My Secret Diary (14 page)

But I was lucky that evening. I wrote: 'I had a
partner for nearly all the dances, but I'm not
particularly keen on any of the boys here although
they are really very nice.'

'Very nice' sounds a little limp. I was obviously
still feeling depressed. Harry was very quiet too,
though he did dance with Biddy several times, and
even steered Grace around the room in a jerky
quickstep. Biddy and Ron danced too. I wonder if
those snatched five-minute sessions on the dance
floor made the whole holiday worthwhile.

But the next evening:

we went for a walk around Zennor head. First we
climbed up a very high stony hill which was covered
with very soft earthy grass that looked rather like
lava from a volcano. When you reached the top a
tremendously powerful wind almost lifted you off
the peak, so that I experienced a sensation almost
equal to flying. The wind seemed to cleanse and lift
my spirits until I was almost bubbling over.

I can still vividly remember staring up at
the stars and wanting to spread my arms and
leap upwards.

'Then we went for a walk along the cliff in the
dark and poor Uncle Ron tripped over and sprained
his ankle.'

Did he trip – or was he pushed? Did Harry bump
into him accidentally on purpose? Did Grace shove
him with a sharp elbow? What were we
doing
,
walking along a clifftop in the dark?

But we all got back to St Ives safe and sound,
though Ron limped for a few days and wasn't able
to trip the light fantastic at the farewell dance on
Friday night.

We moved on to Newquay on the Saturday, all
booked up for one more week. I'd much sooner have
gone straight home to Cumberland House, where
I could have a bit of privacy in my own bedroom,
read and write whenever I felt like it, and go to
the pictures or the shops or the lagoon with Chris
or Carol. I even fantasized about seizing my train
ticket from Biddy's purse and travelling home on
the train by myself.

I tried suggesting this in a very roundabout way
– 'It's been a lovely holiday but I'm a bit worried,
I didn't take any of my school set work. Tell you
what, I could always go home a bit early and get
on with it. You don't have to worry about me, you
know I
like
being by myself, and I could have my
dinners at Ga's, she wouldn't mind a bit.'

'Don't be so
silly
!' said Biddy. 'Come on, start
getting your things laid out nicely on your bed for
me to pack. You're coming with us.'

'But I don't want to,' I mumbled childishly.

'Well, that's just too bad,' said Biddy. 'Now get
cracking with those clothes, pronto, and stop being
so ruddy ungrateful.
I
never went away on holiday
for a whole two weeks when I was your age. Stop
pulling that sulky face. You'll love it when you
get there.'

She was right, oh so right!

Saturday 27 August

Our new landlady, Mrs Philpotts, is an absolute
scream of a character, although she means very well.
She is a very hearty type with an enormous bust
and a horsy face. I think I'm going to like Newquay
and this hotel better than St Ives. The young people
are – two teenage blondes that are nicknamed 'The
Beverley Sisters', a big hefty boy called Jeff, and a
nice-looking boy about 13–14 called Colin, with his
sister and his sister's friend, both called Gillian
and both 16.

I never got to know the Beverley Sisters or big
hefty Jeff – but I
did
get to know Colin.

I got up early on Sunday morning and wandered
downstairs a good half-hour before the breakfast
gong. Mrs Philpotts had said there was a recreation
room with a small library. I still had
Gone with the
Wind
as a standby but I wanted to see what other
books were on offer. I peeped in several doors and
found the dining room all set up for breakfast and
a sitting room with big sofas and a small television
set – and then I stumbled upon the recreation room.
It was just a small room with a shelf of Agatha
Christie and Alistair Maclean paperbacks and a lot
of board games, Monopoly and Ludo and Snakes
and Ladders. There was a table-tennis table
crammed into the room – and Colin was standing
at the net, madly trying to play his left hand against
his right hand.

He grinned when he saw me and clapped his
tennis bats together. 'Hurray! Come and play with
me!' he said, as if we'd known each other for ever.

'I can't play. I don't know how,' I said.

'I'll teach you,' said Colin, thrusting the bat in
my hand.

'I'm not any good at games,' I said. 'I'm sure
I'll be hopeless.'

I
was
hopeless, but Colin didn't seem to mind.
He was happy to chase after the ball and win
spectacularly.

'
Champion, the wonder horse!
' he sang. (It was
the theme tune from a children's television show.)
He threw back his head and neighed while I giggled
uncertainly.

'You are daft,' I said.

'Course I am. Totally nuts,' said Colin happily.
'I'm Colin. What's your name?'

'Jacky.'

'Have you got any brothers or sisters here?'

I shook my head.

'I've got my big sister Gillian. She's with
her
friend Gillian. She's OK but she's sixteen, too old
for me. How old are you, Jacky?'

'Fourteen.'

'Well, I'm
nearly
fourteen. Do you want to be
my girlfriend?'

I stared at him. I liked him but I didn't want
a boyfriend who was younger than me – and
totally nuts.

'Let's just be friends,' I said cautiously.

'OK,' said Colin, not seeming to mind. 'I've got
this friend Cookie. He's a great laugh. He's got this
beach hut. We muck around together. Maybe you
could be
his
girlfriend?'

'I don't think so!'

Cookie! He sounded as odd as Colin. I didn't
think it at all likely I'd want to be his girlfriend.

'Well, you could still come and hang out with us
by the beach hut,' Colin suggested.

'It's very kind of you, but I'm here with my
parents and their friends,' I mumbled. 'Shall we
have another game of table tennis?'

'Yeah, yeah, great,' said Colin, immediately
serving and not even giving me a chance to return
the ball. 'One to me. Are you going to the beach
today then?'

'Yes, I expect so.'

'Are you going to do any surfriding?'

'You bet,' I said.

He looked surprised and wiggled his eyebrows.
'You can really surf?'

'Of course I can,' I said proudly.

I'd been to Newquay two years before and
surfed every day.
Not
the surfriding guys in
wetsuits do today, standing up and zigzagging
over huge breakers. I wish! No, in 1960 in
England, surfriding meant basic wooden boards.
As long as you were a strong swimmer anyone
could wade out, wait for a big wave, lie on the
board and be whisked along into the shallows.
I might be a total duffer at table tennis but I
loved swimming and I'd taken to surfriding in a
big way.

'Two to me. My pal Cookie's super at surfing.
I'm just sort of so-so,' said Colin. 'I don't like
getting my head under the water.' He shook
his thick brown hair, pulling a silly face. Then his
eyes brightened.

'So what kind of swimming costume have you
got, Jacky?' he said, serving again. The ball whizzed
straight past me. 'Come on, you can't be
that
bad
. . . Is it a bikini?' he added hopefully.

'No, it's
not
a bikini,' I said.

'Oh, spoilsport,' said Colin. As he served he
started singing the 'Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow
Polka Dot Bikini' song.

'Mine's a swimsuit. It's not itsy-bitsy or teeny-weeny,
and it's not even yellow, it's blue and white,'
I said. I actually managed to connect bat with ball
and smash it past him.

The breakfast gong sounded and Colin grinned.

'Just as you were coming into your own. Oh
well, maybe see you on the beach? Or if not, come
and find us along the beach-hut terrace. Cookie's
hut is number sixty-eight.' He put his head on one
side, squinting at me earnestly. 'You're absolutely
sure
you don't want to be my girlfriend?'

I was still absolutely sure, but I did like Colin
a lot. He waved to me enthusiastically when I
entered the breakfast room with Biddy and Harry,
calling, 'Hello Jacky!' nearly knocking his orange
juice over.

'I see you've made a friend here already, Jac!'
said Biddy.

'We just played table tennis together,' I said
casually.

'You played table tennis?' said Harry, raising his
eyebrows. He'd tried very hard one summer to
teach me the rudiments of tennis, with spectacular
lack of success.

'I'm not very good at it,' I said humbly.

'Never mind, as if it matters,' said Biddy. 'It's
lovely that you're chumming up with someone. You
never know, you
might
meet up with him on the
beach.' She sounded a little patronizing.

'Well, his friend's got a beach hut. He wanted
me to go there, practically begged me,' I said. 'But
I'm not sure I want to. In fact I definitely don't.'

'Oh,
Jac
,' said Biddy, exasperated. 'I don't
understand you at all.'

I didn't really understand myself. I'd been
so fed up traipsing around with Biddy and Harry
and Ron and Grace. Now I had a chance of
younger, livelier, albeit crazier company and I was
wilfully turning it down. I suppose I was just a
bit shy, a bit scared. You couldn't be shy or scared
of Colin but this unknown Cookie might be a
different matter.

So I ignored Colin's gesturing queries and went
off to get ready for a day on the beach with Biddy
and Harry and Ron and Grace. This involved a lot
of packing. Biddy had her favourite Evan Hunter
book and her spare white cardigan and her camera
and her swimming costume, just in case. Harry had
his racing papers and his windcheater and his
woolly swimming trunks and a spare towel snaffled
from the hotel bedroom. Ron and Grace took beach
time even more seriously. Ron had his trunks and
his own big stripy towel and his hairbrush and
Brylcreem and a beach ball and a big bag of toffees.
Grace had her knitting and a map of Cornwall
and a thermos and plastic cups and a damp
cloth in a plastic bag and a
Woman's Own
. I had
my swimming costume and
Jane Eyre
and
my journal.

We wandered down to the beach, lugging our
burdens. I saw the rows of beach huts and hesitated
for a moment, but I scurried off after the others.
I hoped they might settle on the smooth golden
sand near the beach huts but they seemed intent
on doing a Lawrence of Arabia trek across the
sands, seeking an ideal spot.

We eventually set up camp way down the beach,
out of sight of the beach huts. I pretended I didn't
care. I struggled into my swimming costume under
cover of my towel and then lay on my tummy,
reading and eating Ron's toffees. Ron tried to tempt
us with a game of ball, and for a little while he and
Harry tossed it about while I was piggy in the
middle. Biddy and Grace made strained
conversation while peering at the map, plotting
little outings to Polperro and Mousehole and
Jamaica Inn.

There were families all around us, some of the
boys rushing in surfing.

'Shall we give this surfing lark a go?' Ron asked
eagerly. 'Come on, Biddy, I bet you're a dab hand
at it. Get your costume on!'

'No, no, I'm much too comfortable,' said Biddy.

'Jac, you'll have a go, won't you? I'll show you
what to do,' said Ron.

'Jac's a good surfer already,' Harry said coldly.
'I showed her how on our last holiday to Newquay.'

This was a downright lie. Harry was a weak
swimmer and didn't have much clue how to surf,
but I smiled at him loyally. The three of us trailed
all the way to the surf shack to hire boards. No
one bothered to ask poor Grace if she'd like a go.

I clutched my board and waded gingerly into the
water, lifting my feet high and jumping every time
a wave swelled past me, a total wimp about getting
wet. But though it took me ages to get in properly
up to my neck, with Harry and Ron shouting and
splashing me, I came into my own once I was in.
I paddled around on my surfboard, eyeing up each
likely wave, and then, just before it crested, I leaped
forward and hurtled full tilt all the way into the
shallows. I waded out again and again, while Harry
and Ron wobbled and wavered and fell off
their boards.

Biddy came picking her way to the water's edge,
her Brownie camera in her hand. She lined us up
and commanded us to smile, bossily intent – so
much so that she shrieked when a wave suddenly
swirled round her ankles, wetting the hem of her
frock. We all smiled easily enough then.

I hated the getting-out-the-water stage, blue and
shivering, with the towel wrapped around me,
struggling out of my wet costume and into my
knickers, trying not to get everything all sandy. But
the sun was out and I gratefully drank a cup of tea
from Grace's thermos. I combed my straggly hair
and fished my coral lipstick out of the pocket of
my skirt.

'Haven't we got any sandwiches?' said Ron,
rubbing his big tummy. 'I'm starving after all that
surfing. Let's have a picnic.'

'Oh, Ron, how can I make up a picnic when
we're staying in a hotel?' said Grace.

'
I'll
magic up a picnic,' said Ron, reaching for
his wallet. 'I'll nip along the beach to the shops.
Who's coming with me to help carry the goodies?'

He looked hopefully at Biddy, but she was
stretched out, eyes closed, seemingly asleep. Ron
looked at me instead. 'Come on, Jacky.'

So I sauntered along beside him, carrying my
sandals, while he laughed and joked and clowned
around. He attempted daft conjuring tricks,
plucking pennies from my ears, hankies from my
hair. People on the beach smiled at us, obviously
thinking he was my dad. In lots of ways I wished
he
was
my dad. You could laugh and joke and tease
him back, you never had to be wary, you could say
the first thing that came into your head.

I wrote later, cruelly:

How happy we'd all be if Uncle Ron and Mum
married. Dad would have Aunty Grace! (Two
awkward ones together.) I am writing a lot of nasty
things about him, we haven't had a quarrel or
anything but I'm just fed up and truthfully
admitting things I've loyally tried to ignore. Later
I'll probably want to tear out this page. But if Daddy
wasn't my father I wouldn't be the same, as I am
very like him in some ways.

I know Biddy tried to read my diary, which was
why I kept trying to find new hiding places for it.
I do so hope Harry didn't ever find it and read that
last passage. Today I went through many files of
my old manuscripts, looking for the story I wrote
about that Cornish holiday. I came across two
letters that Harry wrote to me when I was living
in Scotland several years later – lovely, funny,
stylish letters that made me want to cry. I couldn't
find the story anywhere, though I did find a letter
telling me that it had won a competition, the first
time I'd ever won anything with my writing. But
I don't really need to find that story. I can still
remember the holiday as if it was only last summer.

Ron and I went to the general shop and bought
five big Cornish pasties, five Scotch eggs, five packets
of Bovril-flavoured crisps, two pounds of tomatoes,
a bunch of bananas and a bag of apples. He dawdled
at the sweet counter and then chose five Fry's Five
Boys chocolate bars. There were faces of the five boys
on the wrapper, labelled DESPERATION, PACIFICATION,
EXPECTATION, ACCLAMATION, REALIZATION. Uncle Ron
imitated each one with his big red rubbery features,
making everyone in the shop chuckle.

There was a particularly loud hoot of a laugh
behind me, curiously familiar. I turned round. There
was Colin, choking on his choc ice, standing beside
a boy with intense brown eyes, fair curly hair and
a smooth golden tan. He was wearing a casual white
shirt and blue shorts and his sandy feet were bare.
I stared at him and he stared at me.

'This is
Jacky
– you know, the girl I told you
about. We played ping-pong this morning,' said
Colin. 'I won, both games. Jacky, this is my
friend Cookie.'

I swallowed. I smiled. Cookie put his hand out
in a charmingly old-fashioned way, shaking mine.

'Hello. Colin's told me all about you. I'm Peter
Cookson, but all my friends call me Cookie.'

Did that mean I could call him Cookie too?
What exactly had Colin told him? Had he told him
I didn't want to be his girlfriend?

Uncle Ron was wiggling his eyebrows and
beaming at us, clutching our two big brown
carrier bags.