Secrets

by Jacqueline Wilson

  ‘That’s right! You always have to belittle me, don’t you? You do it to everyone – even Dad. No wonder he wants Wanda more than you! She’s having his baby – that’s something else you haven’t noticed.’

  Wanda gasped. Mum looked at her. Her lips tightened. But she stayed totally in control.

  ‘You’re being ridiculous now, India. Go downstairs. We’ll all go downstairs and calm down and have a cup of tea. Wanda, can you organize a pot, please, and some juice for the girls.’

  Wanda bobbed back down the ladder. Mum followed her, head held high.

  ‘Wow! You really told her!’ Treasure whispered, wiping her eyes.

  ‘It’s because we’re all so het up. Your mum will understand,’ said Nan, giving me a pat.

  ‘She won’t,’ I said, starting to cry. I wished I hadn’t said it. I didn’t know what poor Wanda would do now. Or Dad.

  ‘Hey, I’m the cry-baby,’ Treasure said. ‘Don’t cry, India, you’ll set me off again.’

  ‘I can’t bear it that it’s all over. I’ll never see you again!’

  Treasure left Nan and came and put her arms round me, looking straight into my eyes.

  ‘Of course we’ll see each other. We’re best friends for ever and ever.’

  I hugged her. ‘But you’ll still have to go back to your Mum and Terry.’

  ‘No, she won’t,’ said Nan determinedly. ‘You wait and see. Trust me, India.’

  That was just it. I knew you couldn’t trust grown ups, not even kind, truthful ones like Nan.

  We went downstairs to the living room and sat down to a bizarre little tea party spread out on the red lacquer table. Mum sat in her cream armchair, asking questions about milk and sugar, rearranging the assorted biscuits on the big black glass plate into a geometric pattern. Wanda hovered in the doorway looking terrified, her hands clasped protectively over her stomach.

  Nan and Treasure sat on the sofa together. Nan kept reaching out and touching Treasure as if she was making sure she was real. Treasure sat very upright, her scar showing through her fringe, her eyes blinking hard behind her glasses. She bit into a biscuit and sprayed crumbs down her T-shirt. She caught Mum’s eye.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Treasure, brushing at the crumbs. ‘It’s your T-shirt.’

  ‘We’ll wash all the clothes and send them straight back,’ said Nan.

  ‘No, no, please! You keep them, Treasure. They look wonderful on you,’ said Mum. She kept staring at Treasure, her head on one side. Then she sighed. ‘I suppose I’d better call the police now.’

  Nan leant forward. ‘I don’t think you need to get involved. They’ll ask all sorts of awkward questions. They might well think you or your husband had something to do with it. Like you said, you could be done for harbouring.’

  ‘That’s ludicrous,’ said Mum.

  ‘Is it?’ said Nan. ‘Most people would find it hard to believe you could have a strange child living in your house for four days and not have a clue she was there.’

  Mum flinched.

  ‘It would be better for your India if she could be kept right out of it too,’ said Nan.

  ‘No, it wouldn’t! I want to talk to the police. I don’t mind a bit if I’m done for harbouring.’

  I saw it all: my impassioned speech straight to camera as I was led away by the police; my interviews with social workers and psychiatrists; my stay in a secure young offenders unit; my secret smuggled letters to Treasure. Then there’d be our joyful reunion, cameras flashing as we embraced outside the unit; my story serialized in the newspapers; my Secret Attic book piled high in Waterstone’s and Smith’s. I’d be a best-selling author before I’d even reached adolescence!

  ‘Be quiet, India. You’ve said more than enough today,’ said Mum. She looked at Nan. ‘I would certainly appreciate it enormously if India could be kept out of it – but obviously the police will question Treasure.’

  ‘I’ll just say I hid by myself,’ said Treasure. She looked straight at my Mum. ‘I won’t say a word about India if you promise something, Mrs Upton.’

  Mum looked amused. ‘Promise what? That you can have some more Moya Upton clothes?’

  Treasure looked at Mum pityingly. ‘No! I want you to promise that India and I can still see each other and stay friends.’

  ‘Of course you can,’ said Mum. But how can I trust her?

  Treasure and Nan said goodbye and went off to the Latimer Estate. Mum offered to drive them but Nan said they needed a little walk to talk things over.

  Mum and Wanda and I were left alone together.

  ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do with you, India,’ Mum said weakly. ‘I don’t think I can talk about it now. I need time to think. Wanda, will you drive India back to school, please?’

  Wanda leapt to her feet, eager to postpone an inevitable confrontation.

  ‘Come along, India,’ she said. Then she glanced out of the living-room window and stood transfixed. She pointed mutely with one long fingernail. A police car had drawn up outside.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Mum. ‘How did they find out?’

  But they weren’t here because of Treasure. Dad got out of the back of the police car. One of the police officers was holding his arm. Wanda gasped. Mum sighed heavily.

  ‘Dear God, what is it now?’

  Dad led the police officers into the house. He was very red in the face, not looking at anyone, staring down at the black carpet.

  ‘What’s happened, Dad?’ I whispered.

  Mum stood up, folding her arms. She looked at the police.

  ‘Have you arrested my husband?’

  ‘No, madam, not at this present moment in time. Mr Upton is simply helping us with our enquiries. Now, sir, if we could go to your study perhaps you can show us where all the relevant papers are?’

  The accountants had discovered a large amount of money had gone missing from Major Products. It looked as if Dad was going to be charged with embezzlement.

  Nineteen

  Treasure

  NAN AND I walked back to Latimer together, hand in hand. No-one paid us any attention as we walked down Parkfield’s leafy avenues. I’d had my photo all over the newspapers and on the telly but it simply didn’t register. Cars whizzed past us on the main road. A police car even stopped for us at the zebra crossing. Nan and I nodded and smiled. No-one gave us a second look.

  Maybe it was the Moya Upton clothes. They made me look so different.

  ‘Are Mum and Terry still at your place, Nan?’ I asked.

  ‘They’re gone. This paper’s done a deal – a fifty-thousand-pound exclusive – so they’re hidden away in some hotel, with Kyle and Bethany and Gary. God, that baby grizzles so. He might be my grandchild but I can’t take to him at all.’

  ‘He’s my brother but I don’t like him either,’ I said.

  I held on tight to Nan’s hand as if I was a little kid.

  ‘He takes after his dad,’ she said. She gave my hand a squeeze. ‘You’re not going back to them, Treasure. I don’t give a damn what anyone says. I don’t care about all these silly social workers who keep telling me grandparents rarely get custody. Blow them – and blow your mum’s solicitors too. If they see my Pete as the problem then he’ll simply have to live somewhere else when he comes out the nick.’

  I stood stock still, staring up at Nan. Her blue eyes blazed at me. Her ponytail band had fallen out and her blond hair was blowing in the wind, lifting up around her head like a wild halo.

  ‘But you love Pete, Nan,’ I whispered.

  ‘I know I do. But I love you too, Treasure. As much as any of my own kids – maybe even more, though don’t you dare tell anyone that. It’s been agony, wondering if you were all right. I should have told them at the hospital how you got that cut. I should have gone straight down the Social then. I shouldn’t have packed you off on Saturday, though I just wanted to keep you out of any rows with Terry. I’ve been such a fool but I’m going to fight for you now, darling. I let that pig dribble on about his li
ttle Treasure, hamming it up for the cameras. I knew the time to have my say was when you came back safe and sound. I’ll tell all those journalists and telly people what he’s really like.’

  I tugged on Nan’s hand.

  ‘I’ll tell them, Nan.’

  Everything went crazy the moment we set foot on the Latimer Estate. People knew me there. They started shouting when they spotted us. Little kids came running. Even old ladies hobbled up and circled us, acting awestruck, like I’d come back from the dead. We had a huge troop following us when we got to Elm block.

  There was a television van parked beside the skateboard ramp, and several reporters and photographers were drinking tea together. The police were still there too, in overalls and rubber gloves, sifting through every stinking sack of rubbish in the dustbin recess.

  Nan and I stood there, still hand in hand. We watched them all. One of the reporters was eyeing up Nan – and then he looked at me. His head jerked. He glanced at the busy police and then came sprinting towards us.

  ‘It’s Treasure! You’re safe and sound! Where have you been, darling? Come on, be a sweetheart and tell me quick.’

  Another reporter came running, elbowing him out the way.

  ‘No, no, we’ve got an exclusive! Come with me, lovie. We’ve got your mum and dad and the kids tucked away in a safe hotel. You’re to come with us.’

  A photographer started taking photos, telling me to look up, look down, to smile, while his flash made orange blurs in my eyes.

  The police looked up from the dustbins and they came running too.

  ‘Is that the little girl? Leave her alone, chaps, come on. This way, Treasure,’ said a policeman.

  They were all milling round, shouting, gesturing, flashing – and then a man with a television camera was there too, and a guy with headphones and a boom and another with a mike, asking me endless questions. They were all arguing, telling me to go this way, that way. It was all so loud, so noisy, so unreal, as if I was in some crazy cartoon. I clung to Nan, the only real person there.

  She put her head down to me. ‘Where do you want to go, Treasure?’

  ‘Back home with you!’ I said, loud and clear.

  ‘OK, pet,’ she said. ‘Tell them.’

  The journalists were still all yelling at me, the police were trying to usher me out their way, the television people had their mike thrust right in my face. I’d never have a better chance to have my say.

  ‘I want to live with my nan,’ I said. ‘I saw on the telly that Michael next door has been questioned. That’s mad. He didn’t take me away. No-one did. I ran away myself. I’ve been hiding for days and it’s because I don’t want to live with my mum. I don’t get on with my stepdad. They say I’ve got to come back but I don’t want to. I’ve been living with my nan since Christmas and I want to stay here. Please – please, please, please can I stay with my nan?’

  It was all over every paper the next day – except the one that did the exclusive deal with Terry. LITTLE TREASURE TELLS HER STORY! I had to do lots and lots of telling. To the police. To the social workers. To more journalists.

  One newspaper started a special campaign: A Child’s Right to Choose. A magazine for senior citizens interviewed Nan about ‘Granny’s rights’. There was a phone-in on local radio and a piece on Woman’s Hour. Then Nan and I went on the Esther show and we were interviewed on This Morning. I didn’t say too much about Terry on television. I just made it plain I couldn’t stick him. I loved my mum but I loved my nan more. I simply wanted to live with her. I said it over and over and over again.

  AND IT WORKED!

  Nan and I had to go to a very scary meeting with lots of senior social workers. Mum was there too. Not Terry. He’d been invited but he said he wasn’t going to sit down like some silly schoolkid and be bossed about by stupid social workers. Or words to that effect. He was furious because he’d lost his £50,000 exclusive deal – and one of the other newspapers had done some research and interviewed one of his ex-girlfriends who said he’d often beaten her up and terrified her kids.

  I was so relieved I didn’t have to see him. It was very upsetting seeing Mum though. I felt really, really bad. She was so angry with me.

  ‘How could you do this to us, Treasure? Telling everyone you don’t give a toss about your own mum! Dragging our names through the mud so we can’t go anywhere now without folk staring and whispering. One guy even spat at my Terry, calling him scum. I don’t care what you say, he’s been a good dad to you in lots of ways, and I’ve tried my hardest to be a good mum too, even though you’ve never been an easy kid to get on with. You’ve always looked down your nose at us, haven’t you, you snotty little cow. Well, you live with your nan if that’s what you want. We’ll be better off without you, me and Terry and the kids. We don’t love you any more. We don’t want you any more, see.’

  When the meeting was over Mum walked off like she wasn’t even going to say goodbye to me. I ran after her quick.

  ‘Mum, please. I still love you,’ I said.

  ‘Well, you’ve got a funny way of showing it, acting like I’m total rubbish,’ Mum said fiercely – but she suddenly hugged me hard.

  ‘You be a good girl, Treasure. You’re still my girl, no matter what,’ she whispered in my ear.

  I couldn’t help wanting to hang on to her. It was almost as if I wanted to go back with her, even after all I’d gone through. I knew she couldn’t look after me. I felt I should really be looking after her.

  ‘I feel so bad, Nan. She is my mum.’

  ‘I know, pet. She’s my daughter. But I can’t think about what’s best for her now. I have to think about what’s best for you.’

  So I went back to live with Nan. It was all a bit crazy that first week, reporters still rushing round everywhere. And Mrs Watkins came along the balcony and gave me a terrible mouthful as if I’d been the one to accuse her Michael. He didn’t seem to bear me any grudge though. He waves and smiles at me behind his mum’s back, though she won’t let him talk to me now.

  The social workers haven’t given this new arrangement their full approval. They’re going to review the situation every six months. I know it will be sticky when Pete gets out of prison. I’m not sure Nan really would choose me rather than him. He’s Patsy’s dad. But I’m safe with Nan for a while. Maybe you can’t always make people promise for ever and ever.

  India says she’ll always hide me away again somewhere. Not in the secret attic. Their house is up for sale. But Moya says they won’t move far away. She needs to stay near her studio. And India and I can’t lose touch, not now I work for her mother.

  I am the new Moya Upton model!

  India doesn’t mind, even though she hates Moya’s clothes herself. She says they look OK on me. I think they look f-a-n-t-a-s-t-i-c. We’ve done photo shoots for Vogue and Tatler. Moya doesn’t mind me being pale and skinny. She doesn’t even mind my funny eyes and the scar. I got worried when the Guardian newspaper did an article about the dangers of stick-thin street-kid waifs being used as child models. I thought Moya might drop me and go back to using that Phoebe as her main model but she said it was all good publicity. India sighed and rolled her eyes – but she wasn’t getting at me.

  We are still best ever friends. And we always will be. Won’t we, India?

  Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes!

  Twenty

  India

  DEAR KITTY

  No, this is silly. I don’t need a fictional friend any more. Treasure is my friend. She always will be. Isn’t that right, Treasure?

  Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes!

  I am writing my diary round at Treasure’s home. It’s lovely to be able to call it that. Later on we’re both going to Nan’s Friday night line-dancing class. Patsy comes too. She is brilliant at it, much, much better than us. Treasure is quite good at it, though she gets her lefts and rights mixed up sometimes. I thought I would be hopeless. I
’ve never been able to get the hang of disco dancing. I’ve lumbered around at school discos, waggling my arms about (and my bottom too, unfortunately) looking incredibly stupid. I just didn’t have a clue how to do it. But line dancing is entirely different. You don’t make it up as you go along. You learn every single step, every wave of the arm and stomp and clap and kick. You learn until the sequence becomes a little pattern in your head and your feet automatically obey.

  I am light on my feet too, even though I’m so heavy. It doesn’t matter a bit if you’re fat. There’s a couple of ladies at Nan’s class who are huge but they’re still great dancers. There are old ladies too, but you should see them wiggle and strut, while the men whistle. Some of the men are quite old too but Jeff and Steve are young and they wear matching checked cowboy shirts and real cowboy boots with steel tips and they dance up a storm. That is the particularly good thing about line dancing. It doesn’t matter what sort of person you are, old or young, boy or girl. You just go along and have fun. It is a fantastic feeling when we’re all stomping along together through each song.

  I have never felt in step with anyone else before. Nan says I’m doing very nicely indeed for a beginner. She sometimes puts me at the front so the others can copy me. But you have to concentrate hard all the time. If you think about anything else you forget the sequence and stumble. That’s another especially good thing about line dancing. You can’t dwell on your worries.

  I’ve got quite a few worries at the moment. That’s why I haven’t been writing in my diary recently. I haven’t really wanted to write about everything. I’ve talked about it. I’ve told Chris.

  That is another extraordinary thing. I am in love.

  This is totally private. I am writing with my hand over the page because I don’t even want Treasure to know. I am supposed to tell Chris everything but I can’t tell him that.

  I tell him everything else though, and how I feel about it. My mum and dad are splitting up. Sometimes I feel as if I’m splitting in two as well. Other times I don’t care at all. I can’t help it that they’ve made a mess of their lives. I just don’t want them to make a mess of my life too.