology,” said Harriet. “Imagine! If I didn’t have a computer, we would never have met. Now, then! How about some tea? Annie, clear a space on the table while I go and get it.”
I needed to go to the loo – I always do after a car journey. Harriet told me the bathroom was “directly ahead, up the stairs … but be warned, it’s a bit primitive!”
It was such a funny little place, the bathroom. Like a little cell. All it had was a washbasin and a toilet, with a cracked bit of mirror on the wall. Both the washbasin and the toilet were very old-fashioned. The washbasin was propped up on a sort of iron stand, and the toilet had a broken seat and a long chain with a handle that you had to pull when you’d finished, except that it didn’t seem to work, which was rather embarrassing. Red-faced, I told Harriet about it, and she said, “Oh, dear! Never mind. At least it’s better than having to go outside … imagine that on a dark night!”
“You could write a book about someone living in a place like this,” said Annie. “You could call it Spooky Cottage.”
I cringed, but Harriet said, “Do you know, that’s a really good idea? I might well do that! And then I could dedicate it to you both. To Annie and Megan, who came to tea. Speaking of which—” she whisked away a cloth which was covering the table. “How about that?”
I gasped. I couldn’t believe it! It was like a fairy tale … all my favourite food was there! A bowl full of tiny weeny Easter eggs – another bowl full of Cadbury’s Creme ones – a big bowl of crisps – a plate of ham sandwiches and a baby birthday cake, with twelve candles crowded on the top.
“This was our secret,” gloated Annie. “I told Harriet all the stuff you loved to eat!”
“I hope we got it right,” said Harriet.
“We did!” said Annie. “She adores all this stuff!”
I’m afraid it is true. It is exactly the sort of food that I would like to have on a desert island. The sort of food that Mum only lets me eat in what Gran would have called “dribs and drabs”. Certainly not all in one go!
“Fortunately,” said Harriet, “I bought enough to feed an army, so get stuck in, the pair of you.”
Annie and I sat munching side by side on the saggy sofa. Harriet sat at the table. I was quite surprised to see that she was eating ham sandwiches as I had once read that she was a vegetarian; but I thought perhaps she was only doing it to be polite, what with me being a guest, and so I didn’t say anything. It would have seemed ungracious.
After we’d eaten as much as we could, and I’d blown out the candles on the cake and made a birthday wish – even though it wasn’t yet properly my birthday – I settled down with my reporter’s notebook to interview Harriet. Annie kept nagging to know what I’d wished for, but Harriet told her that birthday wishes had to be secret, “Otherwise they won’t come true.”
Annie said, “Will you tell me if it does come true?”
I said, “Yes, but it won’t be for ages yet!” Not unless you could have books published and get famous while you were still at school … Was that possible? I opened my notepad and wrote it down, as a question to ask Harriet. I had a long list of questions! I had carefully worked them all out in advance. I had decided there wasn’t any point asking her things I already had the answers to, so I’d tried to think of questions she maybe hadn’t been asked before. This was my list:
Questions for Harriet Chance
What was Paper Dolls about?
What was your grown-up book about and what was it called?
In Scarlet Feather, does Scarlet choose to go with
her mum or her dad?
Were you ever like any of your characters when you were young? If so, which ones?
Have you ever written a book using an idea that was given to you by someone else?
What made you decide to become a vegetarian?
Do you think a person could have a book published while they were still at school?
“Right! You come and sit at the table,” said Harriet, “I’ll sit on the sofa with Annie. Now! Fire away.”
I cleared my throat. “Can you tell me what your book Paper Dolls was about?”
“Paper Dolls? Oh! Well … it was about paper dolls. Is that one you haven’t read?”
“It was the one you wrote when you were at s-school,” I said. “It … it wasn’t ever published.”
“Oh, good heavens, you’re right!” Harriet banged a clenched fist to her forehead. “Silly of me! Memory like a sieve. But it was definitely about paper dolls. I used to play with them, when I was a child.”
Dutifully, I wrote it down. I wasn’t quite sure what a paper doll was, but I didn’t want to bore Harriet by asking too many questions, especially silly ones.
“Sorry about that,” said Harriet. “But I was at school a very long time ago!”
“That’s all right,” I said. “What about your grown-up book that you wrote?”
“Ah, yes,” said Harriet. “My grown-up book.”
“What was that about?”
“Um … well! It was … you know!” She waved a hand. “Best not talked about.”
I thought perhaps she meant that it was rude. All about sex, or maybe drugs.
“Not the sort of thing you’d want to read,” she said. “Next question!”