Read Online Tell Me No Secrets by Julie Corbin - Free Book Online

‘I’m a bad influence on you.’ He kicks dirt up on to his trousers. ‘Mum says I have to give you a wide berth.’
    I am mortified and I try to explain that I’ll win my mother round. He’s not interested. I feel angry and then unbearably sad, my chest aching as if I’ve been punched. I don’t join in with the skipping. I scuff my new sandals along the ground and watch Euan play football with the other boys.
    I spend the next month going to Faye’s after school. She won’t play outside or climb trees. She says the sea’s too cold to paddle in. She doesn’t have dogs or chickens or Effie the goat and her sister is always correcting me. ‘It’s not shined it’s shone . . . Don’t put your elbows on the table . . . It’s please may I, not can I!’
    We have tea at five but I won’t eat so I spend evening after evening with a full plate in front of me. After a couple of weeks of this, I grow tired and listless and my mother has to do the thing she hates most – take time off work – because I can’t go to school.
    I move three peas on top of a pile of potato and pat it down with my fork. ‘I hate Faye and I hate her sister,’ I say. ‘I’m not going there any more.’
    â€˜How about the new girl, Orla?’ my mother asks, in her too bright voice.
    I shake my head. ‘I don’t know her yet.’
    â€˜How about Monica? She’s a lovely, clever girl.’
    I scream so loudly that my father comes through from the living room. ‘What’s going on in here?’
    My mother is scouring the pots. She doesn’t turn around, just carries on scrubbing. ‘She’s acting up again.’
    â€˜Then perhaps we should listen,’ my father says to my mother’s stiff back. ‘What sense is there in all this misery?’
    â€˜Misery? Who’s causing the misery?’ She bangs the pressure cooker down on to the draining board. ‘Always wanting her own way.’
    â€˜Lillian!’ my father bellows and I force a forkful of food into my mouth. It catches in my throat and makes a lump as if I’ve just swallowed a gobstopper. ‘She’s eight years old. She’s making herself ill. Now climb down from that high horse of yours and go next door to Mo.’
    â€˜I will not!’ my mother shouts back, turning round at last, her mouth twisted, her eyes wide open and fierce. ‘I will not, Mungo! She will not run this house with her tantrums and her temper.’
    Before my father has a chance to shout back, I bolt from the table and up the stairs, spit the potato into the toilet and sit with my hands over my ears until I can no longer hear the muffled sound of their voices.
    Minutes later, the kitchen door bangs shut. I run to the back window and watch my mother walk down the path and into Mo’s garden. I can only hear snatches of words . . . wilful . . . wearing me out . . . was wrong . Halfway through my mother puts her hands over her face. Mo reaches out and hugs her like she does with children. She gives her a handkerchief and my mother blows her nose then comes back to the house. I hold my breath. She comes into my room. She doesn’t speak, just looks at me. I clutch her around the waist, tight as I can, then run down the stairs. My father glances up from his paper and I catch his smile as I whizz past him. I run through the gate and into Mo’s arms.
    She laughs and pushes me away from her. ‘You’ll be knocking me over next.’
    I jump up and down. ‘Where’s Euan?’
    â€˜Down by the cove. And don’t forget your bucket!’ she calls after me.
    Still running, I lift the pail and shout back, ‘I love you, Mo,’ then head off down the beach. The wind whips at my dress, my hair. I run barefoot, making squidgy footprints on the sand, my arms aeroplaning either side of me.
    I