Read Mad Joy for Free Online Page B

Gracie?’
    ‘Have a guess.’
    I scanned the photograph. They were a motley crew, it had to be said, with every kind of physical defect known to man, and mostly they looked completely surprised to be wearing pretty white dresses. I was sure I would find Gracie, because I’d seen pictures of her at home. And there, the eyes had it – there she was but … what a face! What a startled, smiling, youthful face! And the eyes, the old sad eyes I was so familiar with, now they sparkled prettily out of the picture from under a gloriously wide-brimmed hat. The same eyes. The very same, but transformed.
    ‘There – there she is.’
    ‘That’s right. And here’s
    Miss Wallock wittered on about every single girl in the line-up : who they married, where they were living now. I let her get on with it, then I said, ‘Wasn’t Gracie ever even in love? Not once?’
    Miss Wallock giggled again. ‘Heavens above, Joy Burrows! You do ask some questions!’ But it was clear I’d hit upon a topic she was interested in, and a wicked, conspiratorial look came to her face. ‘Well … there was someone … once.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Well … I couldn’t possibly say …’ She folded her lips together tightly and replaced the photograph in the sideboard drawer.
    ‘Was it a gentleman?’
    Her eyes widened. Yes, I definitely saw them widen. ‘ Whoever told you that? My goodness, wherever did you hear that?’
    ‘It’s true, then?’
    ‘Did Gracie say that?’
    ‘No. It is true, then?’
    She parked her wide behind next to mine on the piano stool, and looked at me full of secrets. ‘You’ll have to ask Gracie. I can’t go telling you things like that.’
    ‘Oh please , Miss Wallock.’
    ‘Certainly not. She’d never forgive me. No. If she got one sniff of it … one sniff … Some things are best left unsaid. Now find all the policeman Cs for me.’
    I gave her one last forlorn look, and played all the Cs on the keyboard.
    ‘And all the doggie Ds.’ She licked her finger to turn a page in the music book. What with the smell of her metallic breath, her soapy cardigan, and the overenthusiastic layer of polish on the piano, Miss Wallock’s was always a very odoriferous experience .
    At least I knew now that there was something Gracie hadn’t told me. I had caught the scent of mystery, and I was determined to track it down.

11
    It was in the summer of 1931 that I first began my own affair with the mysterious Buckleigh household, because that was the summer I first met Celia. It was one warm June evening after school – I was about eleven at the time – and a crowd of us were playing up by the gates: me, Mo, Tilly and Spit Palmer. Mo was still small and skinny, her younger sister was taller and more robust, and Spit was as sweet and quiet as ever. Spit stood with her back to the high dry stone wall and we lined up facing her:
    ‘Queenie, Queenie, who’s got the ball?
    Is she fat or is she tall?
    Or is she thin like a rolling pin?’
    Spit stood on one leg and chewed a plait, considering us.
    ‘Joy – handth.’
    I brought my hands round from behind my back, palms up.
    More chewing.
    ‘Mo – legth.’
    Mo parted her ankles, but no ball fell out of her knees or her thighs.
    ‘Wider.’
    Nothing.
    ‘Tilly—’
    ‘She’s thin like a rolling pin!’
    We all looked up to the voice and Spit turned to look up too, but we could see nothing.
    ‘Thin like a rolling pin!’ came the voice again. It was coming from behind the wall.
    We looked at each other, thrilled and wary. Spit backed away from the wall and came to stand with the rest of us.
    ‘Who’s there?’ asked Mo.
    After a short silence, as if the voice were considering what to do next, came the answer, ‘Me.’
    As we stood bewildered, a head appeared slowly above the upright stones at the top of the wall. It was a girl our age with the fine features of a porcelain doll and one long toffee-coloured plait.
    ‘I’m Celia! Tell me your names!’
    She seemed so pleased