My Secret Diary (7 page)

I don't think I've ever read as widely as I did then.
If I particularly liked a library book I'd copy out
appealing passages and then stick them into my diary.

Wednesday 30 March

I got a good book from the library called 'Dress
Rehearsal' by Monica Sterling. Parts of it are
boring, but the rest is very, very good. I like chapter
seven best, about Olive, an Irish girl, who first
obtained Jocelyn's admiration by shouting at her
teacher 'Oh you and your damn Girl Guides.'

There are then two pages of weeny biro writing
to remind me why I liked it so much. It looks
embarrassingly mawkish now.

However, I did occasionally show good taste in
literature. Harry bought a copy of Vladimir
Nabokov's
Lolita
, a very controversial literary
novel much tutted over in Biddy's
Daily Mail
. It
was the story of a middle-aged man who runs away
with a twelve-year-old girl, a subject justifiably
considered shocking. I was told I was far too young
to read it. Harry started it at once but gave up
after the first chapter.

'It's not really my sort of thing,' he said, and
handed it over to Biddy. I wrote in my diary: 'At
the moment Mummy is sitting with her nose buried
in the book taking in every word!' There were
rather too many obscure baroque words for Biddy's
taste. She abandoned
Lolita
just a few pages in too.

'It's stupid, all this fancy stuff. You can't tell
what he's on about,' she said. She skimmed through
the book, pausing here and there. 'There doesn't
seem anything in it anyway.'

'Then can
I
read it?' I asked.

'No, you can't! And you wouldn't understand a
word of it anyway,' said Biddy.

Again I didn't argue. I waited until I was in our
flat on my own, and then I flew to the bookcase
and started reading – and reading and reading and
reading. It was a revelation. I hadn't known
language could be used in such a rich and elegant
way. I whispered each sentence, tasting the words
on my tongue.

I knew I simply
had
to read the whole novel. I
was a fast reader but I couldn't possibly whiz through
it before Biddy came home from work. The dust
jacket was a distinct brown, with the word LOLITA
in enormous capitals on the front. The solution was
simple. I took the cover off, and swapped it for a
Catherine Cookson novel of a similar size.

I took my disguised copy of
Lolita
everywhere,
reading it at the tea table, on the bus, in the
playground. If any of my friends glanced curiously
over my shoulder, they didn't see anything on the
page to make them gasp or giggle. It wasn't a
so-called 'dirty book', one to pass round with all
the rude pages carefully marked with old bus
tickets. Humbert and Lolita were alarmingly
real
.
Lolita was very like some of the tough, pretty, scary
girls at school and I thought I understood why
Humbert was so enchanted by her. I wasn't
particularly shocked, just enormously interested.
It's strange, nowadays I find the whole story so
troubling, so distressingly offensive, that I can't
bear to read it. I strongly recommend that you don't
read it either. It's truly not a book for children.

Very occasionally a child
wrote
a book that got
published. When I was nine or ten I'd enjoyed
reading Pamela Brown's
The Swish of the Curtain
,
written in her early teens. I was very impressed –
but there was a good five-year gap between us then.
But that June when I was fourteen I borrowed a
book called
Strange Evil
from the library.

Monday 13 June

At the moment I'm reading a book by a fourteen-year-
old, Jane Gaskell. The girl's a genius. She must
be terribly mature for her age: I won't be ready to
attempt to write a book for at least another four years.

I don't know why I wrote that. I seemed to be
starting to write a book almost every week of 1960
– starting, but never finishing!

I was often inspired to write by the book I was
currently reading.

Saturday 16 January

I did a little homework like a good girl and then
read some more of 'I Capture the Castle' by Dodie
Smith. It is a very good book. I also started writing
a story. It has its possibilities.

Sunday 17 January

I continued writing my story. I'm quite pleased with
it. The trouble is that I'm neglecting my homework
because of it.

I wish I'd said what the story was
about
. I wrote
hundreds of thousands of words when I was twelve,
thirteen, fourteen, fifteen . . . and they've nearly
all vanished now. I threw them out myself, ashamed
because they were so childish, so awkward, so
derivative. Biddy frequently had a purge of my
possessions too in one of her regular spring cleans.
Once or twice as I got older she sneakily read
something that infuriated or offended her in my
diaries and journals and notebooks and she threw
them down the rubbish chute.

However, she didn't ever throw any of my
writing away if it was in a school notebook, so
The
Story of Latina
survived. Maybe Biddy thought it
was an English project rather than my own private
scribbling. I think I'd probably stolen the big blue
notebook from the school stationery cupboard.

At the top of the first page I wrote in capitals
'A BOOK OF TEN STORIES FOR TEENAGERS' which
seemed overly ambitious. I only managed thirteen
pages and three lines of the first story, and that
was mostly preliminary passages before Latina
herself came into the story.
Latina!
Why did I make
up such a weird name? I didn't like Latin, I hated
it. I suppose Latina was one stage better than
Mathematica! I just had time for a detailed
description of Latina before I lost interest in
the story.

Her eyes gazed into his, a soft, intelligent bright
blue, which reminded him very much of the sea for
although they were now calm and peaceful they had
tints of violet, green, grey and black which showed
they could change colour in accordance to her mood.
They appeared big in her pointed sensitive face
which was framed with a tumble of dark straight
hair that fell in a cascade past her shoulders. She
was of average height as far as he could judge, and
slim. Her skin was a golden tan and she wore a
faded cotton dress.

I rather think I must have based Latina on a
clay model of a girl's head that I'd had as a holiday
present from St Ives. I called
her
Tasmania
(goodness knows why – I think I just wanted it to
sound exotic) and kept her on my bedside table.
While I did my homework or wrote my stories, my
hand would reach out and I'd stroke Tasmania's
shiny black hair, smooth her arched clay eyebrows,
and finger her pointed chin.

Now here she was, re-christened with an even
odder name and given an indeterminate age. I had
her at fourteen at first, but I clearly intended her
to have a full-blooded romance with my hero so I
added another three years to make it more
respectable.

I called my hero Alan. I was still feeling very
fond of the Alan who had been my boyfriend when
I was in Year Six at Latchmere, my primary school.
My fictional Alan was a grown man, not a young
boy, and, as the opening pages make clear, going
through a pretty traumatic time. I'll embarrass
myself and give you another quote:

As soon as Alan found out, after thinking for a
while and knowing that he could not keep it a secret,
he notified the authorities and then returned home.
He undressed and had a shower and a shave, and
redressed in clean underwear, clean blue open-necked
shirt and navy trousers, and an old
windcheater. His socks were also clean, and his
sandals well polished. A knife in a sheath was fixed
to his belt, a comb, handkerchief, map, wallet and
some chocolate went into his trouser pockets and
his windcheater pockets were filled with a packet
of sandwiches, and two bottles, one containing
brandy and one of plain water. He then packed a
small case with a change of clothes, pyjamas and
washing things.

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.