The Secret

by Ruth Thomas

  Nicky made gravy in the roasting pan. ‘It’s a bit lumpy,’ she said, ‘but it don’t matter. Lumps are good for you.’

  ‘The meat is too hard to chew,’ said Roy, disappointed. Roy loved his food. It was one of the very few things he enjoyed.

  ‘Don’t grumble. It’s a very good dinner, actually. Mm-m – delicious . . . chewing is good for you. Plenty starving children would be very glad to have a good dinner like this. . . . All right, if you’re so critical I’ll let you cook it next time. You ought to be able to. You’re not much younger than me, you know.’

  ‘Mum says I wasn’t meant to be born, really. She says I was a mistake.’

  ‘She didn’t ought to say that,’ said Nicky, frowning. ‘Nobody’s a mistake, actually. Everybody’s meant to be here.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Don’t argue, I just know. . . . Anyway, you have to excuse Mum sometimes, she has a hard life.’

  ‘I wish she would come back.’

  ‘She will come back. She will come back tonight, she said. Don’t be so impatient. We have all the afternoon first, and some very good things to do. I have, anyway.’

  ‘I know what you’re going to do,’ said Roy, slyly.

  ‘No you don’t.’

  ‘Yes I do then. You’re going up in Mum’s bedroom, and you’re going to try on all her clothes.’

  ‘No I’m not. I never thought of such a thing. What a peculiar idea!’

  Nicky was flustered and embarrassed that Roy had caught her out wanting to make herself look nice. That was a very private pleasure, and one she had only recently discovered.

  ‘You always try on Mum’s clothes when she’s not here, I know what you do. And you put on her lipstick as well, I seen you.’

  ‘You sneak!’ said Nicky, furiously. ‘You creepy crawly spy!’ She was so self-conscious now, she nearly didn’t go after all. ‘Creep!’ she called, over her shoulder.

  There were clothes everywhere, in Mum’s bedroom; on the bed, over the chair, trailing on the floor. The wardrobe was crammed to bursting point. Nicky’s eyes roamed happily over this tantalizing array, trying to decide. She picked up Mum’s newest dress and held it in front of her. The dress was of emerald crêpe, and had a pattern of little glass beads all over the bodice. Nicky slipped the green dress over her head, and peered eagerly into the mirror.

  The dress looked awful. On Mum it looked lovely, but on Nicky it was a disaster. The slinky material drooped and sagged over the thin body, only just beginning to develop, and the colour was too hard for the pale skin. It doesn’t look quite right, she admitted to herself. I suppose that’s because I’m not very pretty.

  One day, Nicky would be beautiful. Her bones were all the right shape and one day the sharp, pinched little face would fill out and soften. The gingery frizz would be tamed by a good hairdresser, and the brilliant blue eyes would compel attention everywhere. Nicky would never be pretty, like her mother, but she would be beautiful. And she had no idea in the world that any of this was going to happen.

  Tiring presently of the clothes and the make-up and the handbags, Nicky went down to the Back Room, where the television was, and the dining table; and the carpet with the stains and the worn patches; and the sofa with the broken springs. Roy covered something hastily, with his elbow.

  ‘What you doing? Let me see!’

  ‘No. It’s mine.’

  ‘Let me see.’

  Reluctantly, Roy moved his arm. He had found some scissors, and some old copies of Woman. Using the coloured pages he was cutting out large letters, and spreading them over the table. So far he had made WELCUM. ‘That’s not how to spell “welcome”,’ said Nicky.

  ‘How do you spell it then?’

  ‘Give me the scissors, I’ll do it.’

  ‘It’s mine, though.’

  ‘I can do it better. Let me.’

  Roy slouched over to the sofa and sat, slumped into a heap.

  ‘Well come on, you can still help.’

  ‘It’s not mine any more,’ said Roy.

  ‘We can both do it.’

  ‘But it’s not mine.’

  ‘Mum will like it better if we spell the words right. Like this, look – WELCOME HOME. . . . There, now we want something to stick the letters on.’

  ‘I wanted it to be mine.’

  ‘Don’t be so selfish. . . . All right, I’ll tell Mum it was your idea. . . . There! Satisfied?’

  He twisted his fingers without answering. ‘I wish she never went.’

  ‘She’ll be back soon.’

  ‘What time, do you think?’

  ‘I dunno. Eight, nine. Tony got to drive his car back from Southbourne, don’t forget. It’s a long way.’

  ‘I don’t like Tony,’ said Roy.

  ‘Neither do I, he’s a creep! Don’t worry, though, it won’t last. She’ll have a row with him soon, you’ll see. Like she done with the others.’

  ‘Remember when our dad was here?’

  ‘Yes, but I rather forget.’

  ‘I didn’t like our dad.’

  ‘Nor I didn’t like our dad neither. And I’m glad he never comes to see us, aren’t you? Aren’t you glad about that, Roy? And I hope we never see him again.’

  ‘Where shall we put the WELCOME HOME up?’

  ‘Over the kitchen door, then she’ll see it the minute she gets in. . . . And I’ll tell her it was your idea.’

  ‘You done it better than me though.’

  ‘Only because I can spell.’

  ‘Sometimes I think I can’t do anything good,’ said Roy.

  ‘Stop saying bad things about yourself,’ said Nicky.

  After tea, Nicky brought the sheets and the pyjamas in from the line. They tried to watch the television, but it was only boring programmes. ‘Let’s go in the Front Room,’ said Nicky. ‘Let’s watch out the window to see Mum when she comes.’

  They knelt side by side on the red velvet sofa which stood across the bay window; the Front Room was where the best furniture was. They watched all the cars, because they didn’t remember what Tony’s car looked like, and really it was more exciting that way. Any car could be the one that would have Mum in it. Once a car did pull up, outside next door, but it was only the Morrises’ Uncle Bill, bringing the grown-ups of the family back from church.

  Restlessly, Nicky went back to the television. There was a James Bond film on now – that was better! ‘Come and watch,’ she called to Roy. But Roy would rather stay in the Front Room, watching for Mum.

  He came in presently, twisting his fingers. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Nine o’clock.’

  ‘She’s late.’

  ‘Not really. You should go to bed, though. You’re getting to look too tired.’

  ‘I want to see Mum’s face when she sees our WELCOME HOME. And you tell her it was me thought of it.’

  ‘Just a bit longer then.’

  Roy went back to the Front Room, and Nicky watched the end of the film. After that the programmes were boring again. Nicky fiddled with the buttons on the television, picked up a book, fiddled with the television once more. She looked at the clock. Half past ten, Mum was late. Nicky yawned. Roy was quiet – she went to see what he was doing.

  Worn out with watching, Roy had fallen asleep. He was still kneeling on the sofa, his arms over its back, his head fallen on to his arms, and he was snoring softly. Nicky put an arm round his neck. ‘Come on, wake up.’

  ‘Is she here? Is she here?’

  ‘Not yet, but we have to go to bed. Because of school tomorrow.’

  ‘But Mum hasn’t come! Where is she? She’s late.’

  ‘No she isn’t,’ said Nicky sharply. ‘It’s only half past ten, that’s not late for grown-ups but it’s late for us. Come on, Roy, we have to go to bed.’

  ‘I want to wait for Mum.’

  ‘Don’t argue.’

  They lay in their beds, but sleep would not come. A door banged, ‘There she is!’ Roy jumped out of bed and
ran to the landing.

  ‘It’s only Uncle Bill and Aunty Mavis going home,’ called Nicky. ‘Why don’t you go to sleep?’

  ‘Why don’t you?’

  ‘How can I with you yelling at me? And running about all over the house?’

  ‘Nicky . . .?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Suppose she doesn’t come tonight?’

  ‘She will.’

  She was nearly asleep when she found herself thinking it was lucky Mum always put her and Roy’s dinner money in an envelope on Friday, so she wouldn’t spend it by mistake over the weekend. Now why, Nicky thought, why did she have to think it was lucky they had their dinner money for next week? She must be getting as silly as Roy!

  ‘But supposing—’

  ‘Don’t argue. Go to sleep. Now!’

  He did presently, because he was tired out, but Nicky lay awake a long time, stifling unease, as she listened to the silence.

  3

  A bad day

  ‘YOU TOLD A lie,’ said Roy, reproachfully.

  In the hall, Nicky shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. They had run through the house, and there was nowhere else to look. ‘Well I didn’t mean to, did I? I didn’t know it was a lie, did I?’

  The china-blue eyes blinked and glistened, and the lower lip began to tremble. Roy was going to cry and he mustn’t, Nicky thought. If Roy cried it might make her start thinking there was something to cry about. ‘She’ll come today,’ Nicky said firmly. ‘When we get back from school she will be here.’

  ‘You said she was going to come yesterday.’

  ‘Well now I’m saying she’ll come today. Don’t go on and on. She might walk through that door any minute. Do you want her to see you crying when she comes through that door? Well then, pack it in! . . .

  Do you hear me, Roy Mitchell, pack it in!’

  There was another reason Nicky didn’t want Roy to cry. His crying could be quite desperate at times, and she didn’t like to see it. She particularly didn’t want to have to see it this morning, when she specially needed to be tough.

  ‘Why didn’t she c-come though?’

  ‘I dunno, do I? Probably having such a good time. Don’t you want our mum to have a good time? Are you so selfish you don’t want our mum to enjoy herself? Well then.’

  ‘She might have had a accident. They might have had a car smash.’

  Nicky was ready for that one. ‘She didn’t have a accident. You want me to tell you how I know? All right, I’ll tell you how I know. If there was a accident the police would come to tell us. They would come in the night and they didn’t.’

  A brief glittery smile lit up the baby-face. Roy laughed sometimes – quite hysterically when Mum was being funny; but he hardly ever smiled and when he did, Nicky found, she often could scarcely bear to look because the smile had so much hope in it. Too much hope. Dangerous hope, because Roy couldn’t stand disappointment; he couldn’t pick himself up when things went wrong. ‘I wish we had a phone,’ said Roy.

  ‘You’re always wishing things,’ said Nicky. ‘Phones cost money you know.’

  ‘But Mum could ring us up, and tell us about she’s having too much fun to come home.’

  ‘Wash your face again,’ said Nicky. ‘It’s not clean enough for school!’

  On the way to school, Nicky bought some chewing gum. Chewing gum was not allowed in school, which was the reason Nicky bought it. She was just in the mood for doing something not allowed. She stood in the line in the playground, and chewed her gum aggressively.

  ‘Nicky Mitchell, take that disgusting muck out of your mouth,’ said Miss Powell, who was strict and short-tempered. Under cover of her hand, Nicky transferred the gum from one cheek to the other. ‘Throw it in the bin, come along!’

  The bin was behind Miss Powell, who was facing the lines. Nicky pretended to throw away the gum, then blew an enormous bubble for the amusement of the assembled school. Miss Powell and the other teachers could not see the bubble, of course. 4P and 4H tittered, nudging one another, and Nicky blew a second bubble because the first one had burst. Miss Powell turned round and caught Nicky blowing bubbles. ‘What a pain you are, Nicky Mitchell! I’m glad you’re not in my class.’

  Nicky was equally glad she was not in Miss Powell’s class. Nicky was in Mr Hunt’s class, and Mr Hunt was all right though nothing special. Where was Mr Hunt, by the way? Late, probably, as usual! Mr Hunt should not be so lazy, Nicky thought. He should get up early in the morning like other people, and come to school at the right time.

  You could always tell the classes without a teacher, because of the noise. Mr Nelson, the headmaster, came limping along on his gammy leg and pretended to be very surprised that 4H were making all that noise just because their teacher was ill and hadn’t been able to come that day. He would have thought that 4H, being practically secondary school children now, would have outgrown such infantile behaviour. Really, he was quite astonished at the infantile behaviour of a class at the top of the school.

  However, there was an opportunity now for them to show how mature they were really, because here was Mrs Patel come to be their teacher for today. Who was going to be Mrs Patel’s helper? Thank you, Joycelyn! And Nicky Mitchell could get off the windowsill, which had not been designed for people to sit on, and take that revolting stuff out of her mouth please!

  Mrs Patel called the register. There was quite a bit of sniggering.

  ‘Joycelyn Miles.’

  Snigger, snigger.

  ‘Yes, Miss.’

  ‘Nicolette Mitchell.’

  Silence.

  ‘Nicolette Mitchell not present today?’

  ‘Go on!’ Eric Morris, who to Nicky’s sorrow had been allocated a seat at her table, poked at Nicky with a ruler.

  ‘Leave off, creep!’

  ‘Nicolette Mitchell?’ said Mrs Patel again, hopefully.

  ‘Don’t know anyone called Nicolette,’ said Nicky. ‘Anybody know anybody called Nicolette?’ Jaws working again, the gum unpleasantly visible in the open mouth, Nicky directed her gaze in a sweep around the room. ‘No, nobody here called Nicolette. Sorry.’

  Mrs Patel looked confused. ‘But it says it in the register. And she has been marked present last week.’

  ‘It’s Nicky, Miss.’ ‘She’s joking, Miss.’ ‘She don’t like her real name.’ ‘It’s a joke.’

  Mrs Patel looked puzzled, but she finished the register, and after that there was Assembly, and after that Mrs Patel started to write a lot of sums on the board.

  ‘Do we have to do that, Miss?’ ‘Do we all have to do it?’ ‘We got our own maths, Miss, we all do different.’ ‘We do it different with Mr Hunt.’

  ‘You will all do the same today,’ said Mrs Patel, who could not possibly have coped with the complexities of individual work on her first day in a strange class.

  Bored and restless, Nicky sprawled across her desk. She scribbled a few figures, fussed under her table for a rubber, rubbed out what she had done, dug her elbow into Joycelyn in the next seat, blew another gum bubble, and embarked on the spreading of a juicy piece of gossip, picked up that morning in the playground. ‘Nicky won’t let us get on with our work,’ Eric complained.

  ‘It’s boring,’ said Nicky.

  ‘It is what you come to school for,’ said Mrs Patel.

  ‘I like your sari, Miss,’ said Nicky. Mrs Patel’s sari was deep pink and blue, with little tinselly bits that flashed and twinkled as she moved. ‘You look like a princess out of a fairy story.’

  ‘Thank you, Nicolette, now please get on with your work.’

  ‘Indian ladies got lovely clothes,’ said Nicky enviously. ‘I wish I wore a sari, all lovely colours and shiny stuff.’

  The class tittered. ‘She look good, punching somebody’s head in a sari,’ said a boy called Marcus.

  ‘Shut up, you!’ said Nicky. ‘You look like a sack of potatoes all the time. A sack of potatoes with a turnip on the top!’

  Marcus flushed. He was l
umpy and slow and he knew it. ‘You didn’t have to say that, Nicky,’ said Joycelyn.

  Joycelyn was big, and black, and kind. If Nicky could be said to have a friend, that friend would be Joycelyn, but they were not really close. Nicky didn’t have any close friends, didn’t seem to want to attach herself anywhere too permanently. She hung around with this group or that, or just on her own if she felt like it. People tended to approach her with caution, wary of her moods. Even some of the teachers were a little bit afraid of her.

  Across the yard at playtime, Nicky saw a crowd. There was jeering and booing; someone was being teased. The jeerers were mostly third years, but Eric Morris was there as well. Nicky ran.

  Roy was closed against the playground wall by a half-circle of bullies. ‘Cry-baby, wet the bed! Crybaby, wet the bed!’ Roy was not crying though, he was looking like a trapped animal instead; crossed arms hugging the thin chest, limp gingery curls damp with sweat, eyes wildly seeking escape. Nicky grabbed Eric by the hair and yanked him backwards. He staggered, losing his balance, and Nicky punched him in the back. ‘Ow-w-w!’ Eric rounded on her, and began flailing with his fists, but most of his punches missed. Nicky grabbed his hair again and slapped his face with her other hand. ‘That’s for picking on my brother! You want another one?’

  ‘No-o-oh!’

  ‘There’s another one for you anyway. You want another one?’

  ‘No-o-oh! Leave me!’

  ‘You leave my brother alone then!’

  ‘Break it up this minute!’ said Miss Powell, on duty that morning and just arrived at the scene. ‘All right, who started it?’

  ‘She attacked me for nothing,’ said Eric.

  ‘When are you going to get civilized?’ said Miss Powell to Nicky.

  ‘He was making them all pick on my brother.’

  ‘No I wasn’t,’ said Eric.

  ‘Roy will never learn to stand up for himself with you babying him all the time,’ said Miss Powell.

  ‘It’s not fair, though. It’s too many of them, it’s not fair!’