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THE
SECRET
It
was only six o’clock but it was dark already.
February. She had been put to bed early because
she was not well. Her mother had left the main
light on so that she could read if she felt up
to it. She would come up later to turn it off
and light the night-light. She was too old for a
night-light really but her mother lit it for her
on special occasions, such as when she was ill
or couldn’t sleep. The base of the
night-light, which held the oil, was metal and
painted dark green. It was weighted with lead or
sand so that it couldn’t be knocked over
accidentally. The little glass shade was opaque
white, which gave a lovely comforting glow when
the wick was lighted. She and Daddy had found it
in a junk shop and the man had told them that it
was an old-fashioned nursery light. She had
loved it right away, and still loved it, even
when it wasn’t lit. It reminded her of another
age before electric lights and it fitted in with
her affection for the fairy-like. Mummy had been
a bit worried that it might smell; but it
didn’t.
There
was a slight gap in the curtains – a black
slash running from top to bottom. She wondered
about that, for Mummy was usually so careful
about drawing them properly. There was neither
moon nor any other light from outside to take
advantage of that gap.
She
stared up at the bulb hanging under its Chinese
hat shade. After a very short while she had to
close her eyes. The filament of the bulb had
become hazy. Her eyes ached, so she closed her
lids over them. The blackness she then
experienced was not complete. Not like the
Indian ink gap in the curtains. Light seeped
through her closed lids. She clutched her
elephant, woolly and comforting. The king of the
jungle, she thought, not the lion.
Faint
sounds came from downstairs: voices without
vowels or consonants, and now and then a
movement, the opening of a drawer. She gave no
heed to them, for they were household noises:
those sorts of noises that were common, usual,
nothing important, which never made you sit up
and say ‘what’s that?’ The voices,
Mummy’s and Daddy’s, were a muffled
background to the still quietness in her
bedroom. She couldn’t have unravelled what the
voices were saying even if she had concentrated
on them.
She
was still a bit feverish, but she wasn’t
tired. Her mind was active and sought something
to grapple to. She opened her eyes and took in
the jungle tendrils and birds of paradise
printed on the curtains. Mummy had let her
choose them. She let her eyes travel slowly
around the room, taking in familiar objects: the
Beatrix Potter prints on the wall, the small
bookcase that held her Beatrix Potter books.
There were other books, of course: Anderson and
Grimm and Lamb; and What Katy Did and What Katy
Did Next. Oh, and others.
She
closed her eyes again, not from drowsiness but
tiredness of familiarity. She went round the
rest of the room with her eyes closed, playing a
game now. There was her school group photograph,
herself in the centre next to that awful Sharon
Engler. Miss Barlow had done it on purpose,
putting them together. She knew they didn’t
get on. Now they were there, fixed next to each
other for all eternity. Luckily they sat apart
in the classroom.
Her
wardrobe was on the left wall as she lay in bed.
It was on the right as you entered. The
wallpaper was roses and rose buds. There was a
little damp spot in one corner, near the
ceiling. She wondered when Daddy was going to do
something about it. He had promised Mummy many
times. She wondered if all dads were like that:
promising but not doing. Not that he was like
that in everything – with her at least. If he
promised to take her to the cinema, he took her;
if he promised her anything she asked for that
was reasonable, he got it for her. She had heard
him refuse Mummy. But she wasn’t supposed to
have heard that. They hadn’t realised that the
door was partly open and that she was passing
outside. It was their bedroom door and she had
been on her way to the loo. (That Engler girl
called it the bathroom and Gemma from the Estate
said toilet). She hadn’t known what Daddy was
refusing but he said, ‘No, definitely not.’
What had her mother asked for that he would not
agree to? She had thought that it must be a
dress or something. She had hurried on so as not
to be caught eavesdropping. She hadn’t really
been eavesdropping but she would hate to be
thought doing so, and Mummy would have been
terribly angry.
That
was only last week, shortly before she had gone
down with the fever. Since your temperature went
up, she thought it would be better to say that
you went up with a fever. Daddy had laughed but
Mummy had told her not to be silly.
It
was now as she lay in bed that she thought about
what her father had so strongly refused her
mother. If it wasn’t a dress or something like
that, what could it be? Had she imagined that
since that day Mummy and Daddy had seemed
different? She felt that it was like when she
and Holly had fallen out. Not drastically so
that they never spoke to each other again –
but there was a difference. It was as if a line
had been drawn between them that both found it
difficult to step over. She and Holly had soon
made it up, but she felt that Mummy and Daddy
hadn’t. It seemed to her as though they
didn’t want to. They were polite to each other
and pretended that everything was ok. However,
she couldn’t help feeling that it was pretence
for her sake. They didn’t want her to know
that anything was wrong between them. As if she
couldn’t help seeing that there was!
What
could it be? Grown-ups fell out about little
things. In the same way she did with girls at
school: little things (well, they were big
things at the time) that you soon got over. Then
again, grown-ups squabbled about money. How much
have you spent? Where do you think it’s coming
from? It doesn’t grow on trees, you know.
She’d always thought that her parents were
well off. But there were such things as misers,
although she didn’t think Mummy and Daddy were
like that. No, if there was something wrong
between them, she didn’t think it was to do
with money.
Oh,
she wished she could drop off. She didn’t feel
in the least little bit tired and there seemed
to be such a long, long night in front of her.
She didn’t even want to sleep. She was
wide-awake and she wanted something to happen.
Although whatever could as she lay in bed with a
temperature that was up, she didn’t know.
Lying dormant was no use; she had to instigate
something, put herself in the way of something
happening. The only way to do that was to get
out of bed.
As
she decided this move, and having actually
pushed aside the bedclothes, she was suddenly
conscious of a change. Something was different.
She became a statue and listened intently. That
was it: there was nothing to listen to. There
were no voices coming from downstairs, nor any
other sounds. The house had become very, very
quiet. She didn’t like the feeling the silence
gave her. She was disquieted, not by any
definite thoughts, but by the emotion of
something invisible and soundless, and yet
fantastically tangible.
She
placed Elly on the bedside table and got out of
bed, and without bothering to slip her feet into
her slippers walked over the fitted carpet out
onto the landing. She leaned over the banister
and looked down, her ears attuned for any
sounds. The silence that had alerted her
continued and heightened her sense of something
unusual taking place. Had one of her parents
walked out, leaving the other in a vacuum? Into
another room, that is, not out of the house –
she would have heard the front door.
The
continuing and to her mind mysterious silence
drew her downstairs, as did her natural
curiosity. The stair carpet cushioned her bare
feet and contributed to the silence. At the foot
of the stairs the polished parquet flooring
struck cold and aroused her from her air of
somnambulism. She paused, held her breath and
listened as earnestly as a cat listens for a
mouse. There was a muffled creak from the stairs
behind her, but they often did that and she had
learned to ignore what had initially made her
fearful.
The
hallway was square, with the front door directly
ahead of her. To her left was the door to the
dining room, and to her right the door to the
sitting room. A passageway ran off the hall
toward the back of the house where the kitchen
and utility rooms were. She thought she heard a
sound, some sort of movement, from the kitchen
and she made for the door, tiptoeing because of
the cold floor. She stopped suddenly. Mummy was
sure to scold her for getting out of bed,
especially coming down without her slippers. She
would have to invent a serious excuse. (She was
thirsty; her throat was like sand and she needed
to drink some water). She held the doorknob,
turned it and pushed the door inward gently.
Her
father was standing in the middle of the room,
his right hand behind his back. He gave an
involuntary gasp.
‘Deborah!
What are you doing out of bed?’
His tone was not critical, only full of surprise
at seeing her there so unexpectedly. He didn’t
wait for her to reply. He turned to the kitchen
furniture, opened a drawer and dropped something
into it. She could not see what it was.
‘My throat…’
Then she saw her mother lying on the floor near
the fridge. Her eyes widened preparatory to
fear. Her father quickly stepped forward and
blocked the progression of his daughter’s
emotions.
‘It’s alright, darling, nothing to worry
about. She’s feigning.’
The girl was an attentive Brownie and promptly
quoted, ‘She needs a cold damp cloth on her
brow and plenty of air.’
Her father looked blank, then the penny dropped
and he gave a short laugh that even to the
girl’s ears seemed forced, although she
didn’t wonder on it.
‘No, not fainted. She’s pretending. We were
playing a game.’
‘What’s she pretending?’
‘It’s a secret.’
‘She’s doing it very well.’
‘Look, you go back to bed and I’ll tell you
all about it.’
‘The secret?’
‘Yes, the secret. I’ll carry you up, shall
I?’
She liked that idea. She was seven and not too
big or heavy for Daddy to manage her up the
stairs quite easily. He swept her up in his arms
and she looked over his shoulder and whispered
‘Goodnight, Mummy’ to her pretending parent.
In her bedroom he laid her carefully on the bed
and arranged the covers over her. He handed the
elephant to her. She propped herself up on her
elbows and said ‘What about the secret?’
‘Let’s settle you down first. You’ll sleep
better with one pillow. It’s good for the
heart.’
He took up one of the two pink-edged pillows and
she lay back on the other.
‘Comfy?’
‘Yes. Now tell me the secret.’
He put the pillow over her enquiring little face
and held it there for a long time until she was
still.
It was very silent in the house.
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