“And what are you writing?” she said. “Love letters?” My cheeks immediately went bright pink. (I don’t know why, but I am very easily embarrassed.) I said, “No, I’m doing a project for school.”
“What is it about? Is it about love?”
I shook my head, turning even pinker.
“Is it about boys?”
“N-no,” I said. “It’s about my f-favourite author.”
“Does she write about love?”
I shook my head again; more vehemently, this time.
“So what does she write about?”
“J-just … ordinary p-people,” I said. “And their p-problems.”
“Ah. An agony aunt! I used to read Enid Blyton. Do you read Enid Blyton?”
I said, “S-sometimes.”
“I used to read her all the time. Which ones have you read?”
“Um … F-Five on a T-Treasure Island?”
“Ah, yes! The Famous Five. What else?”
“N-Noddy?”
“Noddy? I should have thought you were rather too old for Noddy.”
“When I was l-little,” I said.
“Oh, my dear,” said this strange old woman, “you are still little! But too old for Noddy. Try The Secret Island. That was one of my favourites!”
With this she wandered off, and I was quite relieved. I didn’t mind talking to Birdy about aliens, but I don’t like the sort of conversations that make my cheeks go pink. It may be silly that they turn pink, but there is nothing that I can do about it. It is just something that happens.
I watched the old lady shuffle across the room. I wondered how old she was. I thought probably about eighty. I mean, she was really old. Older than Gran, even though Gran sat staring and this old lady could still walk and talk. To think that she was reading Enid Blyton over sixty years ago! Over seventy years ago. I tried to imagine how it might be when I was her age, tottering about in an old people’s home, asking young girls who had come to visit their grans if they had ever read Harriet Chance. I couldn’t! I just couldn’t imagine being eighty years old. But I could imagine people still reading Harriet Chance. I bet they’ll still be reading her in a hundred years‘ time!
“What was that all about?” said Mum, as we walked up the road to catch our bus back to town.
“She wanted to know what I was writing,” I said.
“And what were you writing?”
“My biography of Harriet!”
“Oh, yes … didn’t you say something about a new book being published?”
“Scarlet Feather,” I said; and I sighed.
“What’s the sigh for?” said Mum.
“It’s in hardback … it won’t be out in paperback for ages.”
“Well, who knows?” said Mum. She patted her bag. “Gran’s just given me your birthday present … so maybe you’ll be able to buy it?”
Gran doesn’t really give me birthday presents any more. It’s Mum who buys the book tokens and then guides Gran’s hand as she signs the birthday card. But we both pretend. I always give Gran a big kiss and say thank you. Maybe somewhere deep inside she knows what it’s for.
The phone was ringing as we got back home. It was Annie, all bright and bubbling. She is always bright and bubbling.
“Hey! Guess what?” she went. “I think I know what your birthday prezzie’s going to be!”
I said, “What? What?”
“Can’t tell you! I’m still arranging it. But it’s something you’re absolutely going to love.”
I went, “Hm!” thinking that if it was anything gluey I wouldn’t use it. I didn’t care how much it hurt Annie’s feelings. I didn’t want my eyes swelling up again! I looked like a football that’d been kicked by David Beckham.
“I’ve been speaking to you-know-who,” said Annie.
I squeaked, “Lori? You’ve been speaking to Lori again?”
“For ages!”
Now I’d gone all green and jealous.
“What did you speak about?”
“’Bout you.”
“About me? What did you say?”
“Tell you tomorrow! It’s so exciting!”
“What? What is?”
“What we’ve been speaking about!”
“Annieeeee! Tell me!”
But she wouldn’t. She just giggled, and bounced the phone back down. I went into the kitchen and said, “Mum, I’m so envious! I can’t help it.”
“Envious of what?” said Mum.
“Envious of Annie! She’s been talking—” I took a breath “— to Harriet Chance’s daughter!”
“Oh, my goodness,” said Mum. “Where did she meet her?”
“In a bookroom. On the Internet.” I could already see the frown lines gathering on Mum’s forehead. Hastily, I gabbled on. “It’s this special site, just for bookworms. That’s what it’s called … Bookworms.”
“I see.” Mum smiled. The frown lines had disappeared. Hooray! “Now, I suppose, you’re just dying to get on there and talk to her yourself?”
“Couldn’t I, Mum? Just this once? It’s not a chatroom! It’s educational. All about books. It would be just sooo useful, for my project!”
“I’ll tell you what,” said Mum. “I’ll make you a promise … birthday treat! Next weekend we’ll ask Annie’s mum if we can both call round and you can use Annie’s computer and go and have a little chat. On your birthday! How about that?”
Of course I said that it would be lovely; I didn’t want to sound ungrateful. But somehow I just couldn’t manage to feel enthusiastic. It was something to do with the fact that Mum would be there, and that it was all being planned in advance. Annie didn’t have to plan in advance! She just logged on, and started chatting. She didn’t have her mum looking over her shoulder to check what she was talking about. If I talked to Harriet’s daughter, I wanted it to be strictly confidential! Just the two of us. Otherwise I’d get embarrassed. There’d be things I couldn’t say, if I thought Mum was watching.
“Tell Annie, tomorrow,” said Mum. “I’ll have a word with her mum. I’m sure it’ll be all right … Bookworms in the morning, party in the afternoon. Never say I don’t indulge you!”
RACHEL’S