Secret Meeting (9 page)

When she left school she went to university in London and did English. After that she went to teach at a school in Birmingham, where she met her husband and got married. She now lives in London with her husband and her daughter Lori, who is fifteen.

Harriet Chance started writing books while she was at school. When she was twelve she wrote a book called PAPER DOLLS, but she never tried to get it published. When she was at university she wrote some poetry which was not very good. While she was a teacher she wrote a book for grown-ups, but that was not very good either so for a while she gave up writing.

Then she got married and had a baby and didn’t work any more but she got bored just being at home all the time and so she started writing again.

Her very first book that was published was called PATSY PUFFBALL, but now she wishes she had never written it. She would like all the copies to be put into a shredding machine. She really hates that book!

Other books she has written include: CANDYFLOSS, VICTORIA PLUM, APRIL ROSE, SUGAR MOUSE and FUDGE CASSIDY. In all she has written fifty-four. Her latest one is called SCARLET FEATHER. It is about this girl called Scarlet whose mum and dad split up and Scarlet has to decide which one she will live with. I cannot say which one she chooses as the book is not yet published. But I can say that Harriet Chanceis my ACE FAVOURITE AUTHOR!

I had just written the last words and put a little squiggly bit underneath to show that that was The End, when an old lady I had never seen before suddenly spoke to me.

“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!”