Naughtiest Girl 5: The Naughtiest Girl Keeps a Secret

by Anne Digby

  John Terry was released from the san that afternoon, a day sooner than expected. The doctor had looked by and pronounced him fit. Luckily, nobody else at Whyteleafe had managed to contract the infection.

  It was just before tea. With joy in his heart, after being cooped up for so long, John rushed down to the school gardens. He made straight for the potting shed. He knelt down by the big cupboard and opened the door. He peered inside. He expected to find some fine specimens of lettuce in there, carefully wrapped in newspaper.

  The cupboard was empty.

  He hurried round to look at his lettuce patch. He stared at his plants in shock. They were almost drowning in pools of water. There were slugs crawling all over them. Most of the plants had been decimated.

  ‘Elizabeth never came and pulled any, even though I wrote to her!’ He was deeply disappointed in her. ‘She must have forgotten. I’m surprised.’

  Deeply anxious, he hurried to the tool shed and found a trowel and some newspaper.

  Then he worked his way up and down the two rows, examining each lettuce in turn. His shoes squelched in the mud. From his fine crop, only a single lettuce in each row remained intact. One a round one, the other a cos. With nimble fingers, he gently eased them out of the soil, careful not to damage any of the fine leaves. He wrapped them in newspaper and left them in the cool cupboard in the potting shed.

  ‘They were not the best two,’ he thought, in despair. ‘They were not the two I would have chosen. I only hope they are going to be good enough. I’ll take them to the Church Hall tomorrow. That is the day you are allowed to leave entries.’

  He arrived at tea, very late. A big cheer went up. All the children were pleased to see John fit and well again. But Elizabeth saw him shoot her a puzzled look. She feared the worst.

  ‘Are they all ruined?’ she whispered, when they found each other after tea.

  ‘Nearly,’ he said, with a brief nod. He looked hurt.

  But as Elizabeth explained about the Special Meeting, and the dead slugs, and being banned from the school gardens, his face paled.

  ‘Poor Elizabeth! Then . . . Oh! There’s nothing else I can do. I shall have to go and explain to William and Rita.’

  ‘But you mustn’t, John,’ she pleaded. ‘You know it’s a secret! You always wanted it to be a complete surprise. At least wait and see if you win the cup.’

  ‘I don’t expect I will,’ he sighed. But he looked at her, gratefully. ‘Thanks, Elizabeth. I’ll find some way of putting things right for you. I promise.’

  Elizabeth nodded. She had complete faith in John Terry.

  Things were indeed put right for Elizabeth. It happened in the nicest possible way. John’s two remaining lettuces won the cup!

  At the last Meeting before half-term, he was called up on to the platform by William and Rita. John held the silver cup aloft for the whole school to see. The children clapped and cheered and drummed their feet on the floor. It was such an honour for the school. There was going to be a photograph in the local newspaper. Everybody would see what fine things they did at Whyteleafe School.

  ‘We have another announcement to make,’ said William solemnly, when the cheering had died down. ‘On behalf of the Meeting, I want to make a statement. Elizabeth Allen has been seriously misjudged. When Sophie saw her with the dead slugs last week, they had come from John’s slug traps. She was worried about John’s project, while he was in the san. She knew his secret plan but also that it was against the rules of the competition for him to receive any help. She was simply turning the pests over with a twig, to check that they were properly dead. Stand up, please, Elizabeth.’

  Elizabeth rose. With due ceremony, Rita opened the Big Book in which everything that happened at the Meetings was written down. She was holding a pen.

  ‘The Meeting wishes to delete all record of Elizabeth’s supposed wrongdoing and punishment. Please accept our apologies for our hasty judgement, Elizabeth.’

  As Rita wrote in the Big Book, Elizabeth was given a round of applause.

  ‘So that’s what you were up to!’ whispered Julian, as she sat down. There was an amused light in his eyes. ‘Did John use milk in his slug traps? Is that what the jug was for?’

  Elizabeth smiled guiltily.

  ‘I didn’t use any, though!’ she explained, hastily. ‘I’m so glad I didn’t. It would have been breaking the competition rules.’

  ‘Our bold, bad girl break any rules?’ he mocked. ‘Oh, no, never!’

  An instant later, they were serious again.

  For William had a final announcement to make.

  ‘On one matter, I regret to say, the Book must remain open. We still do not know who played the unkind trick on Mam’zelle. Until the culprit owns up, or the truth comes out in some other way, none of us on this platform can rest.’

  Nor could Elizabeth or Julian.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The correct conclusion

  THE TWO friends longed to know who had really hidden Patrick’s racket in the Beast’s car boot. It had been at the root of so much trouble for Elizabeth and was still not resolved. Patrick no longer knew what to think. He was so forlorn about losing his place in the school team, through his own stupid behaviour, that he tried not to think about it at all. A few in the class still wondered though.

  Julian was by now deeply suspicious of Roger Brown.

  Elizabeth was inclined to agree.

  ‘I have to admit it was very clever of Arabella to realize that Mam’zelle’s tin looked the same as the tennis tin and that one could be mistaken for the other. I had no idea she had so much brain power. She proved herself a better detective than us.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Julian. Neither of them knew that it was Molly in the kitchens who had pointed this out. ‘Even if Arabella did get the wrong culprit! But you’re right, Elizabeth. I feel quite miffed not to have thought of it myself. It does provide the perfect link with the mystery of the missing tennis racket.’

  ‘Both tricks intended to get Patrick chucked out of the second team,’ nodded Elizabeth. ‘The first because he would have played so badly without his proper racket. The second to get him in disgrace for playing a stupid joke on St Faith’s.’

  ‘And Roger the only chap with a motive,’ added Julian.

  ‘Well, he’s got his place back in the team now, after all,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Oh, Julian,’ she said, impulsively, ‘I do think it’s such a shame about Patrick. I don’t hate him any more. He was so silly letting himself be stirred up by Arabella. She’s such a mischief-maker. But I wish he could get his place back from Roger. He’s the better player, anyway. I expect we’ll lose against Hickling Green now!’

  ‘You are very noble, Elizabeth,’ grinned Julian. Then he sighed. ‘But how can we prove that Roger’s done anything wrong? How can we be sure? Wouldn’t he have owned up by now, anyway? He’s such a decent chap.’

  They both frowned. They had been over the same ground time and time again.

  Soon it was the day of the big match.

  Elizabeth and Julian were standing on the upstairs landing, gazing through the big window. Dinner-time was over and the tennis match against Hickling Green was due to start in exactly one hour. Last summer the match had been played away. Elizabeth remembered it was a good outing. This year it was the visitors’ turn to come to Whyteleafe. The coach carrying the rival team and supporters would arrive in about forty five minutes’ time.

  A few Whyteleafe parents were arriving already. Some of the pupils had a half-term exeat. There had been bustle and excitement all day as children packed their cases. Most parents would remain for the big match before driving them home. Elizabeth was staying on at school over half-term for a camp in the grounds. Joan was staying on, too. It would be such fun!

  Watching the early cars roll up, Julian concentrated on n
aming all the different makes. Elizabeth, bored by this, was still fretting about Patrick, and the mystery, and whether Roger had been to blame. She knew that Julian had been keeping a careful eye on the senior boy.

  ‘No, nothing suspicious, I’m afraid,’ he reported as Elizabeth returned to the subject, yet again. ‘In fact, just the reverse. Each time I watch him, he looks more down-in-the-dumps than ever. It knocks a big hole in our theory, Elizabeth!’

  She nodded. They had both noticed it. For someone who had got his place in the second team back, Roger hardly seemed overjoyed. On the day it happened, he was seen walking around school with an anxious frown. And the frown had just got deeper and deeper.

  ‘Did you see him at dinner-time?’ continued Julian. ‘I thought Patrick looked miserable until I saw Roger’s face. It just doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘And look at him now!’ exclaimed Elizabeth, pointing. ‘Look, Julian. There he is. I can see him. Look, over by the tennis-courts.’

  The big boy had just appeared, wearing his tennis whites. Racket in hand, he had begun pacing up and down, up and down by the empty tennis-courts. He was waiting for the match. He was all ready to begin.

  ‘But there’s a whole hour to go yet!’ exclaimed Julian. ‘What strange behaviour!’

  ‘Julian, why don’t you go and talk to him?’ asked Elizabeth, suddenly. ‘I’ll stay here.’

  ‘What, accuse him, you mean?’ asked Julian. For a moment his usual sangfroid deserted him. How could he, a mere first former, accuse one of the most senior boys in the school of wrongdoing, without a shred of evidence? ‘Don’t be silly, Elizabeth. It might just be his nerves.’

  ‘It probably is. Which means he could be grateful for someone to talk to!’ exclaimed Elizabeth. ‘Of course I didn’t mean accuse him! But you never know. He might open up a bit. You might find something out. I’ll keep out of the way, though, or he’ll be on his guard. He knows I got into trouble over the slugs and everything. But you can do it, Julian. You know how grown up you can be!’

  Julian smiled. He looked interested.

  ‘It’s worth a try,’ he said.

  He strolled nonchalantly over to the courts. Elizabeth watched from the window.

  ‘Hello, Roger. Want a fruit gum?’

  The big boy stopped in mid-pace, close to a wooden bench, blinking. His thoughts were far away. Someone was proffering a tube of sweets, waving it under his nose.

  ‘Oh, hello, Julian.’

  ‘Here, have a fruit gum. Give yourself some energy for the big match.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Roger took the sweet and popped it in his mouth.

  ‘Gosh, Roger. You do look nervous.’

  ‘Do I?’ He sucked hard on the gum. ‘Matter of fact, I am a bit.’

  Julian sank down on the wooden bench. Automatically, Roger sat down beside him. It would seem unfriendly not to. Julian was a nice kid. Very intelligent.

  ‘Well, you can only do your best,’ said Julian, comfortingly. ‘That’s what my mother always says.’

  ‘I wish my father said the same! He says you’ve always got to play to win. You can’t go through life being a loser!’ Roger burst out. ‘And he should know! There are so many of his old sports cups in our house it takes a week to clean the silver.’

  Julian looked at Roger’s big, gentle face with sudden interest.

  He offered him another fruit gum. It was a black one this time, Julian’s favourite, but he felt it might be a good investment.

  ‘Is your father coming to watch you today?’ he asked, casually.

  ‘Is he coming?’ exclaimed Roger. ‘He’s flying in specially. He’s cutting short a business trip. All the time I’ve been at Whyteleafe he’s been longing for me to make the school teams. I tried and tried and never succeeded, till this term. As soon as Dad heard I’d made the second tennis team, he said it was a dream come true and he’d be here to watch me play in the Hickling Green match, no matter what. He thinks I must be a late developer and he says this will just be the beginning of my sports career . . .’ There was a desperate look on Roger’s face, as he said this. ‘As a matter of fact, Julian, I’m pretty scared of letting my father down today. It will break his heart.’

  Julian, with his bright, intelligent green eyes, looked at the boy beside him, at his ungainly feet and his large red hands.

  ‘Won’t he be pleased when he hears about your academic scholarship?’ he ventured.

  Roger shook his head. He was deep in thought.

  ‘He thinks sport’s more important. He’s too old to play sport himself now. He wants to sort of live it through me. He knows about the scholarship already. The news came through just before he left on his last trip.’

  ‘It must have been a bit of a worry for you,’ said Julian, treading very carefully, ‘when you lost your place in the team for a while?’

  ‘A worry? It was a nightmare!’ exclaimed Roger, unguardedly. ‘There was no way of letting Dad know. He was already in the States, you see, and there was nowhere I could telephone to stop him flying back today—’

  Roger suddenly clammed up. He felt he was letting his tongue run away with him.

  Julian was sitting very still. The word ‘States’ had sent a little tremor through him. So Roger’s father made his business trips to America, then?

  Roger was lumbering to his feet.

  ‘Well, that’s enough. I can’t sit here all day, eating all your fruit gums, can I, Julian?’ he said awkwardly. He fished something out of his shorts pocket. ‘Here – have a crisp. They’re good ones. It’s my last packet till Dad gets here.’

  He produced an open crisp packet. Julian stared at it.

  The words on the front said Southern Favorits.

  ‘I’m sorry, Roger!’ he burst out. He truly did feel sorry for the big, gentle boy. ‘I’m sorry. But I’ve guessed the truth. Even before you offered me a crisp!’

  Julian produced the matching packet from his pocket, tattered and crumpled. He had been guarding it carefully, all this time. Just in case. ‘You dropped this by Miss Best’s car. The time you hid Patrick’s racket in her boot. Then, when that didn’t work, you tried to play another trick on him with the slugs. He thought Elizabeth had played those tricks. That’s why he lost his temper with her and why you got your place back. But it should be Patrick playing today, shouldn’t it? Not you!’

  Roger sank back down on to the bench. He looked anguished.

  He buried his face in his hands.

  ‘My father’s coming!’ he groaned. ‘He’ll be here soon! He’s flown in from America specially. Please don’t give me away,’ he begged. ‘I was honestly going to confess everything, after half-term, once this match was safely out of the way. I intend to own up at the next Meeting, I promise. But let me play today. Please.’

  ‘I have to go and consult Elizabeth,’ said Julian. He suddenly felt desperately torn. ‘We’ll decide this together.’

  ‘Please let me play!’ begged Roger, as Julian walked away.

  Elizabeth said that there was no time to lose. They must go and find the head boy and girl and ask their advice. It was much too big a decision to make on their own.

  William and Rita, without hesitation, reached the correct conclusion.

  ‘It’s all very sad,’ said Rita. ‘Of course Roger cannot be allowed to play. He has done such bad things but, more to the point, it would solve nothing. He would simply be storing up more misery for himself in the future.’

  ‘His father would expect him to get into teams at his next school,’ agreed William. ‘The misery would just go on and on forever! Mr Brown must be made to face up to the truth. Just because he was a sporting hero himself, it does not make Roger one. His talents lie in other directions. And he must be brave and tell his father the whole truth.’

  Even as they were discussing it
, Roger had come to the same conclusion.

  Eyes blurred, he set off up the school drive. He would wait at the gates for his father’s car. He would tell him the whole truth and ask to be taken home straight away.

  William was about to leave the study to find Roger when there came some alarming sounds through the window.

  A blaring horn – the scream of car brakes – a cry of pain.

  They all rushed outside.

  A heavily built man was kneeling on the school drive beside the prone figure of a boy. He had been driving fast. He had raced all the way from London Airport, anxious not to miss any of the match.

  ‘It’s Roger!’ he cried out to them in horror. ‘It’s my own son. I’ve knocked down my own son.’

  They all knelt round the boy while Rita rushed off to find Matron.

  ‘Oh, let him be all right. Please let him be all right!’ Roger’s father kept saying. ‘What was the matter with him? He was wandering alone, in such a daze. He was right in the middle of the drive. I couldn’t stop in time—’

  ‘He was very upset, sir,’ Elizabeth said, quietly. ‘You see, he knew another boy should be playing in the match today. Somebody much better than him. He cheated to stay in the team, but it wasn’t for himself. He did it all for you.’

  ‘For me?’ asked Mr Brown. He was stroking his son’s head.

  ‘He knows you want him to be good at sport,’ said Julian. ‘He couldn’t face losing his place in the team and letting you down.’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘I’ve been a fool,’ said Roger’s father, at last. ‘Oh, please let him be all right!’

  Matron arrived.

  ‘Should we call an ambulance?’ asked Mr Brown, looking fearful.

  Matron kept everybody back while she examined Roger and took his pulse. Then she looked up, in very great relief.

  ‘Pulse good and strong,’ she said. ‘No sign of any broken bones. I’m afraid his head must have struck the ground. He’s concussed. I think he’s just beginning to come round.’

  Even as she spoke, Roger began to stir. He groaned once or twice and then opened his eyes and saw that it was his father who was bending over him.