Secret Meeting (14 page)

There aren’t any houses at Brafferton Bridge. No one actually lives there. It is just this old ancient bridge over a stream, with fields stretching out on either side as far as the eye can see.

“She’ll
be
here,” said Annie.

Even as Annie spoke, a red car drew up beside us and a woman got out. It had to be Harriet! She was holding a copy of
Victoria Plum. A
very old, battered copy, like my one of
Candyfloss
before Mum had replaced it. She came over to us, smiling.

“Oh!” she said. “There are two of you! I hadn’t realised you were both coming.”

I glanced anxiously at Annie. It takes a LOT to make Annie feel uncomfortable, but I could see she was a bit thrown. After all, she was the one who’d set everything up. In any case, I wouldn’t have been brave enough to come by myself.

“I th-thought it was w-what we’d arranged,” mumbled Annie.

“Of course! That’s all right. Two of you is lovely! So which one is the birthday girl?”

Annie beamed and shoved me forward. “Megan! She’s your number-one fan.”

Harriet held out a hand. “Happy birthday, Megan! Sorry I’m late. I hope you haven’t been waiting long?”

I shook my head. I wanted to say, “No, we only just got here,” but I couldn’t. I was suddenly struck dumb! I could feel my cheeks turning hot tomato. It was Annie who assured her that we had only that minute got off the bus.

“Thank heavens for that! I had visions of you giving up and going back home.”

“Wild horses wouldn’t get Megan back home,” said Annie. “She’s been, like,
oh-my-goodness help-help I-can’t-believe-it
ever since we set out!”

By now, my cheeks were starting to sizzle. It was just too embarrassing!

“Well, let’s get you into the car,” said Harriet, “and we’ll all go back and have some tea. Who wants to come in front? Megan?”

Annie gave me another shove. “Go on! It’s your treat.” She then added, beaming, that “Megan always gets sick if she sits in the back.”

I don’t know why she found it necessary to say that. Getting car sick is such a childish thing to do! But Harriet was really sympathetic. She said, “Oh, join the club! I always had to take pills if I was going a long journey.”

“Megs has to stick her head out of the window,” said Annie. “Even then it doesn’t always stop her throwing up. One time she did it and it all went
splat
down the
door. D’you remember?” She leaned forward, chummily, from the back seat. “That time we went to Alton Towers with Mum and Dad?”

I did remember, but I didn’t particularly want to be reminded of it. Not in front of Harriet!

“We’d been eating
sardine sandwiches
,” said Annie.

“Oh, horrible! Sardine sandwiches aren’t at all the right thing to eat if you suffer from car sickness. But don’t worry, Megan! There are some peppermints in the glove compartment. They’ll help.”

“She doesn’t usually get sick in front,” carolled Annie. “The worst things are those things at fairgrounds that go round and round.”

Harriet looked puzzled. “Roundabouts?”

“No, those things where you stick to the side.”

“Oh! You mean, like a centrifuge.”

“Yes. She gets
really
sick in those!”

“Poor Megan!” Harriet smiled at me as she started the car. “You’re obviously like me, you have a delicate stomach.”

“You could write a story about someone like that.” Annie draped herself, eagerly, over the back of Harriet’s seat. “Someone who throws up everywhere she goes … you could call it
Sickly Susan
!”

“Well, it’s an idea,” said Harriet. “I’ll certainly bear it in mind.”

She was only being polite; she never used other people’s ideas. I knew that, from my reading. She’d said she had “a resistance” to them. I felt like telling Annie to just be quiet. She’d done nothing but burble ever since Harriet had met us! But something had happened to my tongue; it was like a great wodge of foam rubber in my mouth. I couldn’t talk! It was really annoying. Although I am not as bubbly and up-front as Annie, I am not usually shy; but when you are in the presence of greatness it is all too easy to just shrivel. Yet I had so many things I wanted to say! So many questions I wanted to ask! Anyone would have thought it was Annie who was the number-one fan rather than me.

“So how long have you been reading my books?” said Harriet.

I whispered, “Since I was about … s-seven.”

“She’s read them all!” crowed Annie.

“I haven’t read them all,” I said.

“Most of them!”

“Have you read this one?” said Harriet. She pointed at her old battered copy of
Victoria Plum.

“Yes!” I found it a bit easier, now that we were talking about books. “It’s one of my favourites, ’cos Victoria’s always having bad hair days. I like the bit where she tries to make it curly and she goes to bed in rollers and says it’s like sleeping on a hedgehog!”

“And then she goes to school,” – Annie just couldn’t resist joining in – “and is forced to play
hockey
, ugh, yuck! And it rains, and all the curls come out!”

“And she says how for a little while she’d looked like a bubble bath but now she’s gone back to being a limp dish mop, and she’s just so ashamed she runs away and hides in the loo!”

“We used to think that maybe you had hair like a limp dish mop,” said Annie. “But you haven’t! You’ve got
nice
hair.”

Harriet’s hair was beautifully thick and curly – but it was going grey. Harriet was going grey! I felt sad about that, though I knew, of course, she couldn’t still look the same as she had fifteen years ago. She was wearing glasses, too. Just for a moment I wished that I could have met her when she was young; but then I thought that that was a very ageist thing to think, and very ungrateful. After all, she was still Harriet. She was still writing wonderful, marvellous books! And she did look warm and friendly; just a bit … mumsy. But that was quite comforting, in a way. If she had been young and glamorous I would probably have been struck dumb for all eternity.

Rather timidly, I said, “How did you manage to know what it’s like, having limp hair?”

“Megan’s got limp hair,” said Annie. “She’s always going on about it.”

“Like Victoria,” I said. “I really love the way you understand how people
feel.
Like having bad hair, or spots, or being plump, or not having any boobs. Like Sugar Mouse. I don’t know how you do it!”

“Well … there is such a thing as imagination,” said Harriet. “Very important, if you want to be a writer!”

“Megan wants to be a writer,” said Annie.

“In that case,” said Harriet, “I very much hope that you will be. Do you have a copy of this one, by the way?”

“She’s got all of them,” said Annie.

“I haven’t got
all
of them.” Annie did exaggerate so!

“You’ve got a whole shelf full.”

“I’ve got thirty-four,” I said.

“Good heavens!” Harriet laughed. “You
are
a fan, aren’t you?”

I nodded, bashfully. “
Victoria Plum
was one of the first ones I had.”

“And I bet it’s in better condition than this! I’m afraid this one’s been read to bits.”

I have read my copy over and over, but I do try to look after my books and keep them nice. I was only young when I ruined
Candyfloss.
Now that I’m older I wouldn’t ever turn down the corners of pages or stand mugs of hot chocolate on them or leave them out in the rain. Poor
Victoria Plum
looked as if all those things had happened to her. I picked her up, and opened her at the title page. Across the top someone had written, “For Jan, with all
my love, Mummy”. I wondered who Jan was, and why she didn’t take better care of her books. Maybe she was Harriet’s niece and knew that she could always ask for new ones. It made me feel quite jealous. Imagine having a famous writer as your aunt!

“Hey, look, Megs.” Annie lunged forward and poked a finger at me. “Isn’t that where we went when we visited your gran?”

Annie had come with me a couple of times, to visit Gran. Mum had thought she would be company for me, but then she had said we couldn’t behave ourselves properly, and made too much noise, and upset the old people, so now I had to go on my own.

“Megan’s gran is in a home,” said Annie. “She has Oldheimer’s.”

“Alzheimer’s,” I said.

“Oh, dear! That must be very upsetting,” said Harriet.

I said, “Yes, it is, ’cos me and Gran used to be best friends. Now she doesn’t even know me … like Clover’s gran, in
Daisy & Clover.
I cried when I read the bit where Clover wants to burst into tears. That’s just how I feel, when I see Gran … you always seem to be writing about how I feel! Like when Clover says about remembering all the things that she and her gran used to do together—”

“That was me,” said Harriet, “remembering
my
gran! She had Alzheimer’s, too. That’s what made me want to write about it.”

“Except that … Clover’s gran doesn’t actually have
Alzheimer’s
,” I said.

“She has a stroke,” said Annie.

“Oh! Well, yes. I changed it to a stroke for the purposes of the book. It would have been too painful,” said Harriet, “actually writing about Alzheimer’s. It would have brought back too many memories. So you know this area quite well, do you, Megan?”