“If I were you, Lucy,” he remarked, “I’d run away and find him. Why don't you, Lucy? You know where the prison is. It's not very far; in fact, I think it's on the main line to London. You could probably get there and back in a day if you were quick, and they couldn't stop you. All prisoners are allowed visitors. I asked my dad.”
“I couldn't,” I said rather crossly. “Gran would never let me. You know she wouldn't.”
“You wouldn't tell her, silly,” said Don. “You'd have to say you were going somewhere else, and then not go, and then go to see your father instead. You'd probably have to make up some sort of a story, but after all, he's your father, isn't he? If he were mine, nothing would stop me!”
“But I never do go anywhere else,” I objected. “And anyhow, I wouldn't have enough money, and it's wrong to tell lies, and how would I know the way?”
Don shrugged. “It could probably be worked out,” he said. “Think about it, and I'll come and see you when I come home for the weekend in three weeks' time. Cheerio, Lucy! Have a good term!” He gave me a warm, hopeful smile and darted off through the arches of the wood, leaving me trying to forget this most disturbing conversation. But he had planted the seed of an idea in my mind, and neither fear, reason, nor conscience could stop it growing.
At first it was easy to forget, because going back to school was always exciting and eventful, and during the first week the result of the prize essay was announced at assembly. To my amazement, I, who had never been anywhere, won the prize. I had to walk up to receive it—a book coupon—and later Miss Bird read my essay aloud to the English class. I was thrilled, and so were my grandparents. I could hardly wait for Saturday to show Mr. Smith.
I had started visiting Mr. Smith on the weekends to show him anything I had written, and he, in his turn, gave me fresh books and poems to read. This time he seemed really pleased, and he read my essay through twice and smiled.
“That's the way, Lucy,” he said. “You really experienced this, didn't you? ‘Write the things that you have seen and heard.’ I believe that comes from the Bible, but I can't tell you where. What are you going to buy with your book coupon?”
“I don't know,” I replied. “Gran said I could ask you for some ideas.”
“What about a good poetry book?” said Mr. Smith after thinking for a moment. “One of these days soon I shall be going into town to buy some books myself. Do you think your grandparents would let you come with me?”
“I'm sure they would,” I said enthusiastically. “I'll ask them. Thank you very much, Mr. Smith; I'd love to come.”
Still that seed of an idea grew and began to fill my mind. In the daytime I was busy with my lessons and interests, but the moment Gran switched off the light and opened the window, my thoughts turned back to Don's suggestion. Some nights I lay awake till nearly midnight—tossing, turning, and planning, for now something had happened that could make the whole plan possible.
There was going to be a group leaving early for camp on Whitsaturday morning. Gran would give me the money for it and would trust me to deliver it, but it would not be enough for my train fare. I had very little pocket money, and my post office savings book was locked away in Gran's cash box. Also, where would I stay the night? I didn't think I would be able to manage it, so I tried to forget about it once more. I put down my name for Guide camp and asked if I could share a tent with Mary again.
But after three weeks, Don came home with easy solutions to all my problems. Money could be got somehow. He'd give me fifty pence himself, from his bicycle savings; in fact, he produced it from his pocket and handed it over with a flourish then and there. If I asked Mr. Smith, Don was sure he would buy my book coupon. With my own money, that ought to be enough, and the night was no problem either. Don would be home for Whitsun. All I had to do was take the train to Eastbury and go to the little wood near the hotel and wait. He would come out every half hour and hoot like an owl, and he would put a blanket and pillow out for me in the barn behind the house. No one ever went there in the evening, and there was plenty of straw for the horse. I could spend a comfortable night there and wander about the hills the next day until it was time to go home. Don would smuggle out some food for me, and all would be well.
He was swinging on the gate as he talked. The wind blew his thick hair back from his forehead, his eyes were alight with excitement, and nothing seemed impossible. And yet … I shivered with fright and misery! The wood would be dark and lonely, and I'd never slept with a horse before. Besides, what would I say when I got home, and Gran and Grandpa asked me if I'd enjoyed camp?
Even Don admitted that this last one was the real problem. “I think, Lucy, that you'll have to tell them,” he said seriously. “After all, there's nothing all that wicked in going to see your own dad, but it's better not to tell too many lies. If you told the truth then, the lies you'd told before wouldn't matter anymore, would they? And in any case, that army person—”
“Captain,” I corrected.
“That Captain person might meet your gran and tell her you hadn't been to camp, and then you'd have had it, wouldn't you?”
“I couldn't tell them!” I cried.
“Well,” said Don patiently, “it's up to you, Lucy. I can't do any more for you. It won't be easy, admittedly, but if it was my dad, I'd have a try!”
There were two weeks to go, and I remember lying in bed at night hearing the clock strike over and over again, waking heavy-eyed in the morning and trying to eat when I had no appetite. Whitsun was creeping nearer and nearer, and I could not make up my mind.
I had the money, or would have when Gran gave it to me for camp. Don had been most efficient in finding out when the train left and the price of a day return ticket. On the Saturday before Whitsun, I took my book coupon to Mr. Smith and asked him to buy it, as he needed a book himself. He looked at me in astonishment, and I could see that he was disappointed.
“But why, Lucy?” he asked. “I thought you were going to buy that poetry book. You shouldn't sell your prize.”
“I know.” I felt my cheeks grow crimson. “But you see, I need the money for something very badly. Please, Mr. Smith, I really do!”
“Can't you tell me what for?”
I shook my head miserably.
“Do your grandparents know?”
“Not yet. I expect they will later.”
“Is it for yourself or for someone else?”
“For someone else.”
“Is it for a present?”
“Sort of … not exactly.”
“Lucy, couldn't you possibly tell me?”
“Not yet. I will later. I'll come and tell you on Whitmonday, Mr. Smith. Honest, I will. And it's nothing really naughty!”
“Does Don know?”
“Yes, and he doesn't think it's naughty, either. He thinks it's something I ought to do.”
“I see,” said Mr. Smith. He seemed to have quite a respect for Don's opinion. “Well, Don seems a good lad, and I think you're a good girl, too, so I'll trust you. And remember, on Whitmonday you're going to tell me all about it. Here's your money, but I shall keep your book coupon here in my drawer. You mustn't sell that. It was given to you to buy books, not to sell.”
Exhausted with relief, I leaned back in the armchair clutching the money in my pocket. Mr. Smith started reading to me, but about ten minutes later he closed the book.
“You're not listening, Lucy,” he said gently. “You're far away. I wonder what this big secret is.”
I couldn't concentrate at school, either, and my work got worse and worse. Miss Bird, meeting Gran in town one day, actually asked her if she thought I was sick. They decided between them that I was worrying about my exams, that the Guide camp would probably do me good, and that I'd better have some vitamins.
But I knew that nothing would do me good, and time was running out fast. I came home from school on Friday evening to find all that I needed for camp laid out neatly beside my knapsack: clothes, swimming things, camp mo
ney, and a big bag of sweets. The sweets I would give to my father, but what on earth was I to do with all the other things? I supposed I would have to carry them around on my back until I came home again. Things were getting worse and worse.
I lay awake for a long time, trying to decide what I should say on my return. I knew the one thing Gran hated most in life was “a sly child.” Only one thought kept me from giving up the whole idea, and that was that by the time I came home I would have seen my father.
I slept badly, my sleep broken by odd dreams. I had reached the prison, and my father turned away from me. I was back, coming in at the gate, but Grandpa wouldn't look up from his French beans. I woke up sweating—the birds were singing and the sun rising. No going back now! The sooner I left, the better.
Dressed in my Guide uniform, with my knapsack on my back, I swallowed a hasty breakfast and explained that I'd arranged to go to Mary's house early so that we could travel together. Having started on my miserable lies, I felt I would be sick. For one safe moment I clung to Gran, and the clasp of her arms was so comforting. Then I remembered that I was “a sly child” and she might never feel quite the same about me again … unless she never found out. I turned away and ran down the road without a backward look. My great adventure had begun.
Then I heard my name called urgently and turned to see Grandpa, puffing terribly, trotting after me as fast as he could. What did he want? I was shaking all over when he came up to me, but it was only to slip a fifty pence piece into my hand, unseen by Gran, who would have accused him of spoiling me. “For ice cream, Lucy,” he panted, “or pop, or whatever you like. Have a good time, dearie.”
It was the last straw. I snatched the money and turned away, tears streaming down my face. But there was no going back! There was just one more thing to be done, and then the big risks were behind me. I had written a note to Mary the night before, asking her to tell Captain that something had happened and I couldn't come to camp; I had to go somewhere else. It was a vague little note, but by the time Captain received the message I should be far away.
I crept up to Mary's front door, slipped my note through the letter box, and darted back to the gate, but there was no escaping Mary. She saw me from the window and came bounding to the front door. “Lucy, Lucy, wait for me!” she yelled. “Why are you running on? We were going together!”
“I can't come,” I shouted desperately. “I've got to go somewhere else. Read the note, and tell Captain.”
“Can't come?” squealed Mary, “Why not, Lucy? You said you'd come! And if you're going somewhere else, why have you got your Guide uniform on? Lucy, Lucy … wait!”
But I had no answer ready and fled down the road, with Mary, too fat to follow at my speed, shouting at me from the gate. That's done it! I thought to myself, she'll tell Captain all about me, and they'll know there's something fishy. Perhaps she'll even get in touch with Gran.
But the bus was coming, and I jumped on and reached the station. I went to the ticket office and asked for a day return to Greening, but having never done such a thing before, I could only speak in a whisper.
“Lost your voice, love?” said the man, leaning forward, and I repeated my request in a strange croak that seemed to belong to someone else.
“Over the bridge on Platform Three,” said the man. “Now don't lose your ticket. And enjoy your holiday!”
Down on the platform, there was nearly forty minutes to wait, and I ducked behind a large trash can in case any of my teachers were going away for the weekend. But it was all clear, and at last I actually found myself settled in a corner seat of the train, and then, for better or worse, we were off. I knew it took two and a half hours to get to Greening, but having no watch, I had no way of noticing the time. Each time the train stopped, I asked the other passengers if we were at Greening.
“Relax, love,” said a kind lady when this had happened four times. “I'll tell you in plenty of time to get off at Greening.” And after that, I think I must have dropped off to sleep, because the next thing I knew she was shaking me gently and we were coming into what seemed to be an enormous station. She helped me on with the knapsack and opened the door for me. I stepped out and joined the crowd hurrying to the exit.
A Shock—and a Mystery
When I got outside the station and stood in the busy town street, I realized that I had no idea where to go and dreaded asking anyone the way to the prison. They might guess my secret, or even think I'd done something wrong. At last I timidly asked a lady, but she had no idea where the prison was. Then I asked a boy, about my age, who looked friendly. But he just laughed and asked me what I'd done and how many years I'd got.
It was well past one o'clock, and I was getting desperate. I'd never felt so completely alone. I looked around and saw an old lady selling flowers, so I went over to ask her.
“Can you tell me the way to the prison?” I whispered, feeling very embarrassed.
“Prison, love?” she asked. “That's not far from here. Take the number 8 bus. It'll take you right close. Then ask again.”
I ran and caught the next number 8 bus, but it was going the wrong way. I had to get off at the next stop, cross the road, and catch the next one going the right way. I realized I'd had no dinner and was desperately hungry.
The bus conductor told me where to get off, and I hurried toward the prison at last, my heart feeling as light as air. I'd done it! I'd arrived! I thought of Don's words. “I don't care what you did, Dad,” I whispered to myself. “I'm your girl, and I've come.”
The entrance to the prison was an enormous door in a high stone wall surrounding a yard with buildings in it, and a smaller door with a grid set in it. The bell was too high for me to reach, so I knocked hard with my fists. No one answered at first, so I went on knocking, and my heart began to beat rather fast. Suppose visiting hours were over? I started kicking rather wildly, and at last the grid above my head opened and a voice said, “Hello?”
“Hello,” I answered, standing away from the door so that the person could see me. “I've come to see my father, Mr. Martin. He's been here about nine years, and I'm Lucy Martin, his daughter.”
“Sorry,” said a voice, “it's not visiting day today, and children aren't let in alone. Ask your mum to bring you next time.”
I could hardly believe my ears! I simply stared as the grid closed, and then I panicked. I ran at the door, kicking, hammering with my fists, and shouting at the top of my voice. “Don't go away! Please, please, don't go away. I haven't got a mother, and I've come alone. Oh, please, let me in! He's my father!”
I didn't notice the passersby forming into a little crowd to stare at me, but one lady, who thought, no doubt, that my father had just been locked up, tried to persuade me to come away. I pushed her aside and continued banging on the door, and in the end she rang the bell above my head and the grid opened again.
“Can someone speak to this little girl?” said the lady. “She seems very upset and quite alone.”
I heard footsteps going away across the courtyard, and the lady put her arm around my shivering shoulders trying to quiet me. Then we heard the sound of footsteps approaching, a key turned in a lock, and the little door set in the big door opened. A large man in a navy blue uniform stood looking down at me. “Now, now,” he said. “What's all this about?”
“It's my father.” I gulped. “He's here. I came all the way from Eastbury to see him and you won't let me come in, and I don't know where to go now, and I think I've missed the last train home, and oh please! I came all by myself, and I must see him. Please, please, please let me in!”
The officer looked down at me thoughtfully, and I'm sure I looked a most pitiful sight. “You'd better come inside,” he said kindly. “We'll see what can be done.”
I pressed through the open door without a backward look, and he led me into a small office just inside and pointed me to a chair.
“Now,” he said, “tell me all about it. What's your name and who's your dad?”
; I told him everything, feeling sure he would not refuse me. He was a patient man. He listened right through to the end without interrupting once. “And I know he's a bad man,” I finished with a gulp, “or he wouldn't be here at all. But after all, he is my father, and I … I … well, we haven't seen each other for nine years and he wants me. He said so.”
The warden got up and sat down at the desk. He pulled out an enormous book. “John Martin,” he murmured, turning the pages. Then he sat for a long time gazing thoughtfully down at the book, as though he didn't know what to say next.
“Your dad wasn't a bad man,” he said at last. “We were all very fond of him … Nice chap, he was. But the trouble is … he's not here. He behaved so well, he got out early. Left here at the beginning of April.”
For a moment I sat rigid with shock as the real meaning of this dawned on me. Only one thing mattered. My father had been out of prison for over two months, and he'd never been near me or asked for me. It was all a terrible mistake. He didn't want me at all; I had no father. I crumpled up in the armchair and cried as though my heart would break.
The kind warden was quite upset but had no idea what to do. He lumbered off, scratching his head, and returned with some tea and cake and a comic and told me to cheer up as he was fetching a lady who'd help me. I tried to sip the tea, but my tears still flowed freely, and I cried until I could cry no more. Then a lady in a blue uniform arrived. She was a social worker called Miss Dixon. She acted as though she was quite used to dealing with brokenhearted children. She asked me a few questions and then said that what I needed was a meal and a good sleep, and she was going to phone my grandparents and ask them to come and fetch me. I worked myself into quite a state when she said that, and told her I had a return ticket and could easily get myself home. I didn't want an angry Gran coming to fetch me.
“Lucy, it won't be hard to find your father. There are records kept of all prisoners, and we should be able to trace him at once. But you must tell me your address, so he'll know where to find you.”
Patricia St John Series Page 27
