Secrets (23 page)

‘Hi, Ginger Twin,' he said, grinning. ‘Now, I've always
hated
my hair but it looks great on you.'

‘Do people always think you've got a terrible temper?' I asked.

‘You bet. It's so tiresome. Maybe I'll get round to doing a special research project on red hair and temperament.'

If Chris doesn't do it, I will. I have decided that I'm going to be a psychologist too. We have long, long, long talks on psychology every week. It's a fascinating way of studying human behaviour. You do it all very scientifically, with experiments. There have been lots and lots of studies on family behaviour and what makes a good or bad parent.

Although it's difficult to make up your mind. Perhaps psychology can't ever be an
exact
science. Even the worst parent in the world can be good some of the time.

Anne Frank wrote that she didn't love her mother at all but when they were in the concentration camp they clung together, inseparable.

Mum took Treasure and me to see Anne Frank's house! OK, she was spending a weekend in Amsterdam anyway doing a photo-shoot. Treasure got kitted out in Moya Upton from head to foot. She got made up whiter than ever, with smudged circles under her eyes. She struck scary poses in cobbled streets by the canals while I sat reading an A-level psychology book and eating Dutch apple cake. When Mum and the photographer and the stylist had finished with Treasure at long last, Mum took us to 263 Prinsengracht where Anne hid in the secret annexe. We heard the Westertoren clock strike as we went into the museum, just as Anne describes in her diary.

My heart started beating hard as we went up the narrow stairs and saw the bookcase door. It was all just as I'd imagined it. I stepped into Anne's bedroom and there were her cards and photos still stuck up on the wall. I cried then. So did Treasure.

We saw Anne's red-and-white checked diary too. We couldn't read her neat Dutch handwriting but we didn't need to. We know her story off by heart.

1. Treasure has a difficult home life, and the story begins with her leaving her mum and violent stepdad to live with her nan, who's the most supportive member of Treasure's family. When Terry lashes out at Treasure, what do you think of her mum Tammy's reaction? Was she right to want to protect her husband, or should her daughter have been her priority? Why do you think she seemed so terrified at Nan's suggestion that Treasure should go to hospital?
   
2. India loves and looks up to her dad, but like Treasure, she has a very difficult relationship with her mum, Moya. Why do you think this is? What things do they clash about? How do you feel about the way Moya speaks to her daughter?
   
3. As the story progresses, how does India's relationship with her parents change? Do you think she and her mum will ever be close?
   
4. To the outside world, India has a much nicer home and lifestyle than Treasure – her family is wealthy, she lives in a lovely house and attends a good school – but is she any happier than her new friend? Compare their situations at the start of the story. Which girl would you rather be for a day, and why?
   
5. When the girls first meet, they don't appear to have very much in common. Why do you think they strike up such a close friendship, so quickly?
   
6. Treasure realises that Wanda is pregnant before India does, and is surprised that her friend has not spotted the signs, saying, ‘India seems so grown-up and she uses all these la-di-da long words but she's like a little kid really.' Is this a fair description of India? Which of the girls would you say is more grown-up?
   
7. Was India right to hide Treasure in the attic? Did the girls have any other choice?
   
8. When Treasure comes out of hiding, she tells the police and the newspapers that she wants to live with Nan because she just ‘doesn't get on with' Terry – but she never publicly accuses him of hitting her, even though she knows that this would result in him going to prison. Why do you think she decides to do this? Would you have acted differently?
   

I hate my dad.

I know lots of teenage girls say that but they don't really mean it. Well, I don't think they do. I don't really know any other teenage girls. That's one of the reasons why I hate Dad. He keeps me a virtual prisoner.

I'm interrogated if I slip down the road to Krisha's Korner Shop. I'm not allowed to go into town by myself. I can't go to see any films. I can't eat in McDonald's.

Dad even fussed about me making a simple bus ride by myself to go to Miss Roberts for maths tuition. He took my sister Grace and me out of school ages ago, when I'd just gone into the Juniors and she was still at the finger-painting stage. Dad said he was going to educate us.

We were left to get on with it for ages, but this summer we had a home visit from a Mr Miles, who was from some kind of education authority. He wanted to know what provision Dad was making for my GCSE coursework. Dad said he didn't believe in examinations. Mr Miles smiled through Dad's tirade, obviously having heard it all before. He looked at Grace and me when Dad ran out of steam.

‘What do you want to do when you're older, Prudence and Grace?' he asked.

Grace mumbled something about working with animals. Dad won't let us have any proper pets because he says he's allergic to them. Grace has a lot of secret, unsatisfactory pets, like the blackbird in the garden and the toads in the compost heap and for a while she kept a wormery hidden under her bed. Grace's pets are not exactly cuddly.

‘You'll certainly need to pass lots of exams if you want to be a vet,' said Mr Miles.

Dad snorted. ‘You'll find our Grace has got no more brains than a donkey,' he said unkindly. ‘She'll get a job in a shop somewhere and be happy enough.'

‘In your bookshop?'

‘She can help sell the books, but I doubt she's up to the business side of things,' said Dad. ‘But Prudence can do all the cataloguing and buying and book fairs.'

‘Is that what you want to do, Prudence – run your father's business?' said Mr Miles.

I swallowed. ‘I – I'd like to go to art college,' I said.

Dad glared at me. ‘For goodness' sake, I've told you to forget that nonsense. You don't need to go away to college to learn drawing and painting; you can do that already.'

‘But I
want
to go, Dad.'

Dad was furious with me for arguing in front of Mr Miles, but decided not to pursue it. ‘All right, all right, go to art college, waste three years, see for yourself,' he said. He nodded triumphantly at Mr Miles. ‘I guarantee she can pass her art GCSE standing on her head.'

‘I dare say,' said Mr Miles. ‘But I think you'll find art colleges require quite a few GCSEs, plus three good A-levels. You're going to have to make more provision for your daughters' education, Mr King, especially now Prudence is fourteen. Otherwise we might have to pursue the matter through the courts.'

‘The courts!' said Mum, panicking.

‘You've got no power to do any such thing,' said Dad, hands on his hips, his chin jutting. ‘You can't stop parents home-educating their children.'

‘Not if they've been home-educated right from the start. But your girls have attended school in the past, so I think you'll find we have every power. However, let's hope we can avoid any unpleasant action. We all want what's best for Prudence and Grace.'

Dad seemed sure Mr Miles was bluffing, but nevertheless he fixed up for me to go to this Miss Roberts for maths tuition on Wednesday afternoons.

I only went once. It was unbearable.

Miss Roberts used to teach maths at a girls' school way back in the sixties. She seemed preserved in that time, still teasing her limp grey hair into a bouffant style. Her pink scalp showed through alarmingly. I kept staring at it as she bent over me, trying to explain some supposedly simple point about algebra.

I couldn't understand any of it. I wrote down random letters of the alphabet but I couldn't tease any meaning from them. I expect letters to arrange themselves into words. If I'm doing sums I need numbers – though I'm actually useless with numbers too. I can't always add up accurately. The shop takings rarely balance on a Saturday when I help out.

Miss Roberts tried hard to be patient with me. She explained it over and over again, raising her voice and speaking very s-l-o-w-l-y. Then she switched to geometry in despair. I could draw wobbly circles with her old compass and construct reasonable squares and rectangles with my own ruler but I didn't know what any of them
meant
.

I paid her the twenty pounds for the tuition and she gave me a cup of tea (the milk was so old it floated in little flecks on the tan surface) and a stale custard cream.

‘Don't look so woebegone, Prudence,' she said. ‘Your father says you're a very bright girl. I'm sure you'll catch on in no time.'

I made an extreme effort to swallow the sour milk-biscuity paste in my mouth and thanked her politely.

I didn't go back. For the last three Wednesdays I've walked into town and spent my tuition fee. Sixty whole pounds.

I've never had so much money in my life before. Dad gives Grace and me one pound every Saturday. He behaves as if he's bestowing solid gold upon us, and even has the nerve to lecture us, telling us not to waste it on rubbish. I've always saved mine up to buy sketchpads and soft pencils and coloured crayons, bought one by one.

Grace spends hers all at once on sweets – a bar of chocolate or two, and a handful of gummy snakes. She gollops the chocolate in one go but she keeps the snakes, lining them up on the arm of the sofa, red and yellow and green like a slithery traffic light. She plays with them, giving them names and personalities, but she can't help licking them affectionately so that they all get very sticky. She tries to save them till Sunday, though she sometimes can't stop herself biting off a head or two on Saturday night.

Grace isn't three or four, as you might expect. She is eleven years old and very weird.

I know I am very weird too. I can't seem to help it. I don't know how to be a proper teenager. I bought a couple of teenage magazines out of my stolen tuition money. They were astonishing, especially the problem pages. I knew I didn't look anything like girls my own age, but I didn't realize my experiences were so different.