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  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Jennifer’s Diary

  Anne Fine was born and educated in the Midlands, and now lives in County Durham. She has written numerous highly acclaimed and prize-winning books for children and adults. Her novel The Tulip Touch won the Whitbread Children’s Book of the Year Award; Goggle-Eyes won the Guardian Children’s Fiction Award and the Carnegie Medal, and was adapted for television by the BBC; Flour Babies won the Carnegie Medal and the Whitbread Children’s Book of the Year Award; Bill’s New Frock won a Smarties Prize, and Madame Doubtfire has become a major feature film.

  www.annefine.co.uk

  Some other books by Anne Fine

  Books for Younger Readers

  Care of Henry

  Countdown

  Design-a-Pram

  The Diary of a Killer Cat

  The Haunting of Pip Parker

  Loudmouth Louis

  Notso Hotso

  Only a Show

  Press Play

  Roll Over Roly

  The Same Old Story Every Year

  Scaredy-Cat

  Stranger Danger?

  The worst child I ever had

  Books for Middle-range Readers

  The Angel of Nitshill Road Anneli the Art Hater

  Bill’s New Frock The Chicken Gave It To Me

  The Country Pancake

  Crummy Mummy and Me

  How to Write Really Badly

  A Pack of Liars

  A Sudden Glow of Gold

  A Sudden Pujj of Glittering Smoke

  A Sudden Swirl of Icy Wind

  ANNE FINE

  Jennifer’s Diary

  Illustrated by Kate Aldous

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2

  Penguin Books India (P) Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India.

  Penguin Books (NZ) Ltd, Cnr Rosedale and Airborne Roads, Albany, Auckland, New Zealand

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  www.penguin.com

  First published by Hamish Hamilton 1996

  Published in Puffin Books 1997

  23

  Text copyright © Anne Fine, 1996

  Illustrations copyright © Kate Aldous, 1996

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author and illustrator has been asserted

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN:978-0-14-192794-7

  Chapter One

  “IOLANTHE.”

  “What?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m writing, aren’t I? You can see I am. Here’s the paper in front of me. This is the pen in my hand.”

  Jennifer sighed.

  “I know you’re writing, Iolanthe.

  I just want to know what you’re writing.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it might give me an idea.”

  That’s the trouble with Jennifer. No ideas. Two legs, two arms, a pretty face – but no imagination. None at all.

  “I’m writing a story about a sheep called Hector who’s suddenly realized he’s going to be eaten.”

  Jennifer peered over my shoulder, and read aloud.

  And so I lay forlornly in my sheep pen, reflecting on the sad fate of all who had lain there before me.

  “That’s very good.”

  “Yes,” I said. “That’s why I want to get on with it.”

  She sighed again.

  “I can’t think of anything to write.”

  She never can.

  “I haven’t even started.”

  Surprise, surprise.

  “You think of something for me.”

  “Jennifer!”

  She shut up for a bit. I carried on, through Hector’s desperate dawn escape, his daring capture of the farmer and his wife, the barbecue, and then the visit from the farm inspector.

  “And how are Mr and Mrs Crool?”

  “Excellent,” said Hector. “Very, very tasty. I think the ducklings got the sauce just right.”

  Now Jennifer was leaning over my arm again.

  “Have the animals eaten them?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  She seemed amazed.

  “How did you think of that?”

  “I just did.”

  “I don’t know how you do it,” she said crossly. “Miss Hardie says ‘Write a story’ and I sit here and can’t think of a single word to write. You just pick up your pen and out it pours. Sensitive sheep. Cruel farmers. Cannibal cows. And I can’t think of anything. It’s not fair.”

  There must be something between Jennifer’s ears. She can do maths, and learn poems, and even play the piano.

  But every time I hear that old wail of hers (“I can’t think of anything to write”), I want to tape her mouth shut. Or fine her fifty pence. Or move, and sit by Sarah. Or complain to Miss Hardie. Or change schools. Or slice off the top of Jennifer’s head, and fill her brain up to overflowing with some of my leftover ideas.

  I have too many of them. That’s my trouble.

  Chapter Two

  WHEN WE WERE getting ready to go home, I found a rainbow-coloured book on the floor. I picked it up and asked Jennifer, “Did this fall out of your pocket?”

  She put her hand out for it.

  “Oh, thank you, Iolanthe.”

  I turned the pretty book over.

  “What is it? Is it new?”

  “It’s a present,” she said. “A diary. From my Aunt Muriel. Every single day of the year has a whole glossy blank page to itself, so you can write in it.”

  “And what have you put in it so far?”

  “Nothing much,” she admitted.

  I opened it at the first page.

  Jan 1st. It was quite cold today.

  I turned the page. January 2nd was still blank. And so was January 3rd. But on January 4th, she’d spilled out all her secrets.

  Mum and I went to the shops.

  “So what did you buy,” I asked her, “on January 4th?”

  She stared at me.

  “I can’t remember.”

  “You should have put it in the diary,” I said. “That’s what it’s for.”

  She snatched it back.

  “You know I’m no good at writing.”

  “That’s ideas for Miss Hardie,”

  I said. “But this is a diary. You didn’t have to make things up. You could have just written down what happened.”

  “Not much did.”

  “Then you could have written something else in it,” I said. “Like Inner Thoughts.”

  She looked as blank as January 2nd.

  “Inner Thoughts?”

  “You know,” I said. “Things like Unspoken Fears. Private Worries. Secret Hopes. Everyone has those.”

  Jennifer gave me a funny look
, as if to say, ‘Maybe you do, Iolanthe. But /don’t.’ Then she went off, to walk home with Sarah. I go the other way. So when I saw the diary on the ground again, just outside school, instead of chasing after the two of them to give it back, I picked it up and took it home with me.

  Diaries are deeply private. I know that.

  So it sat on the table while I was having tea, and I didn’t even touch it.

  It sat on the arm of the sofa while I was watching telly. I didn’t even peep inside.

  And it sat on the laundry basket while I was having my bath. I didn’t even nose through the pages, looking for good bits I’d missed.

  I didn’t crack until bedtime. Then I read all the bits I’d read before, while Jennifer was watching. (Jan 1st. It was quite cold today. Blank. Blank. Jan 4th. Mum and I went to the shops.) The next two pages were just two more blanks. Then:

  Jan 7th. Nothing much happened.

  And that was that.

  I’m serious. I turned over every page, and there was no more. Not a single word. And it’s the eleventh today.

  Sad life.

  Chapter Three

  I ONLY WROTE in it because it was there. I wasn’t being spiteful. It’s just that I was tucked up in my bed, not at all tired, with nothing else to do. My pen was practically waving at me out of my school bag. And the next page in the diary was so smooth and white and empty, it seemed to be begging for help.

  “Help! Help!”

  The words still ring in my ears.

  “Help! Help!”

  Today (January 11 th) I saved a little boy’s life. I’m not that brave. In fact. Ulolanthe, who sits next to me in class, often says I’m a wimp. But when I saw that poor child drowning in the river on the way to school, I didn’t stop to think. I just tore off my clothes, and jumped, in my knickers, into the freezing water.

  The boy was panicking.

  “Stop struggling,” I warned. “Or I’ll have to knock you out.”

  He kept on thrashing, so I bopped him, hard. His eyes rolled horribly, but he was no more trouble. So slowly, slowly I hauled him back to the bank, and dragged him out.

  A woman flew out of the bushes.

  “My son!” she cried. “My own dear son!

  How cold and wet you are!”

  She scooped him up, and ran off towards a little house some way along the river.

  I wondered whether to go after her. But then the school bell rang.

  Five to nine!

  Quickly, I pulled on my clothes and ran. My knickers are still wet. But otherwise I’m fine. Just happy to have saved a life. And happy I wasn’t late.

  Good story, I thought. And it just fitted neatly on the page. So how was I to know it was going to cause so much trouble? How was I to know Miss Hardie would look round the classroom the very next morning, and then pick on Jennifer?

  “Remember those stories I asked you all to write yesterday? Jennifer, why don’t you read us yours?”

  Jennifer looked anxious.

  “I didn’t really get started,” she admitted.

  Miss Hardie looked so cross that I thought I’d better come to Jennifer’s rescue.

  “She was too busy writing in her diary,” I explained.

  “Right, then,” Miss Hardie said cheerfully. “Why don’t you read us some of that instead?”

  Jennifer picked it up, and flicked through the first few pages.

  “There isn’t really much in it.”

  Miss Hardie was getting cross again now.

  “Well, read it anyway,” she snapped.

  So Jennifer began to read.

  “Jan I st. It was quite cold today. Jan 4th. Mum and I went to the shops.”

  Her voice trailed off. She turned the next few pages rather hopelessly, waiting for Miss Hardie’s explosion. And then, suddenly, like manna from heaven, she came across my bit.

  “Help! Help!”

  The words still ring in my ears.

  I thought she read the story out rather well, considering it came as such a surprise. I couldn’t understand why she got so ratty after. Everyone was crowding round her, telling her how brave she was, and how exciting it must have been, and how rude the boy’s mother was not to come back and say thank you to the person who had just saved her poor son from a watery grave.

  And all Jennifer could do was hiss at me tearfully:

  “How could you, Iolanthe! Wet knickers! I’ve never had wet knickers in my life!”

  Chapter Four

  WE MADE UP later that morning. We had to, because Miss Hardie got so fed up with the noise, she made everybody in the class settle down and write a story called Time Travel.

  Jennifer was stuck, and I needed to borrow her second-best ballpoint.

  “I’ll only lend it to you if you share your idea with me.”

  “I’ll only share my idea with you if you stop being mad at me.”

  “All right.”

  “All right.”

  So I shared my idea with her. It was brilliant.

  “Pretend we have to come back to school in fifty years’ time, for Open Day. Just write down what you think this place will be like by the time you and I are about sixty.”

  She stared at me admiringly.

  “You’re so clever, Iolanthe.”

  “Yes, I am,” I said. But she didn’t look shocked, like she usually does when I say that, because she’d already started. I read it over her shoulder. It was really dull. All about how much taller the trees had grown, and how the entrance hall was painted blue now, not green. And how all the pupils had tiny computers built into their desks, and the teachers took them on rocket trips to the moon instead of bus rides to the museum.

  “Stop reading over my shoulder,”she complained. “Get on with your own work.”

  So I did.

  It hardly seems over half a century since I was last here, I wrote. Personally, I still feel, and look, like the vibrant and beautiful young girl I was then. But the rust on the old school gates is something shocking. And, golly, there’s been some litter dropped in sixty years. I had to wade through lolly wrappers to reach the front door.

  And what a shock greeted me there!

  Miss Hardie (far too old to teach, poor dear) almost fell off her zimmer frame trying to open the door to me. Her hair was snowy-white. The veins on her hands looked like tree roots. Her ill-fitting false teeth clacked horribly as she spoke.

  “Who is it?”

  She peered at me blindly. Then:

  “Is it –? Can it be – ? Yes!” she cried in her cracked and quavering old voice. “It’s lolanthe Jones! Come in, my dear! How lovely to see you! You were always my favourite pupil.”

  I smiled my usual modest smile as Miss Hardie’s lined face suddenly became even more wrinkled.

  “Now, who was that little girl who used to sit next to you, lolanthe? That poor, pathetic creature who could never think of any –

  Sensing danger, I looked up. Jennifer was watching me very closely indeed.

  — names for her pet kittens, I wrote hastily.

  I thought I’d be safe with that.

  (Jennifer’s allergic to fur.) But, no. She went straight into a giant sulk.

  “You’re horrible, lolanthe,” she said. “You’re so mean that I’m phoning my mum to tell her not to bother to come and pick me up at lunchtime. Because I won’t need to go shopping for a new frock, because I’m not coming to your party.”

  “You can’t phone her. The phone’s broken. And I wasn’t being mean. I wasn’t writing about you. I was writing about a person I haven’t even sat by yet. That’s what Time Travel’s all about.”

  I don’t know if she believed me. I know she didn’t try to phone. But, then again, I didn’t really expect her to, because if there’s one thing that Jennifer absolutely loves, it’s a party.

  Even one of mine.

  Chapter Five

  IT WAS HER own fault for getting back so late. If she’d been here, I’d have been able to do the same as everyone else, and w
ork in a pair. But since I was a leftover, Miss Hardie said firmly, “Do something useful while you’re waiting, Iolanthe.”

  So I wrote in the diary. I wrote in the diary because no one else was using it. All Jennifer had written was: Jan 13th. The sky’s a bit pink today.

  I started on January 14th.

  “No! Not pink! Never pink!”

  “Please, Mother,” I begged. “Oh, let me buy a pink frock to go to lolanthe’s party.”

  My mother shrieked in horror.

  “No! Never pink! Not after what happened to your Great Aunt Lucy.”

  “What happened to Great Aunt Lucy?”

  “It’s too terrible to tell.”

  I begged. I pleaded. I even wept. And, finally, my mother told me.

  “Your Great Aunt Lucy knew that we had a ghost. Dozens of people had seen The Child In Pink. She floated in and out of walls, and groaned at midnight, and on the stormiest nights her sobs were heard in the nursery. Everyone knew her story. She was a disobedient child. Her mother had told her a hundred times: ‘Stay away from the nasty dark cellars.’ But would she listen? No! She wandered in and out, and one day, she got lost and disappeared.”

  “What did they do?”

  “They searched, of course. High and low, calling her name. But by the time they found her, she was dead. Quite dead!”

  “Quite dead?”

  “Well, not quite dead, because from that day on, she haunted them. In and out of walls. Groaning and sobbing. Until the day your Great Aunt Lucy wore pink to go to a party. Lucy put on her frock, and then, with half an hour to spare, she wandered off, down to the cellars.”

  “No!”

  “Yes! And just like The Child In Pink, she wandered in and out of cold dark places. Some say she saw a child her own age, beckoning. And others say she heard a sweet little voice. “Don’t go to that party. Come to mine!”All that we know is that your Great Aunt Lucy was never seen alive again. And now, on stormy nights, instead of sobbing, we hear peals of laughter. At midnight, instead of groans, we hear two sweet voices singing. And instead of seeing one child in pink float through the walls, people see two, hand in hand. And people say –