My Secret Diary Read online

  He glanced around at his small flat littered with possessions, and a surge of affection for it rose in his breast. He moved towards the mantelpiece and tenderly picked up a photo of an attractive, smiling girl and kissed it. Then he replaced it gently and moved slowly towards the door. What would Barbara say when she knew, he wondered? What would they all say? He paused with his hand on the door knob. Suddenly he leant on the wall and closed his eyes. Yes, what would his friends say? Would they despise him, use his name as a revolting word? He pressed his knuckles against his eyes so that all he could see was a revolving whirl of darkness. Through this he could clearly see the faces of his friends, Barbara, his boss, his parents. All were pointing at him, accusing him, wrinkling their noses in distaste. Was it so terrible? Did it make all that difference? He savagely gnawed at his knuckle. All right, he would show them. Damn them all, what did they matter? What did anyone matter? Barbara floated into his mind, and a sob rose in his throat and choked him. Never again would he be able to hold her in his arms, or never firmly shake a man's hand. Thinking of hand shakes he tentatively glanced down at his own hand, his right one. A tear glistened for an instant on his tanned cheek, but it was wiped away as quickly as it had come. The clock struck the hour. Alan straightened himself, his ears strained to the door. Sure enough, just as the nine chimes had died away there came a long firm ringing on the doorbell. Although his face was now pale, it was composed. He took a quick last glance around the room, and then flung open the door. There stood two burly men dressed in black suits, shirts, shoes and hats. Alan swallowed, picked up his case, and then stepped on to the landing and closed the front door behind him. 'I am ready,' he said almost inaudibly. The men put on black rubber gloves and then stood either side of Alan holding his arms in their firm cruel grasp. They marched him slowly along the streets to the city's dock. As they went passers by stood and stared and the youths laughed and shouted in derision. Alan clenched his teeth and tried to shut his eyes to the jeers. A few of the onlookers felt sorry for this brave handsome young man who stood so erect, and whose set face did not give way to his grief. Only a few days ago he had been one of those ordinary people, who now stood and stared at him. But he had never been one of the mob of onlookers because he had felt only pity for the miserable wretches taken by the black police. One of the youths threw a stone, and its sharp edge cut Alan's cheek. He flinched, but his face was still set. Whatever happened his pride would not let him relax his face from the composed mask, or to falter his steady step, although his mind was in a terrible ferment. Oh God, he thought, let it be over soon. Let me get on the boat. Oh God, let this Hellish walk be over soon. The black police's hands gripped right into his arms bruising the flesh, and the blood from the cut started to trickle down his cheek.

  OK, let's play guessing games. Why has poor Alan in his clean outfit, old windcheater and polished sandals (!) been manhandled onto this boat by the black police? After passing out on the boat all night Alan regains consciousness in the morning.

  When Alan awoke the first thing he saw was three eyes staring into his. He started, and realised that his life with The Disease had begun. Just as there had been Bubonic Plague in the Middle Ages, in the twentieth century there was also a disease, but in many ways a more deadly one although it did not cause death, and was not infectious. It was a disease which, if one caught it, would make one grow another part of the body. In Alan's case it was not so bad because he had only grown another finger on his right hand, but others grew another leg, arm, eyes, nose, ear, sometimes even another head. The authorities formed a party of men called the black police named thus because of their black uniform, who were responsible for finding the disformed men and women. The men were sent to a far off island to the west and the women to a far off island in the east. They were not allowed to go to the same island because a man and a woman might fall in love and have children who would naturally be disformed. The authorities naturally had to be very careful about this, because if it was allowed to happen there might become a whole race of badly disformed people.

  This seems a startling idea for me to have thought up. I'd be quite proud if it was original – but I'd read John Wyndham's brilliant science fiction book The Chrysalids, where the characters also sprout extra digits or endure other deformities and are rounded up and sent to the badlands. John Wyndham manages to make his scenario convincing. A few of his characters discover they can read each other's thoughts. This has always seemed such an appealing idea that from time to time I've tried to do this with people I'm very close to, even though it's probably scientifically impossible.

  Perhaps it was just as well I didn't develop the relationship between my six-fingered Alan and sensitive Latina or we'd all get the giggles. I don't think I ever finished a story when I was fourteen, but it didn't stop me trying again and again. On 5 February I wrote: 'Cherry sold me a lovely black file for only a bob.' A bob was slang for a shilling – that's 5p in today's money. 'I'm going to get cracking on a new story now.'

  I was always happy to do any kind of writing, even English essay homework.

  Friday 19 February

  Miss Pierce was the only one to give us weekend homework; all the other teachers let us off because next Monday and Tuesday are half-term. Luckily I adore English Essay so I'm not complaining, but it's a damn shame for the others. The subject is 'The Village Street' and Miss P requests some vivid description. I wish we had a really decent subject to write about, most of my essays have to be so childish. Oh, how I long to get a book published, just to show Miss P. I have one in mind at the moment, a rather sordid story about teenagers. I long to shock Miss P and show her that her quiet shy Jacky isn't what she thinks she is.

  I used the word 'damn', which sounds quaint now, but when I was fourteen it was the worst four-letter word any of us used out loud (though we might whisper or spell out the really bad ones).

  When I was a little girl I took great delight in buying fashion pattern books with my pocket money. I'd cut out all the particularly interesting girls and ladies and invent elaborate games for them. I was still doing this when I was a 'big' girl. I justified this by insisting it was for legitimate writing inspiration – and sometimes it worked.

  On Tuesday 23 February I wrote:

  Yesterday at dinnertime I bought a fashion book, and the people I cut out of it today have given me a wonderful idea for a book. It is set in the future and . . . Oh I won't go into details, it is sufficient to say that at the moment I think it is a good idea.

  I've no idea whether I wrote it or not – I can't remember it. I'm interested that I don't want to go into details about it in my diary. I feel exactly the same way now. If I get a good idea it's fatal to talk about it, and even writing too many notes can destroy it. Story ideas need to stay in my head, gently glowing in the dark, developing for a long time before they're ready for the light of day. I like the wise note of caution even though I'm obviously bubbling over with enthusiasm: 'at the moment I think it's a good idea'. So often today's sparkling and original idea seems tarnished and second-rate the next day!

  I bought another big fashion book in April – and the following April, when I was fifteen and going out with my first steady boyfriend, I wrote: 'I still haven't managed to grow out of buying fashion books, and cutting out the people and making families of them.' My handwriting is more like a five-year-old's than a fifteen-year-old's on this page but I add: 'By the way, excuse the occasional left hand writing, but I am putting nail varnish on and I don't want it smudged.'

  I'm impressed that I was reasonably ambidextrous then. I've just had a go at writing left-handed now and find it very difficult. It would be such a useful thing to be able to do, especially when I've got a very long queue of girls wanting their books signed. My right hand starts to ache horribly after an hour or so. It would be wonderful to be able to swap my pen to the other hand and give the right one a rest.

  Later that April of 1960 I told Chris I still loved playing with my fashion book: