Jacky Daydream (28 page)

32

The Secret!

I WASN’T MADE
a form monitor. I was always too dreamy and likely to do something silly. I
certainly
wasn’t games monitor material. I was never one of the ultra-helpful children made flower monitor or milk monitor. But Mr Branson had a soft spot for little Jacky Daydream/Four Eyes/Sly Boots, even though I’d dared yell at him in class. On the first of December he made me Christmas card monitor.

Our year was the top year, head of the Juniors, so we had various responsibilities. Every Christmas term a shiny scarlet postbox stood in the entrance hall. All the Juniors posted their Christmas cards into its wide slot. It was a big postbox, carefully constructed out of thick cardboard and given a new coat of paint every few years, but it wasn’t big enough to contain everyone’s cards. It was my job as Christmas card monitor to bustle along every morning, unlatch the little brass hinges so that the door at the back swung open, and then empty out all yesterday’s letters.

The head teacher himself, Mr Pearson, showed
me
where I had to sort and store the letters. There were two doors next to his room. I was familiar with the first door. It lead into a dark storeroom where we kept the sacks of milk-bottle tops, saved and recycled. No one washed the tops so the room reeked of sour milk. I hated any kind of milk, even fresh from the cow. If I was ever sent to the storeroom, I held my cardie sleeve over my nose and tried not to breathe in. I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to stand being Christmas card monitor if I had to sort them while being gassed by sour milk fumes.

But Mr Pearson was opening the other door. This was my fourth year in the Juniors and I must have seen that door every day, yet I had no idea what was behind it. It was another storeroom, full of trunks and old desks and blackboards and easels. Mr Pearson patted the biggest flat-topped trunk.

‘Here you are, Jacky, you can sort the cards into forms on this top. Stack them all neatly now. And then on the last day of term you can come with me when I dress up as Santa Claus and you can be my special Christmas elf delivering all the cards,’ he said.

I smiled gratefully, though I didn’t exactly go a bundle on being an
elf
. I prayed I wouldn’t have to wear a silly costume or false pointy ears.

I went along to collect the posted cards the
second
morning. There were only a handful, but I took them out carefully, with due ceremony, opened up the storeroom door and started sorting them in sparse piles on top of the trunk. It only took a minute or so. I ran my finger along the brass studs of the trunk. I wondered what was inside. I collected the cards back into a pile, picked them up and then tried edging the lid open. It didn’t budge at first so I thought it must be locked, but when I had one more try with two hands, the lid creaked and then jerked upwards. I lifted it right up and stared awestruck at the contents of the trunk.

Treasure! Gold crowns, silver chains, necklaces, rings, crystal goblets, an entire gold tea-set! I’d read all my Enid Blyton adventure books. What
else
would you expect to find in an old trunk but buried treasure?

It wasn’t
real
. The jewels were Rowntrees Fruit Gums, the gold was paint, the silver chocolate wrappers. These were the props from past school plays. I recognized the Three Wise Kings’ crowns, the banquet christening plates from
The Sleeping Beauty
. I dug a little deeper. My fingers touched fur, slippery silk, soft velvet. It was all the costumes!

I carefully piled all the fake jewellery and cardboard china onto the floor and pulled out robes and capes and ballgowns galore. I held them up against me, wishing there was a mirror. I found a
beautiful
long crinoline made of rich purple velvet. I slipped it over my head and then twirled round and round, bumping into boxes in the crowded room.

I played being a Victorian lady, festooning myself with jewellery and giving imperious orders to invisible servants – but for once it wasn’t enough to pretend by myself. This find was too marvellous to keep a total secret. I had to share it with Christine.

Back in Mr Branson’s class I hooked her silky hair back behind her ear and whispered what I’d found. She looked sceptical at first. She knew my habit of romancing.

‘Are you sure you’re not making it up, Jacky?’

‘You come and see too, tomorrow!’

So Christine hovered behind me the next morning while I undid the letter box and clawed out all the Christmas cards. We waited until the hallway was empty – no teachers, no crying children who’d fallen over in the playground, no mothers waiting to speak to Mr Pearson, and definitely
no
Mr Pearson himself. Then I opened the storeroom door and we scuttled inside.

‘See!’ I said, lifting the lid of the trunk.

‘Oh glory!’ said Christine, fingering the crowns, the necklaces, the purple velvet crinoline. ‘Oh, Jacky, it’s fantastic! This is the best secret
ever
!’

I let her try on the purple velvet dress. I
struggled
into a crimson tunic and an ermine-lined cape. I bowed low before her.

‘Might I have the honour of a dance, fair Lady Christine?’

‘Certainly, my Lord Jack,’ said Christine.

We were neither of us quite sure how you did stately dancing, but we twirled a bit and did a lot more bowing and curtseying. Christine climbed up on a chest to pose in a regal fashion, waving a fairy wand. Then she twitched it at the darkest corner, behind a blackboard.

‘There’s a door at the back, look!’

We clambered over the boxes and chests to get to it. I put my hand on the doorknob, hesitating.

‘Maybe it’s Mr Pearson’s secret room. Perhaps he’s in there, cuddled up with Miss Audric!’

We snorted with laughter, clutching each other.

‘Open it, go on,’ said Christine.

I turned the handle and the door opened. We could dimly see stairs going upwards.

‘A secret passage!’ said Christine. ‘Come on, let’s see where it goes.’

Hand in hand, we tiptoed up and up the dark staircase, barely able to catch our breath with the excitement. There was yet another door at the top. We opened it and stepped out into sudden bright daylight. We stood blinking, disorientated, staring at the wooden rail in front of us. There was the
hall
stage before us, with the school piano – but we were standing way above it now.

‘We’re up in the gallery!’ I said.

I suppose we should have realized sooner, but the gallery was very seldom used. The choir sang there for special concerts, but that was all. We never looked at the gallery because we always faced the stage as we filed in for assembly. But now we were actually up in the gallery, so high we could almost touch the ceiling. It felt as if we’d grown wings and flown there.

Then we heard the clacking of stout heels down below on the parquet floor. We saw Miss Audric’s red plaits and her emerald-green woollen suit. We both had a vision of her curled on Mr Pearson’s lap like a giant woolly caterpillar. We clamped our hands over our mouths to stifle our giggles.

Miss Audric hitched up her long wool skirt, climbed the steps to the stage and sat at the piano. She waggled her fingers several times as if she was waving at the keys and then she started playing Handel’s
Water Music
, ready for us to start coming into the hall for assembly.

‘Quick!’ I said.

We crept backwards to the door, lifting our feet so our rubber-soled sandals wouldn’t squeak on the wooden floor. Then we shot through the door and tumbled down the stairs, laughing wildly, clutching each other.

We slipped inside the storeroom every morning and played dressing up. It was hard coping with such a splendid secret. It fizzed inside us all the time until we felt ready to explode.

‘What’s
up
with you two?’ said Eileen.

‘Yes, where do you and Christine keep hiding, Jacky?’ said Alan.

‘Yeah, you keep sneaking off somewhere before school,’ said David.

‘Have you found a special secret place?’ asked Julian.

‘Tell us!’ said Robert.

Christine and I looked at each other. We
had
to tell them.

They were desperate to see for themselves but it was too difficult to sneak them all in before school. Besides, everyone arrived at different times, and Eileen and David were often late.

I thought about lunch time. It was quieter in the school entrance then. There was always the risk of running into Mr Pearson – but at twelve thirty the school cook brought him his lunch on a tray and he ate his meal in private in his room.

‘OK, here’s the plan,’ I said. ‘We wait five minutes after the bell goes, and then at twelve thirty-five we creep into the school entrance. Mr Pearson will be in his study tucking into his lunch, so he won’t be doing any prowling about. But we’ll
have
to be as quiet as mice.’

Julian started squeaking and scuttling on all fours.

‘And no messing about, OK! If Mr Pearson catches us, I shall be in
serious
trouble.’

Julian stood up quickly. They all blinked at me seriously. It was a heady moment being able to boss them all around, even Eileen.

They were as good as gold at lunch time. We waited in the playground, Robert checking his Timex watch every few seconds. Then Christine and Eileen and I went off together arm in arm. The boys followed in a little cluster, their cigarette cards splayed in their hands as if they were simply ambling off for a game of swapsies.

We crept into the school entrance, all of us staring fearfully at Mr Pearson’s door. Then I took a deep breath, opened the door of the storeroom and shoved them all quickly inside – one, two, three, four, five, six, all seven of us, counting me.

The boys started squealing in triumph when we were all in.

‘Ssh! We’ve got to be
quiet
! Mr Pearson’s only just across the hallway!’

‘Sorry, Jacky. Come on then, where are these costumes and all this other stuff?’

I swept the piles of Christmas cards out of the way – growing larger day by day – and opened the trunk. The boys weren’t
quite
as impressed
by
the crowns and the jewellery but even they liked the costumes. Eileen adored everything. Christine and I offered her the purple velvet to be polite, but she preferred wrapping herself in long lengths of orange and scarlet and fuschia pink silk so that she glowed like an Indian princess. Robert found a pirate outfit with a patch, Alan was a sailor, David a policeman complete with helmet. Julian scooped up an enormous armful of fur. He stepped inside and became a large lollopy dog with floppy ears.

We played an imaginary game together as if we were still little kids in the Infants. It was as if the costumes liberated us from our real selves. We could be colourful fantasy creatures.

When the bell went for afternoon school, we had to whip all the costumes off quickly and then get out of the storeroom unobserved. Christine went first, taking David with her. Then Eileen and Robert. Then Julian and Alan. I waited a few seconds, looking round the storeroom, enjoying this moment of total happiness. Then I opened the door – and walked straight into Mr Pearson.

He peered at me over his spectacles. ‘Jacky? What were you doing in the storeroom? You’re only supposed to go in there when you’re emptying the postbox.’

I saw Christine and the others standing agonized at the edge of the playground. We were all going
to
get into terrible trouble unless I kept my head.

I smiled at Mr Pearson. ‘Yes, I know, Mr Pearson, but I was in a bit of a hurry this morning and I was scared of being late for Mr Branson so I didn’t quite finish sorting yesterday’s letters into classes. I thought I’d slip in at lunch time. I’m sorry.’

‘That’s quite all right, Jacky. I understand,’ said Mr Pearson, smiling back at me.

There! I bet you were worried that we’d all be caught and punished, but we got away with it. We spent every lunch time playing in the storeroom until the end of term.

Many many years later I was invited to give a talk about my books at Latchmere. I had a cup of coffee and a chocolate biscuit beforehand in the head teacher’s study. I was telling him all about my schooldays, and I mentioned the postbox.

‘We still use it!’ he said. ‘Come with me.’

He took me into the storeroom and there was the red postbox in a corner – and the very same big trunk with the brass studs round the lid . . .

One of the characters in my books wears real Victorian clothes – but she doesn’t have a beautiful purple crinoline. She has to wear uniform, stitched by herself. Who is it?

 

It’s Lottie in
The Lottie Project
.

‘Do you feel you can manage all this?’ she said. ‘You look very little.’

‘But I am strong, Madam. I will manage,’ I said determinedly.

‘Very good. You can start on Monday. I will give you the print for your uniform and a bolt of cotton for your apron and caps. I hope you are satisfactory at sewing, Charlotte?’

I blinked at her. ‘Charlotte, Madam?’ I said foolishly.

‘That is your name, it is not?’ she said.

‘No, Madam, I am called Lottie, Madam. It was the name of Mother’s doll when she was small. No one’s ever called me Charlotte.’

‘Well, I do not think Lottie is a suitable name for a servant. You will be called Charlotte whilst you are working for me.’

I didn’t need to do too much research about the Victorians when I was writing
The Lottie Project
. My daughter Emma loved everything Victorian and so I used to read her all sorts of old-fashioned stories. We had a huge 1880s Christmas catalogue and we spent happy hours choosing what we wanted! We also played special Victorian imaginary games. Emma always wanted to be the lady of the house, so I had to be the servant and curtsey to her and do everything she commanded. We wrote long rambling Victorian stories together too. Emma’s were better than mine!