John Harwood: The Ghost Writer

I knew exactly what my mother would say. But Miss Juliet Summers sounded warm and friendly, and I ended up writing her several pages-I even talked about Staplefield-asking her to find me a girl penfriend. I did the whole thing in a rush, knowing I mustn't give myself time to think, so that it was only on my way back from the post office that I realised my mother would almost certainly see the reply before I did.

Sure enough, when I got home on the Friday of the first dismal week of school, she was hovering in the hall, clutching an envelope. The skin around her nostrils looked taut and shiny.

'There's a letter for you, Gerard,' she said accusingly. 'Shall I open it for you?'

'No. Can I have it please, Mother?'

This would normally have been met with 'No thank you, Mother -she hated 'Mum' and would not have the word in the house-and ' May I have it please, Mother?' But today she just stood there, glancing from me to the envelope, which she was holding so that I could not see the writing on it.

Suddenly I understood that, for the first time in my life, the high moral ground was mine.

'Please may I have my letter now; Mother?' I repeated.

Slowly, reluctantly, she held it out to me. 'Penfriends International'. The envelope was crumpled where her finger and thumb had gripped it.

'Thank you, Mother,' I said, retreating towards my room. But she was not finished with me.

'Gerard, have you been giving anyone our address?'

'No, Mother.'

'Then how did they know where to send it?'

I was about to say, I don't know, when I saw where this was leading. Taking a letter from the box and answering it without telling her, even a letter addressed to me, would count as being sneaky and dishonest. I could feel the high moral ground subsiding beneath me.

'I-I saw it on a noticeboard at school,' I improvised. 'About the penfriends.'

'Did Mrs Broughton give you permission to write to them?'

'No, Mother, I just… wanted a penfriend.'

'So you did give them our address.'

'I s'pose so-yes,' I muttered, choosing what seemed the lesser evil.

'You had no right to do that. Without asking me first. And where did you get the stamp?'

'I bought it with my pocket money.'

'I see… Gerard'-in her take-no-prisoners voice of command-'I want you to show me that letter.'

I was afraid that if I did, I would never see it again.

'Mother, you've always said that letters are private… why aren't I allowed to read my own letter?' My voice broke upwards into a squeak on the last word.

Her colour rose; she glared, turned on her heel and walked away.

THE LETTER WAS TYPED, BUT IT WAS NOT FROM MISS Summers.

Dear Gerard,

I hope you don't mind, but Miss Summers sent me your letter to read (she sent lots of others too, but yours was the only one I really liked), and you sounded so much like the penfriend I've been hoping for that I asked her if I could write straight back to you myself. Of course you don't have to answer if you don't like the sound of me!

My name is Alice Jessell, I'll be fourteen this March and like you I'm an only child, except that both my parents are dead, we were in a car crash together. I know maybe I shouldn't write this bit straight away but I want to get it over with. Anyway you might not want to read any more, so it's only fair, as long as you know that I'm definitely not looking for sympathy and I don't ever, ever want you to feel sorry for me, just to be my penfriend if you'd like to. So as I was saying my parents were both killed in the accident, which happened about three years ago. I survived because I was in the back seat, but my spinal cord was damaged so I can't walk. My arms are OK though-I only type because my writing's really hard to read, and already I can type much faster than I could ever write. And because we didn't have any relatives or anything I had to go into a home-I know how awful this must sound and of course it was unbelievably unbearably awful at first. But it's a really lovely place, in the countryside, in Sussex. The insurance money pays for me to be here, I even have my own lessons so I don't have to go to school, and a beautiful upstairs room all to myself, looking out over fields and trees and things.

So now I've said it. I really do mean it, about not wanting sympathy, I want you to think of me if you can-only if you want to be my friend of course-as a normal person who just wants to share normal things. I don't watch TV or listen to pop music I'm afraid but I love reading-it sounds as if you do too and I'd love to have someone my own age to talk about books with. (Most of the other people here are very nice, but much older than me.) And to sort of be part of someone else's life, and be their friend. Anyway that's enough about that.

There's snow on the fields right now, but it's a bright sunny day, there are squirrels running up and down the big oak tree outside my window, and three plump little birds on the windowsill, they're singing so loudly I can hear them over the clatter of the keys! Actually where I am sounds a little bit like the place where your mother grew up-a big red brick house in the countryside with woods and fields around it. Mawson sounds awfully dry and hot! Sorry, that sounds a bit rude, I mean I'm sure its lovely, just so different from here.

Anyway I'd better stop and give this to Matron (she's more like an aunt, really) to send on to Miss Summers, that's because Penfriends International are a sort of charity, they pay the airmail postage. So if you want to, write to me care of Miss Summers, and then every time she sends on one of your letters to me, she'll enclose some reply coupons to post back to you-that way you won't have to buy stamps. Our letters will be completely private.

I really must stop right now. Before I panic and crumple this up for maybe making a complete idiot of myself.

Sincerely,

Alice

P.S. I think Gerard is a really nice name.

I lay on my bed and read Alice's letter over and over again. She sounded incredibly, unbelievably brave, and yet I realised I truly didn't feel sorry for her. Sympathy, yes; but even though being an orphan in a wheelchair did sound unbearably awful, her letter made me feel as if I'd come in out of the dark on a freezing night, not knowing how cold I'd been until I felt the heat of the fire.

Reading other people's letters is a terrible sin. But it hadn't stopped me from trying to open that drawer again. I looked around my room for a hiding-place. Under my mattress? On top of my wardrobe? Behind the books in my bookcase? Nowhere was safe. I thought again about how brave Alice must be, and felt suddenly ashamed of being thirteen and a half, starting second year high school and still too scared to tell my mother that yes, I did have a penfriend, and no, I wasn't going to show her my letter.

But facing the full blast of my mother's disapproval at dinner that night, I also had to face, for the thousandth time, the fact that I really was a coward.

'Mother I want to, I mean please may I-write to my um…'

'You will not be writing to anyone, Gerard. I'm still waiting for you to give me that letter.'

'Mother, you've always told me it's wrong to read other people's…' Again my voice betrayed me. My mother was visibly swelling. Sensing imminent meltdown, my father concentrated on his chop-bone.

' I am going to read that letter, because you are going to give it to me. Who is this penfriend, anyway?'

'She's-she's a-'

'A girl? You won't be writing to any girl, Gerard, not until I've seen that letter and written to her mother myself.'

'She doesn't have a mother,' I blurted. 'She's an orphan-in a home.' It felt like betraying Alice, but I saw where my only chance lay.