The Secret

by Ruth Thomas

  It’s like Musical Chairs, thought Miss Greenwood, sulkily, and wondered how she could manoeuvre herself nearer to Mr Hunt again.

  Mr Nelson sat next to Roy. ‘Nearly there now! I’m getting really excited, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Roy, turning his head and twisting his fingers.

  He didn’t look excited, he looked withdrawn. ‘Brought your swimming things, then?’ Mr Nelson tried again.

  ‘Yes,’ said Roy.

  ‘Can you swim yet?’

  ‘No,’ said Roy.

  ‘Better not go in the water anyway, perhaps, if you’ve had the ’flu.’

  Roy did not answer, and Mr Nelson gave up. Mr Nelson was sorry for Roy, but there was no denying he was a dreary little thing. The two of them sat together, in uncomfortable silence, until the coaches sailed into the town.

  They were moving sluggishly now, in jerks, behind the line of traffic making for the seafront. ‘We want the sea! We want the sea! We want the sea!’ Nicky grabbed at Mr Hunt’s arm and held it. Her eyes were wide open, brilliant with expectation. ‘Oh, Sir, oh, Sir!’

  ‘When you’ve quite finished with my arm . . .’ said Mr Hunt, good-humouredly.

  ‘Sorry, Sir.’

  ‘It’s only the sea!’

  ‘Only!’

  They turned a corner, and they were on the front. And there it was, and it was different from the telly, and different from her blurred and distant memories. It wasn’t just blue, or green, like she thought it would be, it was twenty different colours all at once, all moving and changing and throwing the sunbeams back at the sky. And it was enormous. As far as you could see, and further, and you could sail over it, like the little boats, and your troubles would go smaller and smaller. You could sail over the huge sparkly sea, and your troubles would go to nothing. And the brightness would fill you up, so there was no room for anything else.

  ‘You approve then, Nicky?’ said Mr Hunt, teasing her. ‘You feel you’re getting your money’s worth?’

  Nicky did not think that silly remark was worth answering, so she didn’t answer it.

  The coaches made for the far end of the promenade, where there was a great green space. They would sit here, Mr Nelson said, and eat their packed lunches before they did anything else. Then they would pick up the litter, every tiny scrap. And then, only then, would they go to the beach.

  Nicky and Roy sat together to share their bread sandwiches. Sitting on the grass you couldn’t see the sea, because there was a wall in front of it. They could have been in the park, or anywhere. Nicky stood up again, and stretched on tiptoe, craning to catch a glimpse of the lovely, shining water. ‘Sit down, Nicky, and eat,’ said Mr Hunt.

  Nicky took a bite of the dry bread. ‘M-m-m!’ she exclaimed. ‘Chicken! I got chicken in mine, Joycelyn, what have you got in yours?’

  ‘Chicken,’ said Joycelyn.

  ‘What have you got in yours, Eric?’

  ‘Chicken.’

  ‘Isn’t that a coincidence?’ said Nicky. ‘We all got chicken in our sandwiches! . . . Oh look, look, Roy! Tinned salmon! I bet nobody else got salmon sandwiches, only us, Roy!’

  ‘Haven’t you got no crisps?’ said Eric.

  ‘Crisps?’ said Nicky, scornfully. ‘Who wants crisps? Me and Roy got chicken sandwiches and salmon sandwiches and egg sandwiches. Our mum made them for us last night. We don’t want crisps, do we, Roy?’

  ‘You’ve got all bruises down your leg, Nicky,’ said Eric, just noticing.

  ‘No I haven’t.’ Nicky pulled her skirt down quickly, to cover them. She would have preferred to wear her jeans for the outing, but she only had the one pair, and they were too grubby, from Monday.

  ‘Yes you have,’ said Eric. ‘All round your knee.’

  ‘Don’t be personal!’ said Nicky.

  ‘What have you got to drink?’ said Eric. ‘What have you got, Roy?’

  ‘He’s not thirsty,’ said Nicky, quickly. ‘I’m not thirsty neither. We don’t get thirsty, me and Roy, so we didn’t bother to bring any drinks.’

  ‘I’ve got two Cokes,’ said Joycelyn. ‘You can have one of mine if you like.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Roy, his eyes brightening just a little bit.

  ‘You don’t need it, Roy!’ Nicky scolded him. ‘You got chicken sandwiches and salmon sandwiches and egg sandwiches. You don’t need Coke as well, that’s just being greedy.’

  ‘I didn’t see any chicken in your sandwiches,’ said Eric, ‘I think it was just bread.’

  ‘He must be a little bit thirsty,’ said Joycelyn.

  ‘If you didn’t see the chicken in my sandwiches, you must be blind,’ said Nicky.

  ‘I think he is thirsty,’ said Joycelyn. ‘Can’t he have the Coke, Nicky? I don’t want to carry it around with me the rest of the day, it’s heavy!’

  ‘All right then. Just this once. Just so you don’t have to carry it.’

  ‘How much money have you got to spend, Joycelyn?’ said Eric.

  ‘50p. How much have you?’

  ‘The same. How much have you got, Nicky?’

  ‘Mind your own business,’ said Nicky. ‘And you can give me some of that Coke, Roy. You don’t have to drink it all.’

  The children had been divided into groups, eight or so to a group. There were plenty of grown-ups to look after the groups, because a number of mums had been recruited to help. Nicky Mitchell, naturally, could not be given to someone’s mum to mind, so Mr Hunt was stuck with her. He was also stuck with her misery of a brother, since Roy had apparently been ill, and had to stay with Nicky. Mr Hunt assembled his group, and threatened them. ‘Keep together, all of you! I don’t want to be counting you every five minutes, to see if anyone’s missing.’

  ‘I thought you said it doesn’t matter if we drown,’ said Nicky.

  ‘Well yes, you can drown if you like,’ said Mr Hunt. ‘It’s all right to drown, but apart from that, keep together.’

  They trooped on to the beach of sand and shingle. There was a little wind, and the air was sharp – tingling, and heady. Nicky stood with upturned face, and smelled the wonderful air. ‘I wish this day would go on for ever and ever!’ she said.

  ‘Can we swim now?’ someone asked.

  ‘Not yet, you’ve just eaten,’ said Mr Hunt.

  ‘Can we paddle, then? Can we paddle, Sir, please!’

  ‘All right,’ said Mr Hunt. He sat on the beach, lazily juggling pebbles in his hand. ‘Stay where I can see you all.’

  Nicky took off her shoes. The beach was wide, and gritty, and hurt her feet; the sharpness underlined her joy. The wind cut through the hot rays of the sun. Incredulously, Nicky felt the first cold wave breaking over her ankles, and seeping smoothly back. She watched it go, over the shingle, leaving her feet all clean and new.

  Roy did not go to the water’s edge with the others. He sat on the beach by himself, a little way from Mr Hunt, playing half-heartedly with the knobbly sand. ‘Why don’t you go with your sister?’ Mr Hunt suggested. He had just seen Miss Greenwood coming towards him with her group. She would sit down with him, probably, and her group would go paddling, and he and she could continue the flirtation they had started on the coach. This would be very agreeable, but better without Roy Mitchell spilling depression all over them.

  Roy did not answer.

  ‘Don’t you feel well?’

  Roy shrugged.

  ‘You shouldn’t have come if you’re not well enough, you know. Oh hello, Miss Greenwood, having fun?’

  Miss Greenwood’s group were clinging all round her. Those who could not reach hands or arms were clinging to her skirt and her bag. ‘A prize for the first one to find fifty shells!’ said Mr Hunt.

  ‘Should we encourage them to scatter?’ said Miss Greenwood, with her best tinkly laugh. ‘Won’t they get lost?’

  ‘Nah, they won’t get lost,’ said Mr Hunt. ‘They’ll mind each other! Wouldn’t you like to go looking for shells, Roy? I suppose not. . . . Oh well!’

  Mi
ss Greenwood gave Mr Hunt a silly smile, and Mr Hunt forgot about Roy anyway.

  A policewoman had brought the bag, to show to Mrs Mitchell. ‘It’s mine!’ said Mrs Mitchell, at once.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I only lost my memory! I still know my own bag!’ She rummaged through the contents, eagerly. ‘There was more in it than this! There was more things in it!’

  ‘Money?’

  ‘There must have been!’

  ‘Papers? Letters?’

  ‘I suppose so . . . I dunno.’

  ‘How did you lose it, do you think? Did you leave it somewhere? Throw it away?’

  ‘Throw it away? Throw my bag away? With keys in it? Do you think I’m mad?’

  ‘What happened then? You can’t remember at all?’

  ‘. . . I was running,’ said Mrs Mitchell, suddenly.

  ‘Running. Yes? Running where?’

  ‘I don’t know, do I? I lost my memory, haven’t I?’

  ‘All right. How about why you were running?’

  ‘It was important, it was important!’ Mrs Mitchell began to look really distressed. ‘It was important, but I can’t remember. . . .And I’m sick of this not knowing what’s going on! It was important that time, and I can’t do nothing about it because I don’t know what it was!’

  ‘All right,’ said the policewoman. ‘I’m pushing you and I probably shouldn’t. When you try too hard, it stops the memories from coming. I tell you what I’ll do. . . . You’re quite sure the bag is yours?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘I’ll leave it with you for a while, and see if that helps to bring things back. Don’t force it, just try to relax and let it come.’

  ‘Relax?’ said Mrs Mitchell, fretfully. ‘Some chance!’

  The children were dressing themselves after swimming – modestly, under coats and towels. Mr Nelson, who had no group of his own, came limping along on his gammy leg, tactfully averting his eyes.

  ‘Boo!’

  ‘Are you trying to give me a heart attack, Nicky, on top of my other tribulations?’

  She linked her arm in his, affectionately. ‘How is your arthritis now, Mr Nelson?’

  ‘Bad, thank you very much. I don’t think this sea air agrees with me. Too damp. It seems to be suiting you though.’

  ‘I’m having a great time!’ said Nicky. Her face glowing, the blue eyes looked gladly into his. ‘Mr Nelson, will you tell me something?’

  ‘If I know the answer.’

  ‘Does this beach go on and on?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Does it go on and on, all round the country, like this?’

  ‘Well – I suppose there’s some sort of foreshore, all round the country. . . . That is—’ He concentrated, trying to get it right.

  ‘Oh look, Mr Nelson! Look at your hair!’ said Nicky. ‘It’s gone all funny!’ The wind had lifted the long strands that were supposed to go over the bald bit, and was blowing them straight up in the air. ‘Does it go on and on, then?’

  ‘My hair?’

  ‘No! Not your hair! The beach! Could you walk all round the country, on the beach?’

  ‘Actually, no. There are things like headlands . . . and docks.’

  ‘What a pity!’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Not really . . . I was just wondering, though.’

  ‘Wondering what?’

  ‘How far this beach goes on.’

  Mr Nelson laughed. ‘I don’t know. Miles and miles, anyway.’

  ‘Miles and miles which way?’

  ‘Well – that way!’

  To the right, at the other end of the promenade, there was a small harbour. To the left, the beach curved gently into the far distance.

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  ‘Happy now?’

  ‘Yes, I am. Did you see me swimming, Sir?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid I missed that great treat.’

  ‘I can swim ten strokes now, without touching the bottom.’

  ‘Well done!’

  ‘Is that enough for a width, at the baths?’

  ‘Nearly, I should think.’

  ‘We’re going for a walk soon,’ said Nicky. ‘When we’re all dressed.’

  ‘Well, make the most of it. Coaches leave at three-thirty, remember.’

  ‘Oh Sir! It’s too short, Sir! What time is it now?’

  ‘Just past two o’clock.’

  ‘The beach is getting bigger, look!’

  ‘Of course, the tide is going out.’

  ‘How much further will it go?’

  ‘A bit more, I think. Then it starts to come back in. Some seaside places it goes out for miles and miles, but not here.’

  ‘How funny.’

  ‘Didn’t you know?’

  ‘I think so. . . . I forgot. Anyway, you told me now, didn’t you, Sir!’

  The police lady said not to think too hard – but how was she supposed to stop? The thoughts in Mrs Mitchell’s head whirled like spinning tops. She was running, running, running! She did it again in her mind. The bag was in her hand as she ran. The bag swung from her hand – and then? What happened then?

  It was no use, she was trying too hard. It was like the police lady said; the memories would never come while she struggled to find them. If she could have a little sleep, now! Would that cow of a nurse let her get on the bed? Probably not. How would she like it, having to sit on this chair with broken ribs?

  All right then, if she couldn’t sleep, she’d have a read. She stretched for a magazine, and yelled a bit, because the broken ribs hurt when she did that. She began to read a love story. It was a silly story, Mrs Mitchell thought; the characters in it did not seem real at all. Then a twist in the plot caught her interest, and she began to read with more attention. Then, because she still tired easily after the accident, Mrs Mitchell’s eyelids began to droop. She forced them open, because she wanted to know the end of the story, she really did.

  Her head began to nod. The magazine slid off her lap and on to the floor, and Mrs Mitchell slept, after all.

  Roy thought it was funny that Nicky didn’t seem to be doing anything about running away from the outing. He didn’t mind that they weren’t running away from the outing yet, he just thought it was funny. He also, in some dark and distant corner of his mind, thought it was funny that no one had yet come to tell them the secret was found out – after Polly Pry went round telling everyone in Gilbert Street. But he didn’t think much about that, because it was all such a long way away.

  He didn’t even think much about the things that were near, like how funny it was they weren’t running away yet. He didn’t think much about anything, because everything that was happening, was happening in a sort of dream.

  Joycelyn was quite concerned about him, looking so dazed and unhappy. She kept putting her arm round him, as they trailed along the promenade, and Roy didn’t mind when Joycelyn did that, because she was a big girl after all, and allowed to be motherly. It was Nicky who didn’t seem to like it. ‘Leave Roy alone, Joycelyn, he’s my brother, not yours!’

  ‘He’s not well though,’ said Joycelyn.

  ‘You mind your own business!’ said Nicky, unkindly.

  With a hurt and puzzled face, Joycelyn withdrew her comforting arm, and stumbled ahead, to join up with some of the others.

  ‘Can we get ice creams, Sir?’

  ‘Go on, then,’ said Mr Hunt. ‘Miss Greenwood and I will sit on the wall and watch you.’ He meant, they would sit on the wall and look at each other. ‘Aren’t you and Roy going for the ice creams, Nicky?’

  ‘Me and Roy don’t like ice cream.’

  Roy gazed with ill-concealed longing at the cones and lollies being licked by others. ‘Have you spent all your money, Roy?’ said Mr Hunt, tactfully. He knew very well they had had no chance to spend money, up to now.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Roy.

  Mr Hunt thought Mrs Mitchell was a very poor sort of mother, not finding any money at all for her childr
en to spend on the outing. ‘Oh come on, let me treat you,’ he said, putting his hand in his pocket.

  ‘Roy doesn’t like ice cream,’ said Nicky, firmly.

  They were all walking along the promenade again, straggling with their ice creams behind Mr Hunt and Miss Greenwood. Nicky linked arms with Roy, and slowed his steps till the two of them were last. ‘In a minute!’ she whispered. ‘When I say! Follow me, and hide!’

  Suddenly, it wasn’t like a dream any more, it was uncomfortably real! Nicky still held Roy’s arm, and their steps were getting slower, and slower. They were almost still. Nicky was watching Miss Greenwood and Mr Hunt ahead, making sure they didn’t turn round. No need to bother much about the other children – they were much too interested in their ice creams, licking them slowly, making them last.

  ‘Now!’ said Nicky, yanking at Roy’s arm.

  ‘Gotcha!’ said another voice, behind them.

  Someone had clamped a heavy hand on Nicky’s shoulder, and she turned round furiously. ‘What d’you want?’

  ‘Only playing,’ said Jason Charles.

  Playing was the right word. He and his group were having a wonderful time, playing up Karen’s mum, who had kindly come to help with the outing. Someone had slipped up badly, putting Jason Charles in Karen’s mum’s group. ‘You’re supposed to be with Karen’s mum!’ said Nicky.

  ‘I am with her,’ said Jason, not realizing yet that he wasn’t getting a welcome. ‘There she is, look!’ Grinning, he pointed way down the promenade, where Karen and her mum were floundering along, desperately trying to count heads as they went.

  ‘Well go back to her!’ said Nicky. ‘Go on, Jason! Mr Nelson said we got to stay with our groups.’

  ‘What about you, then?’

  ‘I can’t help it if you’re holding me and Roy back, can I?’

  ‘Come on, Nicky,’ said Jason, disappointed. ‘Let’s you and me have some fun!’

  ‘Get away, creep!’ Nicky shouted at him.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ said Jason.

  ‘Creep!’ Nicky yelled again, frustrated and frantic.

  ‘All right!’ he yelled back. ‘Witch!’