The Secret Passage

by Nina Bawden

  But John didn’t go. He stood by the door where she couldn’t see him and waited until he heard a little, fluttery, snoring sound. Then he peeped round the clothes-horse that screened her and saw she was asleep. She would sleep like this, huddled up small in her gay shawl, the feathered hat nodding on her head, until lunch time. John went out, very quietly, and closed the door.

  He didn’t take any of the things with him that he had planned to take. It would be more sensible to put up the book shelves another time, when Mary and Ben would be there to help him. He thought he might look for a rug to put in front of the fireplace and perhaps find a broom to sweep up the attic, but first of all he just wanted to be there, by himself, looking at the sea from the window and thinking his own thoughts without anyone bothering him.

  John never minded being alone. In a queer way, he was much less nervous of strange and lonely places when he was by himself; as he climbed the big, dark staircase of the house next door, he thought that if there were ghosts—as there well might be in this old house—he wouldn’t mind at all. He would creep quietly past without disturbing them, just as if he were a ghost himself.

  He didn’t go into any of the rooms. He went straight up to the sunny attic, climbed onto the oak chest and pushed open the creaky old window. It was a warmer day than usual and the air felt soft and fresh. It was very enclosed up here with the old roof slanting up on either side of the window, and very private. John liked the feeling that he was shut right away from the world and that no one knew where he was.

  He stood on the chest for a long time, blinking drowsily like an owl in the sun. He thought that if Mary and Ben were here, they wouldn’t let him be so lazy and quiet. They would be talking loudly and wanting to do things. He sighed a little and began to feel guilty. When they knew he had spent the morning in the attic, they would expect him to have cleaned up a bit or done something to make it look nice and homely.

  He wondered if there would be anything inside the oak chest that would do to furnish the attic. The lid was heavy and creaked as he opened it and a strong, musty smell came from the inside.

  It seemed to be full of old clothes—several pairs of dark trousers and two jackets with gold buttons and gold trimmings—and some bundles wrapped up in newspaper. John unwrapped one of the bundles and found an old tweed hat with a label fastened onto the side with a pin. The label said, ‘Father’s gardening hat’. It was a very old hat with moth holes in it—a funny thing to keep so carefully wrapped up, John thought. In another newspaper bundle he found a pair of girl’s satin slippers, dirty white with tarnished buckles on the front. He put the slippers and the hat back in their newspaper wrappings, lifted out the trousers and the jackets and found, at the bottom of the chest an odd mixture of things: a wooden box with chess men in it, a packet of seeds, an old hammer and a photograph album tied up with a red ribbon.

  John untied the ribbon and opened the album. The photographs were rather brown and faded, and showed stiff looking people in old-fashioned clothes. As he turned the pages, the photographs became less faded and the clothes the people were wearing were much more modern. There was a photograph of two girls, one tall and frowning, one short and plump and smiling. Underneath was written, Mabel and Hetty. John stared at the picture; then, suddenly, his heart seemed to jump right up into his throat. Hetty was his mother’s name. It gave him a very strange feeling to see what she looked like as a little girl, with a short dress and bows in her hair. Slowly, he turned over more pages but there were no more pictures of his mother. There was one of Aunt Mabel in a long white dress, holding a bouquet of flowers and several of a big, smiling man in naval uniform. The last page of the album was torn a little and looked as if someone had torn out a photograph rather roughly—a corner had been left behind. John wondered who it was a photograph of and what had happened to it. He closed the album and looked inside the chest. He found it in a corner, screwed up and squashed with all the things that had been lying on top of it. He smoothed it out on his knee and looked at it carefully. It was a picture of Aunt Mabel—a young, pretty Aunt Mabel whose hair was short and curly instead of scragged back from her face. She was smiling and holding a tiny baby wrapped in a lacey shawl.

  John wondered who the baby was and thought, perhaps it was himself. He had been born in England and Aunt Mabel had known him when he was small. But why had she torn the photograph out of the album and left it loose in her chest? He knew now that this must be Aunt Mabel’s chest. She had packed all these things away in it and left them behind when she sold the house and no one had touched them since. The jackets with the gold buttons must have been her husband’s naval uniform; the gardening hat probably belonged to her father. Perhaps she had wanted to keep it, when he died, to remember him by.

  John put the things back in the chest, folding the clothes as carefully as he could. He put the photograph of Aunt Mabel and the baby in his trouser pocket; he thought Ben and Mary would be interested to see it. When he had closed the lid, he suddenly felt rather lonely and miserable. For the first time that morning he wished that Mary and Ben were with him and he decided that he would go back home to wait for them.

  He went slowly down the attic stairs and opened the door onto the top landing.

  And then he stopped, holding his breath.

  He could hear something: a slow, pretty tune that seemed to float gently up the dark stair well to where he was standing. Someone, somewhere in the house, was playing a piano. There was a piano, he remembered, in one of the big rooms on the ground floor. But who was playing it? It couldn’t be a burglar—not an ordinary burglar, anyway, because no ordinary burglar would stop to play the piano. Could it be a ghost? The tune was soft and somehow mournful; the sort of tune a ghost would play if a ghost could play.

  For a few minutes John stood where he was, very still and quiet. Then slowly—very slowly—he began to creep down the stairs. His heart was thumping but he was more curious than frightened.

  When he reached the hall, he could hear quite plainly where the music was coming from: the big room at the back where there was the picture of the man on the white horse. John went slowly to the door of this room and looked in. There was a large, gilt-framed mirror opposite the door and he could see the piano reflected in it and the person who was playing it. It was a girl in a high-necked brown jersey; a girl with very long, straight, dark hair, a pinched, monkeyish face and big, dark eyes, rather like Ben’s. The eyes were looking at John in the mirror, but John couldn’t believe she was really seeing him because she went on playing. But the tune got slower and slower and at last she stopped altogether and stood up.

  John drew a long breath and went into the room. She was standing by the piano, facing him. She was tall—taller than he was.

  “Who are you?” she said. “I thought—I thought someone was watching me.”

  She wasn’t a ghost. Her voice was quite ordinary and she was just as nervous as John was.

  He said boldly. “Who are you?”

  She didn’t answer for a minute, but stood, looking at John and hugging her elbows as if she was feeling shivery. Then she said in a low, breathless voice, “I am Victoria.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  VICTORIA

  “WHAT ARE YOU doing here?” John asked. Then an awful thought struck him. Since this girl was a real person and not a ghost, she probably lived here. “Are you Victoria Reynolds?” he said.

  She didn’t answer but bobbed her head in a little, uncertain nod that made her long hair swing like a curtain on either side of her pale face. Her big, dark eyes were fixed on John just as if she was scared of him. He was puzzled for a moment. Why should she be scared, when it was he who had no right to be here?

  He said, “It’s all right. I’m not a ghost or a burglar or anything. I’m John Mallory. Our Aunt Mabel used to live here—some of her things are still up in the old attic.”

  While he was saying this, he looked at her closely. She was dressed in an old brown jersey that was torn at the elb
ows and a pair of faded, grey jeans. The only pretty thing she was wearing was an old-fashioned locket that hung round her neck on a thin chain. Somehow she didn’t look as if she belonged here, in this rich, beautiful house.

  John said shyly, “We haven’t touched anything else, or done any harm. But I’m afraid your father will be very cross with us. Mr Reynolds is your father, isn’t he?” She said nothing, just stared at him, rather stupidly, John thought. Then he remembered that Mr Reynolds was an old man. “Or your grandfather. Of course, he must be your grandfather….”

  She said, with a little gasp, “Yes—yes, he is.”

  John squared his shoulders. “I suppose you’ll have to tell him. About us, I mean. We thought the house was empty. We thought it wouldn’t matter if we came in to play, if we were careful. But I’m afraid our Aunt will be very angry.” He felt suddenly very shy and nervous. “If—if I went away now—perhaps you could just forget I’d been here.” He looked at her hopefully.

  She said breathlessly, “I shan’t tell anyone. I don’t mind your being here. As long—as long as you don’t tell anyone about me.” She was shaking from head to foot and her thin face looked even more pinched and unhappy.

  John thought she was a very mysterious sort of person. “Why?” he asked boldly. “I mean—it’s your house, isn’t it?”

  She gulped as if her throat was lumpy. Then she clenched her fists at her sides and drew herself up, very straight and tall. “Because I shouldn’t be here. He doesn’t know I am. He—he lives in London and he thinks I’m at a boarding school.”

  “Then why aren’t you?” John said, surprised. “I thought, if you were at boarding school you had to stay there—except for holidays and things.”

  She blinked at him. “I’ve run away. I’m—I’m a refugee.” Her whole face brightened and she went on quickly, “A refugee from cruelty and injustice. It’s a horrible place full of horrible people and I hate it.”

  John stammered with excitement. “B-but won’t they find you? I—I m-mean, if you’ve escaped, won’t they be looking for you?”

  She gave him a sly, sideways look. “Not yet,” she said slowly. “It’s half term and everyone goes home for half term. I told them I was going to stay with my grandfather, so they won’t know until Tuesday that I’m not coming back. That’s … that’s another three days.”

  “How did you get in?” John asked, interested. “The house is all locked up.”

  She scowled a little. “I’ve got a key to the back door.”

  “But how did you get into the garden? The wall’s awfully high.”

  “There’s a garage at the bottom of the garden and the catch on the window’s broken. You can get in through the window….”

  She said this rather reluctantly. Suddenly, her scowl deepened and she glared at John in an angry, suspicious way. She burst out, “Why do you keep asking all these questions—I think you’re a horrible boy.”

  John was amazed. Why should she mind? “I only wanted to know,” he said.

  “I don’t see why,” Victoria said crossly. “I don’t see that it’s any business of your’s.”

  “Perhaps it isn’t,” John said in a huffy voice. “All right—I won’t ask you anything else.” He waited for a moment in case she wanted to apologise for being so rude, but she showed no sign of being sorry. So he said proudly, “I think I’ll go home now. And I won’t come back, so you needn’t worry about being asked any more old questions.”

  He was halfway across the hall before she ran after him. “Please don’t go—please. I didn’t mean to be cross.” She sounded rather stiff and awkward as if she wasn’t used to saying she was sorry.

  John said, “I’ll stay for a bit, if you like. But there’s nothing wrong in asking questions. It only means you’re interested in a person.”

  She sighed. “All right. Ask me questions if you want to.” And she stood up straight and tall as she had done earlier—rather, John thought, as if she was standing with her back to a wall and waiting to be shot.

  He said, “Why is your boarding school so horrid? Do they beat you, or lock you up?” John knew very little about schools of any kind but his mother had once read him Nicholas Nickleby and he thought all boarding schools were probably like that.

  “No. They don’t beat me. But …” She hesitated and then said in a rush, “but they won’t let me play the piano. It’s the only thing I like doing and they won’t let me do it. They don’t like me and I hate them.” Her voice shook with sudden passion.

  John said reasonably, “If it’s a horrid school, why don’t your mother and father take you away?”

  “Because they’re dead,” she said, not sadly, but coldly and bleakly as if she didn’t care at all.

  It made John feel very strange. He said uncomfortably, “Why don’t you tell your grandfather then?”

  “He wouldn’t care,” she said scornfully. “He only cares about his old pictures. I hate him.”

  “You seem to hate a lot of people,” John said. He thought this was rather odd and unpleasant of her. Surely there weren’t so many nasty people about? He had never hated anybody himself, probably because everyone—except perhaps Mrs Epsom and Aunt Mabel—had always been kind and loving to him.

  Victoria took no notice. Her face was puzzled. “You said—in the beginning you said, ‘we thought the house was empty’. Are there more of you?” She glanced round nervously as if she half-expected a horde of strange children to burst out of the dark, silent rooms.

  “Only my sister and my brother,” John explained. “And they’re not here now because they’ve gone collecting for Lifeboat Day. I’ll have to go home now because they’ll be back for lunch. And Aunt Mabel will wonder where I am.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Oh.” And frowned. Then she went on in an off-hand way as if she didn’t care much, one way or the other, “Will you come back?”

  “No,” John said. “We can’t.” He felt suddenly that he never wanted to come into the House of Secrets again, partly because it was no longer a private place and partly because Victoria was such a disagreeable girl.

  “Why?” she said and stared at him.

  “Because it isn’t our house. Of course it wasn’t before, but now we know someone’s here, it’s different….”

  “There’s no one here but me.” In spite of her sullen expression she sounded rather forlorn as she said this.

  “But I can’t come back without Mary and Ben. And,” John added rather spitefully, “you mightn’t like them.”

  She thrust her thin hands deep into the pockets of her jeans. “I might. I—I like you.” The colour came up into her face and she looked almost pretty for once. She said quickly, “It’s so lonely here. I haven’t got any friends. How old is your sister?”

  “Mary’s eleven,” John said. “But she’s very grown-up for her age.” He almost said, ‘and more sensible’, because he couldn’t imagine Mary ever being as cross and touchy as Victoria, but he stopped himself just in time.

  She said suddenly, “Please—oh, please come back,” and then looked surprised, as if she didn’t often say please to people.

  He said, “I suppose we could come after lunch.” He thought of something. “What are you going to have to eat? There isn’t any food in the house, is there?”

  She turned away from him and carefully traced the pattern on the carpet with her toe. “No,” she said in a low voice.

  John said surprised, “Aren’t you hungry?” She didn’t answer, and for some reason he began to feel rather suspicious. “When did you come here? When did you run away from your school?”

  She drew a deep breath and mumbled, “Day before yesterday. I got here at night and … and I slept up in the attic. I found a shawl in the chest and slept on the bed….”

  “And you wound up the alarm clock?” John said.

  “It’s my clock? Why shouldn’t I wind it up?” She stared at him belligerently.

  “No reason,” John said patiently. “I only mention
ed it because it was ticking when we found it yesterday—and you weren’t here then.”

  “Oh.” Her eyes looked very dark in her pale face and her breath seemed to be coming very quickly. “No, I wasn’t.” She paused as if she was trying to work something out in her mind—almost, John thought, as if she couldn’t remember where she had been yesterday. She said rapidly, “I went out, just for a bit. I was awfully hungry. I only had a shilling left over from my train ticket so I could only buy a carton of milk and a Crunchie Bar from the machines near the station.”

  “Is that all you’ve had to eat? Since yesterday?” John was horrified. “You must be dreadfully hungry.”

  “I’m starving,” she said softly. “My stomach’s gone flat—look.”

  She did look very thin, all bones and hollows.

  John said, “I haven’t got any money to buy food. But I’ll get something, I promise. And I’ll bring it back this afternoon. And—and if you go up to the attic, you’ll find a cold sausage on the mantelpiece. You can start on that.”

  Her mouth twisted into a nervous, half-smile as if she were secretly amused about something. But she said, “Thank you,” in a polite, if stilted way. And then she sighed a little and said, “If you really are going, shall I let you out through the back door?”

  “Yes please.” John felt relieved: not only would it be much easier to leave the house that way, but he would not have to explain how he had got in. He was surprised Victoria hadn’t asked him, though. She seemed to be a remarkably uninquisitive person. Perhaps she just wasn’t interested in other people.

  She took him downstairs to the kitchen and out through the back door into the garden. It was a very enclosed garden, very wild and tangly as John had imagined it would be. The trees and bushes were so overgrown that they met overhead and made a dim, leafy avenue down the garden to the empty garage. The dusty window was snuggly in its frame and creaked noisily as Victoria opened it. It gave onto a short, cobbled alley with grass growing between the stones.