Little Blue Book

The final paragraph gently came to rest on the page. A life time of secrets perfectly and privately captured within the world of my characters. My box of blue diaries sat neatly on the kitchen table. What was once a lively little box of tangled, wriggling memories was now as peaceful as a sleeping child. 60 years worth of diary writing compacted into one story. Hannah’s wet nose nudged my forearm. I must have been sitting too still. For the first time in many years, my mind was straight. My skin was calm. 

The door knocked. Tabatha was late, again. 

‘Cake, paper, dog food, kiss.’ She chimed. Arms full and shining into the hallway like 7am sunshine. She looked as bright as a little bell sounds.

‘Hello Tabatha.’ I smiled. 

‘Sorry I’m late. When’s you’re appointment again?’ 

‘I’m leaving now.’ I said. I kissed Tabatha on the cheek and took my paper. She bounced into the living room and was greeted by an equally bouncy Hannah. I’m unclear as to who was more excited to see whom, but I could hear a great chorus of giggles and barks as I stepped into my car. Most comforting. 

My doctors appointment was predictably useless. Ill informed, under prepared, full of assumptions and 82 minutes late. Some nonsense about a suspected stroke. I was glad to exit the surgery. I find I am gaining greater and greater pleasure leaving various appointments in my life than arriving. Perhaps my body and mind are preparing for death. The final exit. 

The completion of my book had provided a serene elation which was most energising, and yet I was also saddened. My greatest project, my swansong, was over. However, anyone who has carried a secret for longer than a day will know it increases in weight hourly. My secrets had been passed on, and no one had been harmed. I felt light. I felt blissful.

When I arrived home, I was surprised to find Hannah scratching at the door to escape before sprinting into the garden to defecate. She usually did that on a walk. Her collar and lead sat on the stairs. Unmoved. I walked through to the kitchen and found Tabatha sitting at my computer. 

‘Tabatha.’ I said, startling her out of what must have been a deep trance. I had left my laptop open. A fatal mistake.

‘Nan! I was just, I’m sorry but I couldn’t help noticing that you...’ she stood from my chair.

‘How much have you read?’ I asked. My coldness alarmed her. She edged backward toward the sink as I stepped forward.

‘Not much at all, I just sat down actually’ She lied. I raised an eyebrow. 

‘Alright. I read it all. I love your books Nan, I just thought I’d take a peek at what you’d written next and, well it’s bloody brilliant. It’s the best thing I’ve ever read, Nan. Its ace, it’s brutal, it’s clever, it’s fast, it’s everything.’ She paused. Tabatha then asked a very stupid question I only wished she had kept to herself. 

‘Is it you?’ She looked at me differently. She looked at me like I wasn’t her Grandmother, she looked at me with shock, intrigue, disgust and the hardest one to stomach; fear.’

I looked at her with equal scrutiny, and not as my precious baby’s baby with dimples like potholes and shining eyes, but as the young woman she had become. ‘Put the kettle on, Tabatha.’

There was a long silence. 

‘You must never talk of what you read in this book. It was not meant for others to read. You must never share. No one knew about my other life not even your mother. There are too many secrets. Promise me.’ 

‘I can’t do that.’ She replied. My heart quickened. I would rather not have to murder my own granddaughter but there was a great deal of state secrets embroiled in that story. It doesn’t matter which war, or what country, information may get old, but it never goes off.

‘Don’t be so stupid.’ I barked. Feeling the pressure. Feeling my skin begin to crawl once more. I had been so selfish. Bringing those secrets to life on the page would end me. Tabatha looked very pale.

‘It’s just, well, I sent it off to this short story competition I read about. It was so good I thought it might get you an award, or it might get you noticed, your stuff deserves to be seen and read, you know? I knew you weren’t going to do it so I thought I would. I thought for your 95th birthday maybe I could give you your big break. I was going to surprise you, that’s all.’

I’m not sure what happened after that, but when I came round the paramedic said something about being very healthy for my age and trying not to have too much scotch in the morning. Tabatha had gone, and thankfully, had closed the computer screen. 

Of course the book won the competition. It’s absolutely compelling. My life wasn’t a quiet one. I clapped, with Hannah perched on my lap, and we watched Tabatha collect her £20000 cash prize.

‘That’s my neighbour’s daughter.’ I said to the reporter to my left. I elevated my tone. 

‘Wonderful imagination.’ He said.

‘Pardon?’ I called. 

‘She has a wonderful imagination.’ He shouted. 

I looked around mischievously. ‘Don’t tell any of the reporters here because she’d kill me, but when we saw each other for a cup of tea last week she told me she got all the ideas from a set of diaries she found in a charity shop near Bletchley. Pretty dishy stuff apparently.’ 

‘Really?’ He said, greedily. 

I winked, then rose from my seat with Hannah in my arms. 

‘Going to the toilet.’ I mouthed.

The next morning I walked to the newsagents and smiled. There, in the Guardian, in cold, hard black and white; 

‘Little Blue Book. Could a reimagined war story from a collection of anonymous diaries be the most compelling novel of the decade? Tabatha Maddox tells us how she came to craft a masterpiece and what she has cooking for the sequel.’

I grinned. Poor dear. She hadn’t been totally sold on this plan having never written even a sentence of fiction to date, but preferred it to loss of life; hers or mine or both. Perhaps the whole experience would teach her not to ask such stupid questions, and would no doubt improve her punctuality. She would at least have my other novels to release every few years from now until she ‘retired.’  

Hannah tugged on the lead.