Secrets Page 5

  It’s as if that Dad has left home and a grumpy stranger has moved into his body.

  ‘What is it now, India?’ said Mrs Gibbs. ‘Come on, try not to be such a baby. I’m not telling you off, I’m just trying to have a little chat with you.’

  ‘I know,’ I mumbled, sniffing.

  ‘Haven’t you got a hanky, dear? India . . . things are all right at home, aren’t they?’

  I jumped.

  ‘You know you can always talk to me, don’t you? Is there anything really worrying you?’

  I clicked on various images in my mind: Dad, Mum, Wanda. I scrolled down each long list of worries. I couldn’t decide which to highlight. The Dad Dilemma was in the boldest font but I didn’t want to tell Mrs Gibbs about him. He’s still the most special person in all the world to me (apart from Anne). It would seem horribly disloyal if I started whining about him.

  I didn’t mind whining about Mum but this is a nonstarter. Mrs Gibbs reveres her. She’s always going on about her success and her stupid, simpering appearances on breakfast television. (Mum was even on Blue Peter once – with Phoebe.) I wondered about telling Mrs Gibbs what Mum’s really like, but it’s hard to put into words, even if you’re ‘extremely articulate, perhaps a little precociously so’. That was Mrs Gibbs’s comment on my school report at Christmas.

  Mum doesn’t do anything bad to me. She doesn’t say anything either. It’s the way she says it. The way she sighs. The way she raises her eyebrows. The way she rushes straight past me, talking over her shoulder. The way she never wants to sit down and talk to me. If I try to grab hold of her and start gabbling she always goes, ‘Oh darling, I’m in such a tearing rush. Can’t you ask Wanda?’

  Wanda’s no use whatever. Especially recently. She just stays in her room most of the time. She doesn’t even go out with Suzi any more. I don’t think they’re friends now. Wanda hasn’t got any other friends. I’d be her friend but she barely takes any notice of me.

  I wondered about having a good moan to Mrs Gibbs about Wanda but I couldn’t be bothered. Besides, Mrs Gibbs might have a word with Mum and then Wanda would get into trouble. Then I’d be for it. Wanda’s got these pointy long nails and it really hurts when she pinches.

  ‘No, everything’s fine at home, really,’ I said, sighing.

  Mrs Gibbs sighed too and told me to perk up then, as if I was a jug of coffee. The cloakroom was empty when I got my coat. Everyone had gone home already. I trailed out across the playground, expecting Wanda to nag at me for keeping her waiting. But Wanda wasn’t there. She wasn’t standing by the gate, leaning on the wall, wandering up and down the pavement. I looked for the car but it wasn’t parked anywhere.

  I wondered if Wanda had nipped along to the corner shop for some chocolate. I went to have a look. She wasn’t there either. I bought myself a Mars bar – king size – and ate it in five gollops while I wondered what to do.

  I could go back to school and tell Mrs Gibbs.

  I could find a phone box and ring home.

  I could ring for a taxi.

  I could stand outside the school waiting and waiting and waiting.

  I could walk home by myself. I thought about it. I knew the way. It wasn’t that far. It would only take twenty minutes, half an hour at the most. So I set off, my school bag bumping on my back. It felt as if I was starting out on an adventure. I enjoyed the feeling. Maybe I wouldn’t go home. Maybe I’d walk off into the wide world and seek my fortune. No, I didn’t want to sound like a fairy tale. I wanted to be part of a stark modern drama. I played a tragic runaway picked up by a wicked man who kept me captive and forced me to submit to his evil intentions . . .

  ‘Wait a minute, little girl!’ A fat man suddenly grabbed hold of me. I gave a little squeak of terror.

  ‘You nearly walked right out into the road!’ he puffed, his sausage fingers still splayed on my shoulders. ‘You could have stepped straight under a lorry. You were in a right old daydream.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I stammered and rushed off – in the wrong direction. I felt such a fool I kept on running. I looked round quickly as I turned the corner, just to make sure he wasn’t following me. He wasn’t the wicked man of my fantasy, just a kind grandad in a too-tight bomber jacket trying to stop me getting run over, but I felt I couldn’t be too careful.

  I couldn’t see him but I didn’t want to retrace my footsteps just in case he bobbed back again. I’d have to trail right into town and go the really long way home – unless of course I took a short cut through the Latimer Estate.

  I did a local history project last year and found out that the Latimer Estate used to be Latimer Woods, and all this woodland belonged to the big manor house, Parkfield. Only all the woods got chopped down and built on in Victorian times, and then in the sixties all the little Victorian back-to-backs got pulled down and they built this vast tower-block council estate. Parkfield Manor got pulled down too and they built all our houses. We don’t get called an estate, we’re a ‘luxury complex’.

  The Latimer Estate is very big, very bleak and very tough. I’d never actually walked through it but we drive past sometimes. Mum always winds up the windows and locks the car door from inside in case any of the Latimer Estate kids charge up at the traffic lights, stick their hands through the window and try to grab her Rolex watch. It’s only an imitation one she got in Hong Kong when she went there on a business trip, but it looks real.

  No-one’s ever tried to steal her watch. The only time anyone’s approached the car it was to wash the windows and even then they backed off quick when Dad flipped his hands and mouthed at them. But Mum and Dad talk about the Latimer Estate as if it’s a suburb of hell itself.

  ‘It’s all feckless single mums on drugs and gangs of yobs,’ says Mum.

  ‘Drunks and drop-outs the lot of them. I don’t know why they don’t round them all up and shove them in jail,’ says Dad.

  Whenever we hear a police siren scream in the distance they sigh and shake their heads and say, ‘The Latimer Estate!’

  I hate it when they talk like that.

  My feet hurt in my hard school shoes and my bag was dragging on my shoulder. I didn’t want to trail all the way into town. I decided to be daring. I’d walk through the Latimer Estate all by myself.

  I set off, feeling like Little Red Riding Hood setting off into deep, dark Latimer Woods. I walked very briskly in spite of my sore feet, almost as if real wolves were after me. Two old ladies hauling shopping trollies and three mums with baby buggies wheeling washing back from the launderette didn’t look too scary, but as I got further into the estate, the stained concrete tower blocks high above my head, I started to feel more wary.

  Something wet spattered on top of my head. It wasn’t raining. I put my hand up gingerly to feel what it was. I heard a faraway giggle from one of the balconies. I was obviously a target in a spitting competition.

  I hurried on, looking up worriedly every so often. It was bad enough being spat at. What if they started chucking things at me? Weren’t they meant to have thrown an old television at a policeman only the other day? My own prissy private-school uniform was reason enough for them to have a go at me.

  I huddled inside my duffel coat and walked on as fast as I could.

  ‘Wibble wobble, jelly bum!’

  It was a sharp-faced little kid about six shouting at me from the dustbin shelter. I tossed my head, ignoring him. He started yelling worse things, swear words I’d never heard said aloud before.

  ‘Wash your mouth out with soap!’ I said. My voice sounded horribly posh and plummy. He screamed with laughter.

  I hurried on to the next block. There were bigger boys there, swooping round and round on skateboards, thundering up a home-made chute, flying through the air and then crashing down on the asphalt. I jumped each time they thumped, scuttling between them as they circled me.

  There was a girl cycling round and round too, doing fantastic wheelie tricks on a BMX. She looked every bit as tough as the boys, her hair tousle
d, a big red scar on her forehead, her face pale and pinched. She was so skinny in her tight jeans and tiny matted fleece. I stared at her enviously.

  She saw me staring. She stuck her tongue out at me.

  I waggled mine back at her.

  Then she grinned. I grinned. It was just as if we knew each other.

  Seven

  Treasure

  MUM RANG. OUT of the blue.

  ‘Hi, Treasure,’ she said casually, as if I’d just popped round to Nan’s for tea.

  ‘Mum!’ My mouth was so dry I could hardly speak.

  ‘What’s up with your voice, Treasure? You got a cold? Typical! I bet you haven’t been wearing your fleece.’

  Mum’s voice sounded so normal. It made it easier.

  ‘I’m fine, Mum. Honest. And Nan’s getting me a new coat out of her catalogue. A red one. It’s lovely.’

  ‘You can’t wear red, you’re far too pale. It sucks all the colour out of your cheeks. Tell your nan not to waste her money. There’s plenty of wear in that fleece of yours.’

  I felt the colour rushing to my cheeks. I’d felt so thrilled about the red coat. Nan said it would look lovely on me. Willie teased me a bit and sang Lady in Red and Loretta said she liked the style and Patsy clapped her hands and said I’d look beautiful.

  ‘It’s already ordered, Mum,’ I said. ‘Anyway, are you . . . OK?’

  ‘Of course I am. Well, Gary is driving me nuts, he hardly slept a wink last night, but I think the little whatsit’s teething so maybe he’s got some excuse. And Kyle’s getting dead cheeky and Bethany’s forever complaining, the stroppy little cow, but that’s nothing new. She says she’s missing you, babe. Sweet, eh, when you two were always driving me daft with your fights. Still, we’re all missing you, Treasure.’

  My throat closed up.

  ‘I miss you too, Mum,’ I croaked.

  ‘So when are you coming back? Shall we come and fetch you on Saturday?’

  Nan’s bright room suddenly broke up into tiny pieces in front of my eyes. Kaleidescope patterns whirled round even when I shut my eyes.

  ‘I’m not coming back, Mum,’ I whispered.

  ‘You what? Do speak up, babe, I’ve got Gary yelling in his kiddie-chair, can’t you hear him? I think he’s missing you too. You’re like a little mother to him. You’re always very good with the kids.’

  ‘Mum, listen. I live with Nan now. You know I do. It was all fixed after Terry . . . you know.’

  ‘What, after that little set-to? Look, that got blown up out of all proportion. You know it was a complete accident. Terry didn’t mean to hit you. It was just a little nick anyway, nothing to get worked up about.’

  I fingered the long raised scar underneath my fringe.

  ‘And you were a very naughty girl, writing all that rude childish stuff about him. No wonder he got angry. But he’s willing to let bygones be bygones. He’s been a changed guy since, anyway. He’s hardly touched a drop of whisky. He’s sticking to his beer and that never makes him mean. He’s been really sweet to me and the kids. It’s a fresh start, Treasure. You’ve no worries on that score.’

  ‘Mum, I want to stay here. With Nan.’

  Mum’s tone changed. ‘Well, you can’t! I’m your mum, and I look after you. I need you back here, sharpish. I let you stay with your nan over the holidays for a little break, but it’s not like it’s permanent. School’s started now, you have to come back. They’ve been on at me, wondering where you are.’

  ‘I go to school here now, Mum. Up Latimer.’

  ‘You what? You can’t swap schools just like that! The nerve of it. You’re coming home this weekend, do you hear me?’

  I heard. I put the phone down and wept. Nan had left me alone in the living room so I could talk to Mum privately. She came back to find me curled up crying into a cushion on her sofa.

  ‘Hey, don’t get that gold velveteen all snotty, sweetheart,’ she said, lifting me up and putting her arms tight round me. ‘Now, tell Nan. What’s your mum said?’

  ‘Oh Nan, I’ve got to go home!’

  ‘Do you want to?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Well then, it’s simple. You’re not going.’

  ‘But Mum says—’

  ‘I’m her mum and I say you’re staying,’ Nan said firmly. ‘I’ll phone her right back and tell her straight.’

  She did too. There was one BIG row over the phone. My mum said she was still coming. With Terry.

  ‘Like that’s going to frighten me, Tammy,’ said Nan. ‘That bloke of yours might get off on cutting up little girls like Treasure but I don’t think he’s got the bottle to take me on.’

  She’s right too. Nan can get the better of anyone.

  I know I can trust Nan. But I still feel a bit jumpy.

  I couldn’t sleep last night so Nan let me cuddle up in her bed. Then Patsy came in too so it got a bit crowded but Nan didn’t mind a bit.

  ‘I’ve got two arms for my two girls,’ she said, and she cuddled us both.

  Then when I got back from school today Willie said I could have a go on his bike as he was off round a mate’s house to play computer games. I was dead chuffed because Willie’s bike is seriously wicked and he won’t let Patsy so much as touch it.

  I used to beg to go on Kyle’s bike back home – no, back then, this is home – so I know what I’m doing. I raced it round and round the grounds. The boys wouldn’t let me on their ramp so I couldn’t try out any really daredevil stuff but I stuck my head in the air like I didn’t care and did neat bunny-hops and perfect 360s just to show them I was no toddler on its first trike.

  They pretended they weren’t watching, but they were. There was this other girl too, dead posh, in one of those weird old-fashioned uniforms like she’d stepped straight out of some 1950s time-warp. She even had long socks and button-over shoes like babies wear. She looked like she’d talk all toffee-nosed but she didn’t seem snooty. She was staring at me, but it was like she thought I was special.

  I rode round and her head swivelled, her beady brown eyes fixed on me. I stuck my tongue out at her. I wondered if she’d look shocked but she stuck her tongue out back at me, as if it was our own secret signal.

  I liked her.

  I wondered what on earth she was doing on our estate. I watched her walk off. Then I started pedalling like crazy after her. She dodged when she heard me coming, like she thought I was trying to slam straight into her. I braked and leapt off, landing on my toes, dead cool.

  ‘Hiya!’

  ‘Hi,’ she said.

  Her voice was horribly high and plummy. She licked her lips nervously. I could tell it worried her too.

  ‘What’s your name then?’

  This really got her. Lick, lick, lick with her little pointy tongue.

  ‘India.’

  ‘What? Like the place?’

  ‘Yes. It’s a stupid name.’ She went very pink.

  ‘I like place names. Like Brooklyn for a boy. Is that where your mum and dad started you?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’ She pulled a face.

  I giggled. ‘Yeah, isn’t it weird, thinking of them doing it? I’m glad my mum didn’t call me after a place. I’d be Staines!’

  I leant Willie’s bike against the wall and swung myself up on it. India joined me, though she had to have several goes heaving herself up. We sat dangling our legs, nodding at each other.

  ‘So what’s your name?’

  ‘It’s heaps more stupid than yours. Treasure.’

  ‘That’s your nickname?’

  ‘No, my real name.’

  ‘Well . . . it’s obvious your mum thought a lot of you when you were born.’

  She’d got this sooooo wrong.

  ‘I’m changing it when I’m older. I like Tiffany. Or Yasmin. Or a jewel name like Amber or Jade or Ruby.’

  ‘I want to change my name too. I want to be called Anne. You know, after Anne Frank.’

  ‘Cool,’ I said, though I don’t know who Anne Frank is.
Someone on television?

  ‘She’s my heroine,’ said India. ‘Who’s yours?’

  I shrugged. Then I knew. ‘My nan.’

  ‘Your nan?’

  It did sound strange said in India’s posh voice but she wasn’t going to faze me.

  ‘She’s fantastic, my nan. You ask anyone on the estate about Rita. She’s like their queen. I live with her now.’

  ‘What about your mother?’

  ‘Oh, she’s got this bloke, see, and we don’t get on.’

  India didn’t look as if she did see, but she nodded politely.

  ‘So this is my home now,’ I said, waving back at the flats. ‘Where do you live, India?’

  ‘Oh, over there,’ she said. Her wave was a lot vaguer than mine.

  ‘Not on our estate,’ I said. ‘You’re rich, aren’t you?’

  She went pink again, playing with a frizzy end of hair.

  I suddenly realized. ‘Hey, you don’t live in those huge great houses where they had the fireworks? Parkfield?’

  She nodded, ducking her head like she wanted to disappear inside her duffel coat.

  ‘Wow, you lucky thing! So what are you doing hanging round our estate then?’

  ‘I’m going home from school.’

  ‘How come you aren’t being fetched in your Mercedes or your Daimler or whatever?’

  ‘It’s just a Range Rover. Wanda didn’t turn up.’

  ‘Is that your mum?’

  ‘No, she’s . . . she’s the au pair.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Well, she stays with us and sort of works for us.’

  ‘You mean like a servant?’

  ‘A bit. I don’t know what’s happened to her. My mum will go spare if she finds out.’ India sighed and raised her eyebrows. They were ginger, like her fuzzy hair. ‘My mum’s this incredible drama queen. She always makes a fuss.’

  ‘What about your dad? Is he OK?’

  ‘Oh, he’s lovely. Well, he was – but he’s got ever so grumpy lately. He’ll yell at me for the least little thing.’

  ‘Does he whack you one?’