Lena Jones - The Secret Key

‘ We’re in the middle of something? ’ Ruth sing-songs back at me. ‘Well, get in the middle of this – SCRAT.’ She brings her face up-close-and-personal and I automatically spring back. She picks up the book I’m reading from the table – Poisonous Plants of the British Isles – and shoves it into my chest.

‘Enough messing around,’ Brianna joins in, ‘get out, Agatha. Get going.’ She pushes my shoulder.

I brush my blazer as though some dirt has landed there. ‘Come on, Liam,’ I say, gathering my things. ‘We’re outnumbered.’ And then I mutter under my breath, ‘Physically, if not mentally.’

By the time the CCs realise they’ve been insulted, we’ve already left the room. The door slams behind us. I sigh, letting my frustration show.

‘You OK, Aggie?’

‘Yes … thanks, Liam.’ I shrug. Sometimes I hate St Regis more than anywhere in the world. My first school, Meadowfield Primary, was so different. The buildings might have been falling down and there was never enough money for new books, but it had been bright and friendly, and the teachers had encouraged all of us just to get along. I had a nickname there – The Brain – which hadn’t been a bad thing. It was a dumb nickname, but secretly I had liked it. At Meadowfield, being brainy was OK. When nobody else knew the answer to a question, they’d turn to me. Then had come the scholarship to St Regis that my teacher had put me forward for. I almost hadn’t shown it to Dad. When he saw the letter, he’d said it would be silly not to at least take the test. He’d been right, hadn’t he? There was nothing to lose. Even if they offered me a place, I could still turn it down, right? And they probably wouldn’t offer me a place anyway, would they?

I took the test.

I won the scholarship.

Dad sent a letter back, saying I would accept, starting in September.

I had been excited about going to a prestigious school at first. My new school had more money floating around than Meadowfield could have ever dreamed of. New computers, new classrooms, spotless walls and carpets. But in this place of shiny things, it was me who ended up seeming shabby. It didn’t matter whether I was brainy. In fact, it didn’t matter whether I was kind or funny or whatever else might have made me the person I was. I just didn’t fit, until I met Liam …

I’d been sitting in the canteen (or refectory , as they preferred) of St Regis, eating lunch, when I pulled the Sunday Times from my satchel and started trying to do the cryptic crossword.

13 down – Calling for business meeting, talker gets excited.

‘Perhaps “calling” means a telephone call.’ A voice came from across the table. I jumped – I hadn’t realised that I’d been thinking out loud. I looked up and saw a boy my own age who I recognised from class. His name was Liam Lau. I don’t think I’d heard him speak once, except to answer ‘present’ when register was called.

‘Sorry, did I startle you?’

‘No, I … I just didn’t realise I was talking to myself.’

He smiled. ‘Do you do that often?’

‘Maybe. Sometimes.’

‘Me too.’ He nodded, grinning. ‘They say it’s the first sign of madness.’

‘Hmm … Maybe you’re right about “calling” being a telephone call.’ I said. Then, as though my brain had suddenly decided to co-operate – ‘Oh, and what if “excite” means “jumble” – there might be an anagram in there?’

‘Yes, that sounds good … Hmm, what about “meeting talker”?’ Liam said. ‘That’s the right number of letters.’

We both stared at the letters M E E T I N G T A L K E R for a long moment. Then, together, we both shouted –

‘Telemarketing!’

I was grinning as I took up my pen and put the answer in.

‘Agatha …’

Liam’s voice shakes me out of the memory. Here we are, almost a year later. I’m still a social outcast, but I have Liam as a friend. I look at him. ‘Yes?’

‘Promise me something?’

‘What?’ I ask.

‘Try not to get expelled tomorrow?’

I roll my eyes. ‘I promise.’

He grins. ‘Come on, then – you can walk me to the bus stop.’

I’ve just finished liquidising a pile of vegetables when Dad walks into the kitchen, begrimed with mud and smelling of manure. I’d forgotten my tiredness in the excitement of making something new.

‘What on earth are you doing, Aggie?’

‘Making dinner,’ I say.

‘With all the green mush, I thought it might be some kind of science experiment,’ he laughs.

I sigh – Dad can be soooo closed-minded sometimes. He isn’t a bad cook, but he isn’t a very good one, either. I often make dinner for the two of us, but it’s usually one of his favourites – something easy, like sausages and mash or beans on toast. Who can blame me for wanting to try something different for a change? I’d found a dog-eared copy of Escoffier’s Le Guide Culinaire from a bookshop on the Charing Cross Road, and then spent an evening trying to decode his instructions from the original French. Dad looks over at the wreckage, shaking his head, and trudges off to get clean.

Dad – Rufus to everyone but me – has been a Royal Park warden since he left school at sixteen. He’s worked his way up to the position of head warden of Hyde Park, so we live in Groundskeeper’s Cottage. Still, even though Dad’s in charge, he refuses to let others do all the dirty work and is never happier than when he’s got his sleeves rolled up and is getting his hands dirty. He reappears in a fresh shirt, smelling strongly of coal-tar soap, which is an improvement from the manure. He looks over at the food I’m making, stroking his gingery-blond beard.

‘What … is it?’

‘Vegetable mousse, with fillets of trout, decked with prawns and chopped chervil.’

‘Looks quite fancy, love.’

‘Just try it – you’ll never know if you like it otherwise.’

Dad shrugs and sits down.

I’ve been saving up for weeks for the ingredients. Dad gives me pocket money in exchange for a couple of hours shovelling compost at the weekend so it’s been a hard earn. But it’s worth it – everyone should have a chance to try the better things in life, shouldn’t they? Dad reaches for his fork, staring at the plate. He searches for something diplomatic to say, and fails. ‘It’s not very English.’

I smile.

‘Poirot says something like, “the English do not have a cuisine, they only have the food,”’ I recalled.

He groans at the mention of my favourite detective. I go on about Hercule Poirot so much that Agatha Christie’s great detective is a bit of a sore spot for Dad.

‘You and those books, Agatha! Not everything that Poirot says is gospel, you know.’

I ignore this last comment and plonk a plate of the fish and veg medley in front of him. He takes a fork of everything, and I do the same.

‘ Bon appetit! ’ I smile, and we eat together.

Something is wrong. Something is very wrong.

I look to Dad, and I’m impressed by how long he manages to keep a straight face.

Something awful is happening to my taste buds. I can’t bring myself to swallow for a long moment, and then I force it down, gagging.

‘I may have … mistranslated.’

Dad swallows, eyes watering.

‘Might I have a glass of water, please?’

When the last of the mousse has been scraped into the bin, we go off to buy fish and chips. I decide not to paraphrase Poirot’s thoughts on fish and chips, that ‘when it is cold and dark and there is nothing else to eat, it is passable’. I don’t think Dad would be amused and, besides, I really like fish and chips.