Dear Scarlett (11 page)

I can’t help feeling dismal. I keep looking at the scrapbook, looking for more about Dad. I want him to have written something personal, something for me. But this was for him.

So far as I can see, there’s nothing about it we need to keep secret, so I take it downstairs when Mum comes back and put it on Uncle Derek’s spotless table.

“Oh, Scarlett, I’ve never seen this before, how fantastic. Where on earth did it come from?” says Mum, picking through the pages, laughing at the restaurant bill, rubbing her fingers over the sock
receipt as if she could get closer to him too. She looks up at me, her eyes all watery. “Where did you get it, Scarlett?”

I hadn’t thought of that.

I stare at Ellie – she can’t help me, she stares back, her shoulders rising into a silent shrug.

A flash of inspiration: “It came with the tools, Dad’s solicitor brought it.”

I wait, holding my breath, for Mum to ask the next question.

“So, why didn’t you show it to me? Why didn’t you say?”

Ellie nudges me.

“I – forgot?”

Both Mum and Uncle Derek stop looking at the scrapbook and look up at me instead. When you lie, I think your eyes go to the left – so I make mine go to the right. I hope it doesn’t look too obvious.

There’s this epic silence. Even the fly on the window’s stopped buzzing to have a listen.

“Surely you couldn’t forget something like this?” says Mum. “It’s got such a lot of your dad in it.”

I don’t know the answer to that one so I say, “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Oh look,” says Mum. “One of the prison
postcards.” She gazes at a picture of Dampmouth lifeboat. It’s addressed to Wormwood Scrubs Prison. “I used to imagine some civil servant picking them up from the prison and popping them in an airmail envelope – sending them away to your dad.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Because it was how we kept in touch – messages back and forth – a comfort, I suppose. Without the postcards, I’d not have been able to contact him at all.”

“Oh…” I say, feeling Uncle Derek’s eyes staring into the top of my head. He’s probably re-living the conversation where he told us Dad was a spy, and wondering just how much I did or didn’t know. He probably looks just like a plain-clothes policeman solving a crime, but I daren’t look up to see.

Ellie coughs and starts stroking Houdini like her life depends on it.

“Hmm,” says Mum, turning to another page in the scrapbook. “Oh – I remember that,” she says, pointing to the article about the Fedora Emerald. “And the documents; they’d got as far as Berlin as I remember.”

“Look, there,” Uncle Derek says, pointing at a
page near the end. He’s got a funny expression on his face. It might be because he thinks I’m lying, but it could be that this is the first time Dad’s really been around us and perhaps he doesn’t like it.

“What am I looking at?” asks Mum.

“‘The Moonshine Children’s Holiday Club received an anonymous gift of five hundred thousand pounds…
blah di blah
… a spokesman …
blah di blah
… no idea where it came from … left in cash on the doorstep.’”

Mum’s face crinkles into a frown. She looks up at Uncle Derek, but he’s still searching the scrapbook.

“And this little one –
‘Mr Eustace Golden, war hero, aged eighty-nine, can now rest safe in his house, as an anonymous donor has secured the financial future of the street, funding essential repair works to all the houses…
blah, blah…
doorstep in cash.’”

“What?” says Ellie.

“And here…”

Mum interrupts. “…
‘Happy Hedgehogs, the wild animal sanctuary on Exmoor, threatened with its own extinction, is now celebrating the gift of two hundred and fifty thousand pounds to allow the renovation and expansion of the existing buildings …
blah, blah …
suitcase on the doorstep.”’

“Blimey,” says Uncle Derek, reaching into the fridge for a bowl of perfectly sliced carrot sticks.
“Blimey, suitcases, eh? Blimey.”

“So,” asks Ellie, “are you saying that Scarlett’s dad gave money away?”

Mum nods. I don’t think she can open her mouth, or she’d cry, but Uncle Derek has no problem.

“That’s it – that’s what it was all about,” he says. “All that diamond stuff, all that secrecy? And he was just selling them, and giving away the money. No wonder they never found any diamonds – there weren’t any, not after … he…” Uncle Derek looks uncomfortable – he can’t actually say “died”.

“He didn’t just give it away, he gave it to good causes,” says Ellie, peering at the scrapbook over Mum’s shoulder.

“Exactly – I mean, what a thing to do!” Uncle Derek shakes his head and pops a carrot stick into his mouth. “You’ve got to admire the man, terrifying way to raise money for charity. I mean, I’ve raised five hundred quid from the marathons, and they’re hard work, but this – this is a completely different league.”

He chomps on the carrot and little orange chunks work their way out on to his moustache. But he doesn’t notice because he’s thinking.

I look at Ellie. I suspect we’re both thinking
about the chauffeur. “What about the people who were after him – you said something about the Queenie gang? London gangster types. What are they looking for?”

“Were,” says Uncle Derek. “Very much were. They’re nearly all behind bars, except for Queenie and her brother, couldn’t actually pin anything on those two – they
were
after the diamonds.”

“But they don’t exist any more,” says Ellie. “Scarlett’s dad sold them.”

“Exactly,” says Uncle Derek. “That’ll be why they gave up, stopped chasing after Scarlett and Carole.”

“I wonder,” says Ellie very quietly to Houdini. Houdini looks back up at her and sinks his claws into her pink slippers.

“Yow!” squeals Ellie.

“Well, it’s wonderful,” says Mum. “I’m so glad you’ve got this, Scarlett – it’s so nice to have something of his.”

“Hmmm,” says Uncle Derek. I’m sure he’s watching my eyes, so I look away and stare at the book.

He doles perfectly formed balls of pink ice cream into matching bowls.

Mum’s turning the pages. I start to count; six, seven, eight cases of sudden gifts to charities. Nine, ten, there are millions of them. He must have given away thousands and thousands, but surely, Dad didn’t do all that, just to give it away? Uncle Derek’s right, it’s a ridiculously hard way to raise money for charity, surely anyone would make tea and cakes and sell second-hand clothes rather than climb in and out of high-security buildings under CCTV cameras and submachine guns?

Surely.

Uncle Derek hands me a bowl of ice cream.

Perhaps Dad liked the risk?

Perhaps he wanted me to do good deeds too and that’s why he left me the tools and the box and the scrapbook. Not for running around rescuing penguins, but something else.

He obviously didn’t leave me the diamonds. I know I shouldn’t, but I do feel slightly disappointed that he sold them all.

It would have been so lovely.

Then I think about the key and the clues – why didn’t he just leave me the scrapbook, or give it to Mum to give me. Why go to so much trouble?

I take a mouthful of pink ice cream and let the
cold freeze my tongue.

Why leave messages all over the place? He could have told Mum, and she could have told me; after all, it’s something to be proud of. She could have told me to keep looking up, and she’s made me keep up the gym.

I take another bite of the ice cream and it squeaks against my teeth.

Or is he trying to test me in some way? Only the worthy get the prize – but if the prize is a scrapbook, why make it so secretive?

I think about the mayoress and the chauffeur. They’re after the diamonds, they wouldn’t want anything else, so they must think they still exist. Dad waited to give me the box until I was eleven, because he must have hoped that they’d have given up by then. But if there are no diamonds left, why are they after them?

This is all too much – perhaps I should just tell Uncle Derek about the lady mayoress and give up on Dad’s clues? It would be the sensible thing to do.

But then Dad wasn’t sensible and nor am I.

I press my fingers into my eye sockets.

“Are you all right, Scarlett?” asks Ellie, scraping a huge blob of ice cream off her chin.

The whole school goes swimming on Wednesday. For once, they’ve got it right, because the weather’s planning on being gorgeous.

Although we’re near the sea, we go to the Dampmouth Bay Golden Jubilee Memorial Lido, which is actually in Dampmouth Sands. Dampmouth Sands makes Dampmouth Bay look really interesting, because apart from the lido all it has is a bouncy castle on the sea front that’s spotted with mildew and smells of fridges.

Despite Dampmouth Sands, I like the lido. Ellie and I did a lifesaving course there last half-term.
Uncle Derek made us, in case we fell in the big tank behind the watercress beds. I’ll never need to use it but I did quite enjoy diving in after a brick wearing a pair of pyjamas. It seems a funny test, though. As Ellie said: “Who needs to rescue a brick in the middle of the night?”

The lady mayoress has come swimming too. Although I can’t see the car anywhere, it’s definitely her; an enormous orange-skinned woman in a massive lime-green bathing suit. She’s torturing a deckchair right next to the lifeguard.

I can’t see the driver, and then I spot him, right at the top of the lido, watching us. I try not to look bothered. The only good thing about having them here is that I know they can’t be following Syd and Mum.

Mrs Gayton stands on the side and makes us swim up and down for a century, while Mrs Mason sits in a deckchair, reading a magazine called
Practical Punctuation.

I’ve done my fifteen lengths of breaststroke, and I’m hanging on the side of the pool waiting for everyone else. Ellie pants in behind me, she’s a good swimmer, and we both loll, watching Melissa, Jessica and Amber struggle at the back.

I have to say, I
do
like to see them struggle.

“How many lengths have you girls done?” Mrs Gayton asks them.

Melissa and Jessica exchange glances. “Fourteen, miss?” says Jessica. Amber’s too out of breath to speak.

“Rubbish,” whispers Ellie. “They’ve only done about three.”

Mrs Gayton twists her mouth round as if she doesn’t completely believe them, but waits until they’ve done what they say is the last length and blows one of her many whistles. She’s wearing her army shorts again, and big white flip flops that show off her bunions. “Right. Out of the pool. Diving next.”

“Oh,” Melissa and Jessica simper. “Do we
have
to do it, miss?”

For a second I think Mrs Gayton’s going to let them off, but Mrs Mason looks over her magazine. “You must try it, girls. If you don’t try now, you never will.”

Yes!

I do my best not to laugh as Jessica pancakes from the board, her body slapping the water like a wet pitta bread. Melissa follows, completely fails to
dive and jumps with her arms bent over her head. Amber bottles out, and says her foot hurts. It’s not cool.

“Don’t worry, girls,” says Mrs Gayton. “Diving can be difficult to master at first; I remember my most challenging diving competition, twenty-foot board, double pike back somersault with half-twist and a rip entry.” Mrs Gayton slaps her hand against her thigh. “Fabulous. I was fabulous.”

I try to imagine Mrs Gayton in her swimsuit, looking young and springy. But I can’t.

Melissa and Jessica sit on the side of the board and look ever so slightly unconfident as a line of boys hurl themselves over the side of the pool.

When it comes to Ellie’s turn, she does a neat little dive, barely splashing.

Mrs Gayton ignores her.

I’ve ended up at the back of the queue. Mrs Gayton keeps waving people in front of me. Even Sam Lewis gets to go first. He springs miles into the air and plummets like a sea bird to the bottom of the pool. Mrs Gayton sniffs, and looks at her watch.

I’m about to do my dive when a wall of water crashes over the side of the pool. I stare, trying to
make sense of what’s happened. Everyone’s facing the lido, gazing at a vast green flower that seems to have appeared in the middle.

It’s the lady mayoress. Her skirt’s pretending to be a lily pad and the rest of her makes a good frog.

There’s a kind of embarrassed silence, and the boys start laughing. Mrs Gayton throws them a sharp look, then prods me.

“Scarlett? Dive. Now.”

I compose myself on the side of the pool, imagining that my legs are glued together at the knee, and that my toes must be absolutely the last thing to enter the pool. The dive is pretty nearly perfect. The water presses in on me and with my eyes closed I follow my arms up to the surface. I’m enjoying the depth and that feeling of being forced up through the water, so I take my time and emerge only to see Mrs Gayton’s flip flops, with Mrs Gayton’s feet still inside them, disappearing into the pool.

“What?” shouts Mrs Mason from the side. Sam Lewis piles into his mates and hides, they’re all of them falling apart with giggles.

“She fell in,” says Sam, pointing at the pool. “She just slipped.”

We stare into the water. All I can see are millions of bubbles and Mrs Gayton’s tracksuit top billowing through them.

But Mrs Gayton doesn’t come up.

The lifeguard’s not looking, he’s texting someone on his mobile phone.

Mrs Gayton still doesn’t come up.

“Do something, someone!” says Mrs Mason, pulling off her cardigan.

The boys start to look anxious and move towards the fence. Melissa and Jessica gaze into the water as if something vaguely interesting was happening in a fish tank.

No one’s going to do anything.

I even look up at the chauffeur, but he’s eating sandwiches and fiddling with his mobile. The lady mayoress wallows on the steps at the end of the pool; she’s not going to rush to save Mrs Gayton.

Am I?

Mrs Gayton, the most horrible teacher in the South of England?

Mrs Gayton – alien paratrooper?

Mrs Gayton – bully?

“Ellie!” I shout. “We’d better…”

And she dives in. I duck dive behind her and
push my way to the bottom of the pool.

Mrs Gayton’s sitting down there, her eyes wide open, flapping her arms at us. I grab one side, Ellie grabs the other, and together we push up from the bottom of the pool, but Mrs Gayton’s heavy and she doesn’t seem to have any idea how to get up to the top.

She’s not really like a brick. More like a pallet load of bricks.

There’s a trail of bubbles coming out of Ellie’s mouth, there’s probably a trail coming out of mine. I don’t know about her but I’m running out of breath. I reach out to Mrs Gayton’s old chicken legs and pinch her just above the knee.

Whoa, it works – she kicks out against the bottom of the pool, and with Ellie and me pulling like crazy, we drag her to the surface.

The lifeguard’s arms reach in and pull at the mass of whistles around Mrs Gayton’s neck. It’s one way to rescue her, and we pop out a millisecond before Mrs Gayton does.

“Whoa!” shouts Ellie.

But I’m too out of breath to say anything.