My Secret Diary Read online

  He glanced around at his small flat littered with possessions, and a surge of affection for it rose in his breast. He moved towards the mantelpiece and tenderly picked up a photo of an attractive, smiling girl and kissed it. Then he replaced it gently and moved slowly towards the door. What would Barbara say when she knew, he wondered? What would they all say? He paused with his hand on the door knob. Suddenly he leant on the wall and closed his eyes. Yes, what would his friends say? Would they despise him, use his name as a revolting word? He pressed his knuckles against his eyes so that all he could see was a revolving whirl of darkness. Through this he could clearly see the faces of his friends, Barbara, his boss, his parents. All were pointing at him, accusing him, wrinkling their noses in distaste. Was it so terrible? Did it make all that difference? He savagely gnawed at his knuckle. All right, he would show them. Damn them all, what did they matter? What did anyone matter? Barbara floated into his mind, and a sob rose in his throat and choked him. Never again would he be able to hold her in his arms, or never firmly shake a man's hand. Thinking of hand shakes he tentatively glanced down at his own hand, his right one. A tear glistened for an instant on his tanned cheek, but it was wiped away as quickly as it had come. The clock struck the hour. Alan straightened himself, his ears strained to the door. Sure enough, just as the nine chimes had died away there came a long firm ringing on the doorbell. Although his face was now pale, it was composed. He took a quick last glance around the room, and then flung open the door. There stood two burly men dressed in black suits, shirts, shoes and hats. Alan swallowed, picked up his case, and then stepped on to the landing and closed the front door behind him. 'I am ready,' he said almost inaudibly. The men put on black rubber gloves and then stood either side of Alan holding his arms in their firm cruel grasp. They marched him slowly along the streets to the city's dock. As they went passers by stood and stared and the youths laughed and shouted in derision. Alan clenched his teeth and tried to shut his eyes to the jeers. A few of the onlookers felt sorry for this brave handsome young man who stood so erect, and whose set face did not give way to his grief. Only a few days ago he had been one of those ordinary people, who now stood and stared at him. But he had never been one of the mob of onlookers because he had felt only pity for the miserable wretches taken by the black police. One of the youths threw a stone, and its sharp edge cut Alan's cheek. He flinched, but his face was still set. Whatever happened his pride would not let him relax his face from the composed mask, or to falter his steady step, although his mind was in a terrible ferment. Oh God, he thought, let it be over soon. Let me get on the boat. Oh God, let this Hellish walk be over soon. The black police's hands gripped right into his arms bruising the flesh, and the blood from the cut started to trickle down his cheek.

  OK, let's play guessing games. Why has poor Alan in his clean outfit, old windcheater and polished sandals (!) been manhandled onto this boat by the black police? After passing out on the boat all night Alan regains consciousness in the morning.

  When Alan awoke the first thing he saw was three eyes staring into his. He started, and realised that his life with The Disease had begun. Just as there had been Bubonic Plague in the Middle Ages, in the twentieth century there was also a disease, but in many ways a more deadly one although it did not cause death, and was not infectious. It was a disease which, if one caught it, would make one grow another part of the body. In Alan's case it was not so bad because he had only grown another finger on his right hand, but others grew another leg, arm, eyes, nose, ear, sometimes even another head. The authorities formed a party of men called the black police named thus because of their black uniform, who were responsible for finding the disformed men and women. The men were sent to a far off island to the west and the women to a far off island in the east. They were not allowed to go to the same island because a man and a woman might fall in love and have children who would naturally be disformed. The authorities naturally had to be very careful about this, because if it was allowed to happen there might become a whole race of badly disformed people.

  This seems a startling idea for me to have thought up. I'd be quite proud if it was original – but I'd read John Wyndham's brilliant science fiction book The Chrysalids, where the characters also sprout extra digits or endure other deformities and are rounded up and sent to the badlands. John Wyndham manages to make his scenario convincing. A few of his characters discover they can read each other's thoughts. This has always seemed such an appealing idea that from time to time I've tried to do this with people I'm very close to, even though it's probably scientifically impossible.

  Perhaps it was just as well I didn't develop the relationship between my six-fingered Alan and sensitive Latina or we'd all get the giggles. I don't think I ever finished a story when I was fourteen, but it didn't stop me trying again and again. On 5 February I wrote: 'Cherry sold me a lovely black file for only a bob.' A bob was slang for a shilling – that's 5p in today's money. 'I'm going to get cracking on a new story now.'

  I was always happy to do any kind of writing, even English essay homework.

  Friday 19 February

  Miss Pierce was the only one to give us weekend homework; all the other teachers let us off because next Monday and Tuesday are half-term. Luckily I adore English Essay so I'm not complaining, but it's a damn shame for the others. The subject is 'The Village Street' and Miss P requests some vivid description. I wish we had a really decent subject to write about, most of my essays have to be so childish. Oh, how I long to get a book published, just to show Miss P. I have one in mind at the moment, a rather sordid story about teenagers. I long to shock Miss P and show her that her quiet shy Jacky isn't what she thinks she is.

  I used the word 'damn', which sounds quaint now, but when I was fourteen it was the worst four-letter word any of us used out loud (though we might whisper or spell out the really bad ones).

  When I was a little girl I took great delight in buying fashion pattern books with my pocket money. I'd cut out all the particularly interesting girls and ladies and invent elaborate games for them. I was still doing this when I was a 'big' girl. I justified this by insisting it was for legitimate writing inspiration – and sometimes it worked.

  On Tuesday 23 February I wrote:

  Yesterday at dinnertime I bought a fashion book, and the people I cut out of it today have given me a wonderful idea for a book. It is set in the future and . . . Oh I won't go into details, it is sufficient to say that at the moment I think it is a good idea.

  I've no idea whether I wrote it or not – I can't remember it. I'm interested that I don't want to go into details about it in my diary. I feel exactly the same way now. If I get a good idea it's fatal to talk about it, and even writing too many notes can destroy it. Story ideas need to stay in my head, gently glowing in the dark, developing for a long time before they're ready for the light of day. I like the wise note of caution even though I'm obviously bubbling over with enthusiasm: 'at the moment I think it's a good idea'. So often today's sparkling and original idea seems tarnished and second-rate the next day!

  I bought another big fashion book in April – and the following April, when I was fifteen and going out with my first steady boyfriend, I wrote: 'I still haven't managed to grow out of buying fashion books, and cutting out the people and making families of them.' My handwriting is more like a five-year-old's than a fifteen-year-old's on this page but I add: 'By the way, excuse the occasional left hand writing, but I am putting nail varnish on and I don't want it smudged.'

  I'm impressed that I was reasonably ambidextrous then. I've just had a go at writing left-handed now and find it very difficult. It would be such a useful thing to be able to do, especially when I've got a very long queue of girls wanting their books signed. My right hand starts to ache horribly after an hour or so. It would be wonderful to be able to swap my pen to the other hand and give the right one a rest.

  Later that April of 1960 I told Chris I still loved playing with my fashion book:


  She seemed shocked – and I must admit it does sound a bit queer – a grown girl of fifteen playing with cut-out figures. No-one but me knows the enjoyment I get out of it though, and also playing around is some constructive use. Each model has a special character and personality – I don't have to invent this, it just comes. Then when I'm writing a story I've got a lot of ready made characters complete with names. I especially like the 'Style' fashion books – the drawings are clear and attractive and a lot of the figures have very strong personalities. I'm not talking rubbish; it's true. As I've been playing with fashion books ever since I've been about six I have some very firm favourites that have lasted through the years although most of the old ones aren't included now as they're too old-fashioned.

  Judging by the following diary entry my fashion-book games and stories weren't childish at all – quite the opposite: 'Yesterday I had a lovely morning in bed with my fashion book. I discovered a lovely new person, Carola.' I can remember Carola – she had long hair, and as the fashion artist wanted to show off the unusual waist on her tight skirt he drew her without a blouse top. So there she was, as bold as brass in her bra and skirt and high heels. I obviously felt she was what Biddy called 'fast'. So I wrote:

  I've decided she can have an affair with John, and I've given her Betty and Katy to look after. [They were small girls with very carefully cut-out pigtails. Did I cast Carola as a single mum with two daughters already?] She goes around with Nicky and Sherry's crowd. I spent three contented hours with my fashion book.

  The next day:

  I bought myself a lovely hard 2H pencil, a thing I've been wanting for a long time. I drew a picture of Carola, Nick, Katy and Betty from memory. I know you should use a soft pencil for drawing, but I hate dark smudgy messy lines, and much prefer neat precise lines. Also the children look much more delicate with a hard line. I want to write about Carola etc., etc.

  The drawing and the story and the fashion books were all thrown away but they've stayed indelibly clear in my mind to this day.

  I used my own life as inspiration as well as all my paper girls. On 1 March Miss Pierce, our English teacher, told us all about people who lived on barges (in preparation for introducing Maiden's Trip by Emma Smith as our class reader). I wrote: 'It was interesting and worth keeping in mind for a story, except that I have just started one about a co-ed school based on my many experiances at Latchmere.'

  I spelled experiences wrong and underlined it heavily. I'm not sure what extraordinary experiences I was thinking of. I'd obviously got fed up with it five days later, because on Sunday 6 March I wrote: 'I started writing a story, but got a bit fed up with it.' That could be a valid diary entry nowadays, though now I just grit my teeth and carry on writing – on and on and on – until six months later the story is finished, polished, typed out and sent off to my publishers.

  At least now I can reassure myself that I've produced a lot of novels that children enjoy reading. When I was fourteen I was plagued with doubts about my writing.

  I wrote in March:

  Is it just a form of escapism? Am I burying my head in the sand like an ostrich, is my writing just an adolescent craze? No, it can't be just a phase. Well, I've settled it that at least I'm serious about my writing. But is it any good? Is it? Oh, how I wish I knew. I have a reasonable grasp of writing, but am I any good? I mean really good? I just don't know. I want very much to prove to myself that I can write good material. I would like very much to hold a finished story in my hands. So I am not going to be weak-willed and sit here wishing, I'm going to think of a plot and – START WRITING! Blast homework, blast everything, I must prove it to myself. Oh let me think of a good plot, some realistic characters, and let me produce a really good book.

  I was so frantic, so earnest. It's a relief to flip the page in my diary and read:

  We had a really stinking sum to do for Geometry homework. Chris and I just sat back and laughed it got so complicated. I've now cooled off from my writing outburst yesterday, but I am still determined to write a good novel. Imagine the sheer bliss of printing 'THE END' on the umpteenth sheet of manuscript paper.

  A week later I wrote:

  Remember my writing outburst on Wed 9th? Well, I have thought of a really good idea for a novel, using my own experience – so that I can know what I'm writing about. Now I must get on and – WRITE.

  The next Sunday we went to visit my godparents, Gladys and Sid, who had just adopted three-year-old twins. I wrote that night:

  Gladys says their mother is married, but the children are from another man. How can she just abandon them? They are such lovely pretty kids, perfectly healthy, happy and normal [obviously not little Tracy Beakers!]. The mother idea could be a new angle for a book . . .

  I was brimming with new ideas, new angles. On Saturday 2 April 'I bought a red fat shilling exercise book for my new story. It is coming along nicely at the moment.'

  I wasn't limiting myself just to novels:

  Reading a good book has brought out the writing urge in me again, but this time in a different form. A book of short stories has given me the idea to try writing for this medium. Besides in book form, short stories are always needed for magazines – so now I must study all my old copies of 'Woman's Own' to see what type of story is most popular.

  I usually only read the problem pages, although in March Biddy had recommended that I read an article in Woman's Own called 'The Way to Healthy Womanhood'. I don't think it would have been about eating lots of fruit and veg and walking to school instead of getting the bus. In those long ago days 'healthy womanhood' meant sex education. I don't know how helpful this was to me. I say, very limply for a would-be writer, that the article was 'quite good'.

  I was more interested in proper teenage magazines. On 11 April I wrote:

  I bought the new teenage magazine 'Honey'. Back home I spent one and a half hours reading it solidly. By the way, I disagree entirely with what the writer of the article 'CONFIDENCE' has to say. I don't think trying to be a writer will ruin my self confidence. I am not going to say to myself that it isn't important. IT IS! I'M GOING TO TRY AND TRY AND TRY UNTIL I GET SOMEWHERE.

  I knew perfectly well that I wasn't ready to write for publication. I did enter the Daily Mirror Children's Literary Competition in 1960, sending off my entry with fervent wishes and prayers. Jill at school entered too. I didn't win, I wasn't a runner-up, I didn't come anywhere – though I did receive a note saying, This is to certify that the attached entry reached the final stages of selection. I was pleased for Jill, if a little jealous, when she received a Highly Commended certificate.

  Jill was the only girl I knew who loved writing too. She kept a fictional diary about two sisters called Doffles and Bluebell and let a little group of us read the latest entries. She was happy to share it with us, even letting me contribute an entry or two.

  I was still writing just for myself, taking it terribly seriously. I worked pretty hard in English lessons at school, trying to please Miss Pierce. I wrote: 'I love Art, but English is still my first love. Not English Grammar, of course, that's foul, but English Essay is heavenly.'

  Miss Pierce was an inspirational teacher with a passion for English that was infectious. She had us ordinary, not especially academic fourteen-year-olds reading Jane Eyre and Pride and Prejudice with joy and enthusiasm, discussing the merits of Rochester and Darcy as eagerly as if they were Elvis or Adam Faith.

  She was very exacting when it came to the art of writing. She said that an English essay should be like a perfect string of pearls, each paragraph leading on to the next and the next and next until it doubled neatly back to the very beginning.

  'What's she on about?' Chris mouthed.

  I raised my eyebrows and shrugged my shoulders, just to be companionable, but I knew. I understood Miss Pierce's lesson on metaphors and similes too. She quoted 'a squirrel sat on the lawn like a coffee pot' – and I saw that squirrel and the perfect spout of its paws and handle of its tail. It was like discovering a glorious
new game.

  I wasn't very good at it at first. Miss Pierce told us to form pairs and describe each other, using metaphors and similes. I squinted long and hard at Chris, gazing into her eyes until we both got the giggles. Her eyes are pale blue – and I couldn't find an original simile to save my life. As blue as the early morning sky? Oh please! As blue as sapphires? How many times has that been used? I ended up with some appalling suggestion about paint water! I'd thought about the first time you swizzle a paintbrush thick with cobalt blue into a clean jug of water and make delicate swirls of pale blue. Chris thought I meant that awful grey sludge colour your paint water becomes after a long painting session and wasn't especially thrilled.

  Miss Pierce wasn't either. I tried so very hard with my essays, linking each paragraph together and making my ending fit neatly into my beginning like a clasp, but my essays were nearly always returned with clipped annotations in red pen: 'Too colloquial! Slang! I don't like your tone. This isn't suitable!'

  I was always so down-hearted then. I didn't understand that my natural writing style simply wasn't appropriate for a school essay. I'm pretty sure if Miss Pierce were still alive and I gave her one of my books, she'd reach for her red pen after the first paragraph (albeit beautifully linked to the next) and repeat her comments. In fact she'd probably underline them.

  However, just occasionally she made my heart leap.

  Friday 4 March

  In English I got 'Very good work indeed. Well done' which raised my writing hopes as Miss P usually gives mouldy remarks.

  And on a golden night in June I wrote:

  In the evening Mum went to a parents' meeting at the school to discuss what subjects we are going to take in the G.C.E. Miss Pierce told her that I was very excellent at English and that she personally would think it a crime if I didn't stay on to the 6th form and take A level English Literature!!!! When Mum told me I was so happy I nearly cried. I might be good as a writer after all.