Secrets Read online

  I’ll have to go back some time. And then he’ll get me. It’s like he’s all Anne Frank’s Gestapo rolled up into one monstrous man.

  India’s right about The Diary of Anne Frank. It’s a great book. It starts off just like it’s any girl’s diary. She writes about her birthday presents and all the girls in her class, having a moan about most of them. Then she goes on about her boyfriends. That bit’s irritating. But then suddenly she has to go into hiding and the whole story changes dramatically. Well, it isn’t a story, it was her real life. I’ve looked at the last page. It has the worst possible end.

  It’s weird to think Anne Frank would be an old lady now if she’d managed to stay in hiding those few extra months until the end of the war. They stayed in the secret annexe more than two years.

  I don’t know how I’m going to manage two days. I’m so lonely. I wish India would come back. But this Wanda has come home now. I heard India say loudly, ‘Oh Wanda, you’re back already’ – obviously hoping I’d hear and realize I had to keep quiet now.

  It is soooo quiet here. At least Anne had her sister and her parents and Peter and his family. I wouldn’t even mind the grumpy old dentist. I just want someone to talk to. Anyone.

  OK. I’ll make someone.

  There! I’ve used some of the Moya Upton clothes, stuffing T-shirts into a sweater and a pair of jeans so that they plump out as if someone is wearing them. I’ve rolled a T-shirt into a ball and stuck it on top of the sweater with a funny woolly hat on top. I’ve made a Clothes Person. I could call her Kitty, just like Anne Frank’s imaginary friend.

  Kitty is lucky. She doesn’t need to go to the loo. I do.

  She hasn’t got any ears so she doesn’t keep hearing footsteps.

  She hasn’t got a nose so she can’t smell the waste bin.

  She hasn’t got any eyes so she can’t see this spooky old attic. At least there is a light. I’m going to keep it on all the time, even when I’m asleep.

  Only I can’t sleep. I don’t have a watch but I think it must be the middle of the night. I heard two people go to the bathroom one after the other, India and Wanda. The water tank gurgled and splashed later on. I think her parents used their bathroom on the first floor. No-one’s moved around for ages now. I’ve read another hundred pages of Anne Frank. I’ve drawn a special thank-you card for India, with a picture of the two of us, hugging. I had to have several attempts. The first time I drew India too big and I was worried it would upset her. The second time I coloured my scar in too vigorously so it looked like Terry had hacked my head in two. So it was third time lucky, and when I’d coloured us in more carefully this time, I enclosed us in a red heart and drew multi-coloured daisies to fill up the rest of the page. Then in my very best nearly-italic writing I wrote: To India, the Best Friend in all the World.

  She will like it a lot, I know. I felt good all the time I was drawing my picture. Not quite so lonely. But now I feel bad again. And maybe it’s silly to say India is my best friend because I’ve only known her a little while. I don’t know much about her. I still feel a bit shy with her sometimes, not cosy like I do with Patsy.

  I wish I could cuddle up with Patsy now.

  No, I wish I could cuddle up with Nan.

  Oh, Nan.

  Oh, Nan.

  Oh, Nan.

  I don’t think I went to sleep until it was nearly morning. I woke with a terrible start when the trapdoor opened. I didn’t know where I was. I covered my head in case it was Terry coming to get me. But of course it was India, carefully balancing a proper breakfast tray one-handed.

  I feel so mean moaning that I might have to live on chocolate. This is what she brought me for breakfast: a bowl of cornflakes with brown sugar and sliced bananas and milk, two slices of toast, one with honey, one with apricot jam, a saucer of strawberries, a glass of fresh orange juice, and a cup of tea.

  ‘I’ve spilt half the tea,’ she said sadly.

  ‘It’s perfect! Wonderful. Thanks ever so much, India.’

  I looked at the big silver shiny thing she’d tucked under one arm. ‘Is that a saucepan lid?’

  India went pink. ‘It’s Mum’s biggest wok lid. I was thinking about the bin, you see.’ She went over to the waste bin in the corner, delicately averting her eyes, and dropped the lid on top. It fitted snugly.

  ‘There! I just thought it would be nicer and easier when I empty it. Which I’ll do now, while everyone’s still asleep.’

  So I sat back like Little Lady Muck and ate my beautiful breakfast while poor India trundled off with the sloppety bin. Goodness knows how she got it down those steps without dropping it. She brought it back all fresh and smelling of Toilet Duck.

  She stayed for a long time too, both of us in our nightclothes. We were suddenly just like two girls having a sleepover party. We mucked about and got the giggles (stifled) and played silly paper games like noughts and crosses and hangman and battleships. I’ve always been heaps better than anyone else at paper games (there’s no point playing Patsy because I always win) but India is a challenge.

  I did beat her twice though – and she didn’t guess my hangman word though I was sure she would: SECRET ANNEXE. Then she wanted to challenge me to an Anne Frank quiz but it was obvious who would win. We both drew her instead. We chose our favourite photo from the diary and copied it. India’s was neater, with a border of little checked diaries and pens, and she managed a better likeness too. India politely said my drawing was much better than hers, but we both knew she was fibbing.

  ‘I wish I looked like Anne,’ said India, stroking the photo. ‘Hasn’t she got the most beautiful eyes ever? She looks so intelligent, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yeah, but I don’t like her hair much. Why did she have to curl it like that? I think she’d look much better with straight hair, and longer, past her shoulders. I wish I had long hair. You’re lucky, India.’ I pulled one of her fuzzy plaits.

  ‘I hate my hair. I’d much sooner have soft floppy hair like yours. I love the way your fringe goes. It looks cute.’

  She patted it – and I winced automatically.

  ‘Oh, God, I’m sorry! Is your cut still sore?’

  ‘No, not really, not a bit.’

  India gently parted my fringe and looked at the scar.

  ‘How could he, Treasure?’ she whispered.

  ‘You should see what he’s done to my mum. He broke her jaw, he knocked out two teeth, he punched her in the stomach when she was expecting little Gary—’

  ‘Then why on earth does she stay with him?’ India asked, looking astonished.

  ‘Well . . . she loves him.’

  ‘You can’t love someone who punches you.’

  ‘Yes you can, if you’re stupid, like my mum. He goes all smarmy afterwards and he cries and swears it will never happen again. She’s mad enough to believe it.’

  ‘I still don’t get it,’ said India, shaking her head. ‘No-one could believe him.’

  India gets it now! This afternoon she came back with a PORTABLE TELEVISION!

  ‘Well, it seemed like a good idea. Wanda’s out and Dad’s asleep and Mum’s gone to her workshop so no-one will ever know,’ said India, out of breath from lugging it up the stairs.

  ‘You’ll be carrying your entire bedroom up here soon,’ I said. ‘Still, what a great idea!’

  India switched it on and fiddled about until she got a programme.

  ‘Ah, the news,’ I said. ‘Wonder if I’m on it, eh?’

  I was joking – but I WAS!

  There was a piece about a politician, then something about the countryside, all the usual boring stuff, but then suddenly there was a photo of me right above the newsreader’s head.

  ‘It’s me, India, look!’

  ‘That’s not you!’ said India, though they were reading my name out right that minute.

  She didn’t recognize me because it was an ages-old photo, from nearly two years ago when I was a little kid. We were on holiday at the seaside, Mum and me, and although I’