The Secret

by Ruth Thomas

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1. Before the Accident

  2. She’ll be Home Tonight

  3. A Bad Day

  4. Covering Up

  5. The Birthday Party

  6. A Watery Grave

  7. Hungry!

  8. Looking for Mum

  9. Scatter!

  10. A New Hope

  11. Will he or Won’t he?

  12. A Leaking Secret

  13. The Outing

  14. Escape

  15. A Walk into Trouble

  16. Touch and Go

  Also by Ruth Thomas

  Copyright

  To Muriel and David, remembering a very happy childhood

  1

  Before the accident

  MRS MITCHELL’S HIGH HEELS went clatter clatter along the promenade. Her breath was coming in painful gasps because she was running, running, running. She didn’t know what the time was, but it must be very late because it was getting dark – and darker and darker as she ran. And there might be a train to London or there might not, but let there be a train, she thought. Oh, please let there be a train so I can get back to Nicky and Roy tonight!

  She should never have left them. It was mad and wicked to leave two children alone all night, and she saw that now; but when Tony came round, and said there was this caravan at Southbourne, and they could have it all weekend, just the two of them – well, there was this shining picture in her mind’s eye of the funfair, and the lively seaside pubs, and the bright sea, all clean and sparkling in the sunlight. And Tony said the kids would be all right, they weren’t babies; Nicky was turned eleven, for heaven’s sake! And there wasn’t time to ask somebody to keep an eye on them, and who would she have asked if there had been time?

  Mrs Williams perhaps, next door – old Polly Pry. Oh yes, she’d have done it all right! She’d have loved the excuse to come in and poke her nose where it didn’t belong. And then the whole of Gilbert Road would hear that Mrs Mitchell’s bedroom was a tip, and there was no food in the house to speak of.

  Or that fat frump the other side, with the dowdy clothes and the glasses – Aunty Four-Eyes! Her name was Mrs Morris really, but Mrs Mitchell called her Aunty Four-Eyes once, when she was feeling specially bitchy, and the kids got a giggle out of it so the name stuck. Aunty Four-Eyes wasn’t as bad as Polly Pry, but the trouble was, she was so judging. She’d be scandalized at the very idea of a mum leaving her kids all night just so she could go to the seaside with her boyfriend. And it was all very well for her! She had a good husband to look after her, with a good job so she didn’t even need to go to work. How about if she had had the bad luck to marry a bully, how about that then? And had got left with two kids to bring up on her own?

  True, Aunty Four-Eyes had her good points, and, fair’s fair, she had minded Nicky and Roy with her own two a few times in the school holidays, and after school as well when they were younger. But Mrs Mitchell couldn’t ask her to do it this time because they’d had a row, and they weren’t speaking; and, come to think of it, Mrs Mitchell admitted to herself, come to think of it, she had used some rather strong language that time, when Aunty Four-Eyes opened her mouth about mothers who stayed out late at night, not because they were working, even, but just to enjoy themselves. And Four-Eyes had been shocked to bits by the language, or pretended to be, though she must have heard all the words before. So now when they met at their front doors, or passed each other going up the road, Four-Eyes turned her head away, as though there was a bad smell somewhere. And Mrs Mitchell laughed, because who cared what a dull cow like that thought?

  But staying out late was one thing, and leaving the kids all night was another, and she never should have done it, Mrs Mitchell knew. Tony had been very angry when she decided to go home after all; they had had a big row about it, and said some nasty things to each other. In the end, Tony had said she’d better take all her things, because he had no intention of bringing them back to her, or seeing her again, ever! Anyway, they were only her overnight things; they weren’t important. She could run much better without her overnight things. And she didn’t think she’d bother with boyfriends any more, after this. It was the kids that were important, wasn’t it!

  And it wasn’t her fault what she did, you couldn’t really say it was her fault. It was a big temptation, wasn’t it – a whole weekend by the sea! Anybody could make a mistake. And anyway she was going home now, only please let there be a train, and she was running as fast as she could along the ill-lit seafront, with the black and silver water beyond the dark sands below. Across the road were the cafés and the amusement arcades, but Mrs Mitchell ran by the sea because there were fewer people that side; fewer people to get in her way, and slow her down, and make her miss the last train back to London.

  Her bag swung from her hand; her everyday bag with all the everyday bits and pieces in it. All day she’d felt sore about that bag, when she’d stopped to think about it; but Tony had been so impatient, shouting up the stairs at her was she going to waste the whole day getting ready? And that made her nervous, so she just picked up her old bag, instead of stopping to change everything into one of the new ones. And the old bag didn’t go so well with her seaside outfit; she was conscious of that even now, running so frantically to catch the train, swinging the old bag from her hand.

  She did not notice the idle youth as she passed him; the youth who looked at the swinging bag, and at Mrs Mitchell’s pretty, preoccupied face, and back at the bag again. She did not hear the boy’s footsteps, as he ran on soft-soled shoes behind her. When she felt the tug she didn’t, at first, grasp what was happening. Only when the tug came again, harder now and without mercy – only then did Mrs Mitchell realize she was being robbed.

  She screamed. A powerful young arm tugged at the handle of Mrs Mitchell’s bag, and Mrs Mitchell fought to hold on, though she felt her own hand was being torn right off. No one came to help. The strolling groups of people on the other side of the road did not seem to hear Mrs Mitchell’s screams; and the cars streaked blindly past, their occupants not seeing, or not caring.

  One last almighty wrench dragged Mrs Mitchell to the ground, and ripped the bag from her hand. Screaming with rage now, as well as fear, Mrs Mitchell pounded the ground with her fists, and yelled the worst words she could think of at the rapidly disappearing back of the thief. She sobbed and cried, and a young couple did stop then, to help her to her feet. ‘What happened?’ said the young man.

  ‘He took my bag, he went that way!’ said Mrs Mitchell.

  ‘I’ll get him for you,’ said the young man, and he ploughed off gallantly, delighted at the chance to show off to his girl.

  Mrs Mitchell was shaking, and her knees felt weak. She was bruised, and the side of one leg was all grazed and bleeding. ‘He’s got all my money!’ she wept. ‘What am I going to do? I’ve got to get back to London, I’ve got to! And he’s got all my money!’

  ‘You poor thing,’ said the girl – but she didn’t offer to lend Mrs Mitchell enough for the fare.

  The young man came back, puffing and disappointed. ‘Disappeared,’ he said. ‘Couldn’t catch up with him. Sorry.’

  ‘He’s got all my money,’ wailed Mrs Mitchell. ‘What am I going to do?’

  ‘Find a copper,’ the young man advised her – but he didn’t offer to help.

  ‘That’s right,’ said the girl. ‘You find a copper.’

  ‘Where?’ said Mrs Mitchell, piteously. She was shaking so much now, she felt she could hardly stand.

  ‘Oh – over there somewhere,’ said the girl, pointing vaguely across the road. ‘Sure to be one somewhere around.’

  ‘You’ll be all right,’ said the young man, losing interest now he’d
lost his chance of showing off.

  ‘Yeah – you’ll be all right,’ said the girl, who didn’t want to have to lend Mrs Mitchell any money.

  They left her, and it was like a nightmare. Now she had stopped running, Mrs Mitchell could feel the cold night wind coming off the sea, and she shivered in her thin jacket. She was alone and cold, in a seaside town miles and miles from home, and no money to buy her train ticket. And the last train was going, going, going! She saw it in her imagination, chugging heartlessly out of the station.

  Desperately, Mrs Mitchell’s eyes scanned the pavement on the other side of the road. Was it . . .? She thought so. ‘Police, police!’ she tried to call, but something had happened to her throat and she couldn’t shout properly. She must get across the road! She must, she must, oh quickly, before she lost sight of this one last hope!

  She heard the squeal of brakes, and that was the last thing she did hear, before the whole world went black.

  2

  She’ll be home tonight

  ROY WOKE FUZZILY, clawing his way out of a bad dream. He couldn’t remember properly what the dream was about, but it was something to do with running; running in fear, and screaming. By the time he was fully awake he had forgotten even that much, and was just glad to be out of the horrible dream which wasn’t true after all.

  Then he felt it; the all-too-familiar coldness and clamminess, where the seat of his pyjamas stuck to him. With a sick heart, but hoping against hope, he put his hand down to feel the sheet – but this was no dream, there was no escaping this one. He had done it again.

  Hot with shame, and quickly to get it over, he stumbled into his sister’s room. ‘I wet the bed,’ he told her, miserably.

  Nicky stirred, and muttered into the pillow, and humped herself over. ‘What? What did you say?’

  ‘You heard.’ He had a habit of twisting his fingers, weaving them together like basketry. ‘I can’t help it. It comes when I’m asleep; I can’t help it.’

  Nicky sat up and glared. ‘You’re a nuisance, Roy Mitchell, that’s what you are! Now you give me all the trouble to wash your sheets! You don’t think of that, do you? What you want to wet the bed for, when Mum’s away and I got to do everything?’

  ‘She didn’t ought to go away,’ said Roy. ‘It’s not fair.’

  ‘Don’t be so selfish. She’s got to have some fun.’

  Roy knew he was selfish because Nicky was always telling him about it. But when you didn’t have very much you had to hold on to things really tight. If you gave things away, or shared them, there wouldn’t be enough left.

  ‘Why couldn’t she take me as well, then? I bet there’s room in that caravan. Why couldn’t they take me?’

  ‘You’re too young to understand,’ said Nicky.

  ‘I’m ten. Almost.’

  ‘Well people would mostly think you’re eight, to look at you. And if they know what you do,’ she added cruelly, ‘if they know what you do sometimes, they’d think you were one. . . . Anyway, you are going to the seaside, aren’t you? You’re going to Easthaven with the school, aren’t you, we’re all going. Don’t be so greedy, to want to go to the seaside twice!’

  Nicky pegged out the sheets and pyjamas on the line, watched through the garden fence by the disapproving eyes of old Mrs Williams. ‘Washing on a Sunday!’ said Mrs Williams, sniffing through her long thin nose. Her voice was harsh, and cracked, and not very pleasant.

  ‘Don’t you start,’ said Nicky. ‘We get enough of criticizing from over the other side.’

  ‘I was talking to myself,’ said Mrs Williams. ‘You weren’t supposed to be listening.’

  ‘Am I supposed to be deaf then?’ said Nicky.

  ‘You’re a very rude little girl,’ said Mrs Williams.

  ‘Good!’ said Nicky. She hoisted the line and went indoors. ‘Roy! Where are you? What you doing sneaking off to watch telly when you haven’t finished the potatoes yet? All right, all right, I’ll do them. You can go and get ready for Sunday School now, you know how long it takes you to do everything!’

  ‘Oh, not Sunday School. Do we have to?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s not fair. I don’t like Sunday School.’

  ‘Bad luck,’ said Nicky. She knew very well why Roy didn’t like Sunday School, or ordinary school for that matter, but she pretended not to. ‘Go on, go upstairs and put on your better clothes. It’s nearly time to go.’

  She opened the refrigerator, and took out the small joint of meat she had bought herself from Safeway, yesterday. They always had roast dinner on Sundays, it was the one good meal of the week. Sometimes they had it late in the day, because Mum wanted a lie-in, but they never missed it out. Mum had left twenty pounds, before she went off, for Saturday meals and Sunday roast, and something called ‘emergencies’. It seemed an enormous amount of money at the time; but, amazingly, nearly ten pounds had disappeared already, so Nicky thought the other ten had better be kept for ‘emergencies’, whatever they were.

  Nicky was delighted to have the chance of cooking roast dinner all by herself. Mum needn’t think she was the only one who could do it properly. She put the meat in a roasting pan, arranged the peeled potatoes round it, and drenched the lot in oil, just as she’d seen Mum do. Easy peasy, nothing to it! She lit the oven, and set the meal to cook.

  ‘And don’t forget,’ Nicky said to Roy, ‘don’t forget when we’re in Sunday School, you haven’t got to say one word that our mum is away! You haven’t got to let anybody guess, else she’s going to get in trouble.’

  ‘I know, I know!’ said Roy.

  Outside the door they saw that Mrs Williams had moved from the back of her house to the front. Her thin bent figure was in its favourite position, leaning over the gate; her sharp eyes darted up and down the street, anxious not to miss anything.

  ‘Bye, Mum!’ called Nicky loudly. ‘See you when we get back!’

  ‘I’ll bet she’s not out of bed yet, even!’ Mrs Williams muttered at her hedge.

  ‘I heard that,’ said Nicky.

  Mrs Williams gave the hedge a malicious little smile.

  ‘If you must know,’ said Nicky, ‘if you must know, our mum is cooking the dinner for us. She is busy cooking it now. Do you know what we’re going to have for dinner? We’re going to have roast beef, see? Roast beef, got it? Make sure you have it right because I’m sure it must be very interesting to you what we have to eat. We call you Polly Pry in our house, you know.’

  ‘You’re going to cut yourself with that tongue one of these days,’ said Mrs Williams, going so red you could even see the flush on her scalp, through the skimpy fluffed-out hair.

  Nicky shrieked with fiendish laughter.

  Walking ahead of Nicky and Roy, going to Sunday School because their mother sent them, were Sonia and Eric Morris. Sonia was thirteen, and good all the time, and colourless. Eric was eleven, and overfed, and good when being watched by the grown-ups. He dropped back gleefully when he saw who was behind him. ‘Who wet the bed last night, then?’ he taunted.

  Roy squirmed, and turned his head. ‘Nobody,’ said Nicky.

  ‘Yes they did, I see the sheets on the line.’

  ‘It was my sheets,’ said Nicky. ‘I spilled a cup of tea.’

  ‘Don’t lie. I see the pyjamas as well.’

  ‘Leave it, Eric,’ said Sonia.

  ‘Roy Mitchell wets the bed, Roy Mitchell wets the bed!’ jeered Eric.

  ‘If you say that again,’ said Nicky coolly, ‘I’ll punch your head in.’

  ‘Not on the way to Sunday School!’ said Sonia, shocked.

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’ said Nicky.

  In Sunday school they sang ‘Jesus wants me for a sunbeam’, which was Nicky’s favourite. She sang with gusto, oblivious of the fact that her strident voice was putting everyone’s teeth on edge. ‘A sunbeam, a sunbeam, I’ll be a sunbeam for him,’ sang Nicky. And there were several real sunbeams that morning, slanting through the tall windows; and Nicky thought it w
ould indeed be lovely to be a sunbeam, all bright and free, and nothing to do but dance on the world for ever.

  On the way home, Eric started again. ‘Roy Mitchell wets the bed! Roy Mitchell wets the bed!’

  ‘Have you forgot what I said?’ Nicky warned him.

  ‘Why can’t he fight for himself anyway?’

  ‘Roy can fight as good as anybody if he wants to,’ said Nicky. ‘Anybody says Roy can’t fight is going to get their head punched in. Roy is a very good fighter, actually.’

  Humiliated by the total lack of truth in this claim, Roy hung back, twisting his fingers and scraping the edge of the pavement with his foot. He scraped and scraped, and he would have liked it to be Eric’s pudgy face he was scraping, instead of only the kerbstone.

  ‘I can smell the lovely dinner our mum’s cooking for us,’ said Nicky. She sniffed the air ecstatically, wrinkling her nose and sucking through her teeth. ‘Who can smell our roast then?’

  The Sunday visitors were beginning to arrive. ‘Oh look!’ said Sonia. ‘There’s Uncle Bill and Aunty Mavis!’ No uncles or grandmas ever visited the Mitchells’ house. ‘Who wants relations?’ Mum said. Relations were more trouble than they were worth. ‘Better off it’s just the three of us,’ Mum said. And they had fun sometimes, the three of them . . . games, and Mum telling funny stories so they rolled about on the floor with laughing.

  A pity she had to spoil it just lately, with boyfriends, Nicky thought. Never mind, though, they still had fun sometimes.

  ‘We’re back!’ Nicky called through the letter box. ‘It’s all right, Mum, you don’t have to let us in. We got our key.’

  In the dark little hall, Nicky turned on Roy. ‘Ball up your fist,’ she told him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard, hit me!’ She held up her hand. ‘Hit my hand! Harder! Go on, that’s right, harder! Ow!’ Nicky doubled up, blowing on her stinging hand. ‘You see? You see? You can do it!’

  From somewhere in the region of Roy’s stomach a small glow spread – up, up to the round baby-face where it appeared briefly as a bright little smile. Nicky said he could do it. All right then, he would do it! Next time. Next time he would show them. He would fight them. He would fight Eric. . . . And then the smile and the glow died away, because he knew he would do no such thing really.