Apple of My Eye (12 page)

‘You’ll still be my best friend, won’t you?’ asked Charlotte as they lay in their beds on the last night of her stay. ‘Even though you’re crossing the Court.’

‘Of course. We’ll always be best friends.’

‘Promise.’

‘Is my finger wet? Is my finger dry? God strike me dead if I tell a lie.’

‘I wish God would strike Alice Wetherby dead.’

‘I wish he’d turn her into a cow. Then she’d have to stand in a field all day, trying to look superior as she poos cow pats.’

They both began to laugh, making so much noise that Charlotte’s mother had to shout upstairs for silence.

Uncle Andrew’s house had three floors. Uncle Andrew and her mother slept on the first floor. They had separate bedrooms. ‘I snore like a foghorn,’ Uncle Andrew explained. ‘Your poor mother would never get any sleep if she had to share with me.’ Susan, aware that her mother often slept badly, was pleased at the arrangement.

Her own bedroom was on the top floor at the end of a corridor that also included Uncle Andrew’s study and a bathroom in between. It was bigger than her last one with sensible furniture and a window looking out on to Kendleton Church. The bed was bigger too. ‘A grown up bed for a grown-up girl,’ said Uncle Andrew. Her toys and books lay in boxes on the floor. Her mother helped her unpack. ‘You must keep your room tidy, Susie. Uncle Andrew doesn’t like mess.’ She promised to try.

They ate supper in the dining room. Beef stew cooked by her mother. A favourite dish of her father’s that Uncle Andrew liked too. There were candles on the table and expensive chinaware. Uncle Andrew insisted that Susan be allowed a small glass of wine. ‘This is a celebration for me. It’s not every day I gain a new
family.’ The room was dark and austere with no photographs anywhere. The ones from Osborne Row were packed in boxes except for a picture of Susan’s father that she had insisted on having by her bed.

As they ate, Uncle Andrew told her about Paris. ‘There are wonderful cafés where artists draw your picture. One of them drew your mother and said I had the most beautiful wife in the world.’ Susan said that the artist had been right while her mother gave Uncle Andrew a quick peck on the cheek. He smiled but did not return the gesture.

‘Do you like this room?’ asked her mother while tucking her into bed.

‘I wish Smudge was here. He’ll be scared in the kitchen.’

‘I’m sure Uncle Andrew will soon let him stay up here with you. Remember that he’s never had an animal in his house before. Now settle down and happy dreams.’

The window was behind her bed. A full moon shone through a gap in the curtains, bathing the room in pale light. Everything looked strange and cold. She could not imagine sleeping one night here. But this was her home now and she would grow used to it in time.

Her father’s picture was on the bedside table. Hugging it to her chest, she shut her eyes and tried to sleep.

So began her life in Queen Anne Square.

In the weeks that followed a routine began to develop.

Each morning her mother would wake her. When
she had dressed the two of them would eat breakfast in the kitchen. Uncle Andrew, who worked in Oxford, had usually left the house before she rose, but sometimes he would allow himself a late start so that the three of them could eat together.

Her journey to school had changed. She had to cross Market Court and could not go and knock on Charlotte’s door as she once had. Generally her mother walked with her, but as she was a big girl of eight increasingly she walked alone. Sometimes Charlotte would come and wait for her at the Norman cross so that the two of them could go the rest of the way together, holding hands and bumping satchels just as they had in the old days.

The school day over, it was time for homework. One full hour between five and six. Uncle Andrew was very particular about this. When she had finished she would want to go and play with Charlotte but there was never enough time. Dinner was always at half past six and eaten in the dining room. Two other points on which Uncle Andrew was insistent. Charlotte’s family had a television and often ate in front of it but Uncle Andrew said that television killed the art of conversation and refused to have one in his house.

Not that there was much actual conversation. Uncle Andrew did most of the talking, describing the events of his day. Her father had been the same, though she did not remember him growing angry over incidents the way Uncle Andrew did. When his voice began to rise, she would start to feel anxious, but then he would
diffuse the tension with a joke and she would laugh and relax.

Occasionally there were guests for dinner. Clients of Uncle Andrew to whom she would be introduced and fussed over by. It was the same as when guests had visited her parents in Osborne Row, though she didn’t remember her father praising her quite as effusively as Uncle Andrew did. ‘Isn’t she beautiful?’ he would ask. ‘The loveliest child you’ve ever seen?’

The guests agreed that she was. ‘That’s because she takes after her mother,’ said one elderly man with sleepy eyes, causing Susan’s mother to blush and shake her head. Uncle Andrew told her not to be modest. ‘You are beautiful, darling. That artist in Paris said I had the most beautiful wife in the world. I’m going to have his drawing framed and hang it in my office.’ He was always talking about doing this yet never managed to find the time.

Twice, Charlotte had come to the house to play. On the second visit Lizzie Flynn came too and broke a vase. Uncle Andrew had flown into a rage, shouting at them, but when Charlotte burst into tears he had apologized and taken them out for milk shakes. ‘He didn’t mean to get angry,’ Susan’s mother told her afterwards. ‘He’d had a busy day at work and he’s not used to having lots of children in his house. Perhaps you should stop asking them to come over. Just for a little while, that’s all.’

She went to bed at eight o’clock, after her nightly bath. Her mother would always tuck her in. Smudge
continued to sleep in the kitchen. Her mother kept promising to ask Uncle Andrew about Smudge sleeping with her but never seemed to find the right moment.

Sometimes, late at night, she was woken by the sound of footsteps. Uncle Andrew coming upstairs to work in his study. She would lie in bed, watching the glow of the landing light through her door frame, and know that he was there.

One night the footsteps continued past the study, coming to a halt outside her door. She called out a greeting but was answered only by silence. The footsteps moved away, she went back to sleep, and in the morning her memory of the incident was so faint that it seemed like nothing but the fragments of a broken dream.

In May Aunt Ellen was taken ill.

It wasn’t serious, just a stomach bug, but Susan’s mother decided to visit for a weekend. She wanted to take Susan but Uncle Andrew persuaded her to change her mind. ‘She’ll be bored and besides I’ll be lonely without you. Susie will be company for me.’

Saturday was warm and sunny. In the morning they went for a drive, then walked in the woods which were full of bluebells. Uncle Andrew helped her pick some. They found the Golden Hind and she climbed into its branches while Uncle Andrew stayed on the ground, the two of them playing the game of exploration her father had invented. It still hurt to think about him but
not as much as it once had. The pain was fading just as Uncle Andrew had said it would.

They had lunch at a pub, sitting at an outside table, drinking Coca-Cola from bottles with straws. In the afternoon they went to the cinema to see an Elizabeth Taylor film. ‘You’re just as beautiful as she is,’ Uncle Andrew whispered as they sat together in the dark. ‘One day I’ll be watching you up there on that screen.’

‘That’s what my dad said,’ she whispered back.

‘Of course. He was very proud of you, Susie. Just as I am.’

That evening he cooked supper. Fish and chips. Her favourite meal. Later they sat together in the living room and he read her a story about smugglers, using different accents for different characters just as her father would have done. His voice was soft. It made her drowsy. The clock on the wall showed that it was past her bedtime. She waited for him to send her upstairs but he continued reading, stopping only to pour himself another brandy from the bottle on the table. As her yawns increased he put an arm around her, pulling her close, running his fingers through her hair. He felt warm and safe, just as her father had done. She rested her head against his chest, closed her eyes and drifted into sleep.

When she woke he was still stroking her hair.

She was lying in her bed, covered by blankets right up to her neck. He sat on its edge, facing her.

‘It’s time,’ he said.

The room was in semi-darkness. The only light came from her bedside lamp. As her tired eyes adapted she saw that he was wearing his dressing gown. Below it his legs were bare. How late was it? Was he going to bed too?

His hand slid through her hair, tugging at the curls, starting to caress her cheek. ‘You’re so beautiful. I’ve never seen anyone as beautiful as you.’ His fingers were clammy. They made her uncomfortable. She squirmed in bed, felt the sheets rub against her skin and realized that she was naked. Her pyjamas were kept under her pillow. Why wasn’t she wearing them? Did he not know they were there?

He was smiling, but there was something strange about his eyes. They seemed brighter somehow. Clearer. As if until that moment she had only ever seen them through a screen.

And they made her afraid.

‘I want my mum.’

He shook his head.

‘I want my mum.’

‘Not tonight. Tonight is just for us. I love you, Susie. Do you love me?’

‘No. I loved my dad. You’re not my dad.’

‘You can love me too. You have so much love to give. I sensed it the moment I first saw you. It was incredible. As if God had made you just for me.’

His hand was on her throat, stroking her skin, one finger lifting the top of the bed covers. Instinctively her own hands moved upwards, clutching at them, holding
them tight against herself. ‘You mustn’t be afraid,’ he said. ‘We both know this was meant to be.’ His voice was soft yet rigid with tension. Velvet backed with steel.

He leant forward, bringing with him the smell of sweat and alcohol and something else she couldn’t identify. A dank, ripe odour that filled her nostrils so she felt she couldn’t breathe. Dark chest hair poked through the top of his dressing gown.

‘Don’t,’ she whispered.

‘I won’t hurt you. I just want to touch you.’

‘Please.’

‘Hush. Lie still.’ He moved over her, his body blocking the lamp and swallowing the last of the light.

When it was over he remained on the bed. This time he kept his back to her; his eyes focused on the far wall. In time he began to speak.

‘I’m not a bad person.’

She didn’t answer. Just lay there.

‘I’m not a bad person. It’s just that I can see things in you that others can’t. They think that because you’re beautiful you’re also good. But you’re not. You’re wicked. As wicked as the queen in
Snow White
.’

She swallowed. Her throat was dry. She wanted a glass of water. She wanted him to be gone.

‘You made me do this. You wanted this to happen.’

She found her voice. ‘No …’

He turned towards her. His eyes were no longer strange. Once again they were warm and soothing.
Eyes that she had learnt to trust. And when he spoke his voice was warm and soothing too.

‘It’s true, Susie. You are wicked. A special wickedness that very few children have. I see it in everything you do. And if someone else found out about tonight they’d see it too. If your mother found out …’

He stopped. Sighing, he shook his head.

‘If she found out, she’d get scared again. She’d have another breakdown. Only this one would be much worse. She’d never recover. She’d go away, you’d never see her again and it would be your fault. So we have to keep this secret, Susie. No one else must ever find out because if they do they’ll tell your mother. You know how to keep a secret, don’t you?’

She nodded.

‘So do I. I don’t care that you’re wicked. I still love you, Susie. I’ll teach you how to be good. It will take time but I’ll do it. All you have to do is trust me.’

Silence. They stared at each other. She tried to picture life without her mother but she couldn’t. It was too terrible even to think about. Like every nightmare she had ever had rolled into one.

She began to cry. Gently he wiped her tears away.

‘I don’t want Mum to go away.’

‘She won’t. Not if we keep our secret. I’ll never tell anyone. You can trust me, Susie. Can I trust you?’

‘Yes.’

He kissed her forehead. His lips were cool and dry. ‘I’m thirsty,’ she whispered.

‘I’ll get you some water.’

He rose to his feet, walked towards the door. When he reached it he turned back.

‘I love you, Susie. More than anyone else in the world. You’re the apple of my eye, you know.’

Then he was gone.

Half past eleven the next morning. They sat together in the dining room, eating a late breakfast. Bacon, eggs, tomatoes and fried bread. All the things she liked. She had no appetite but ate anyway. They always breakfasted in the dining room on Sunday so he could read the papers and watch the world go by.

The bay window looked out on to the square. There was a small garden at its centre where an elderly couple sat on a bench and Mrs Hastings from number 22 pushed her son Paul on a swing. Others walked by on the pavement; returning from church or enjoying the sun.

Her plate was almost empty. She chewed on fried bread that tasted like chalk. His newspaper had a picture of the Queen on the front page. She tried to read the headline but her brain refused to process the words. The bluebells stood in a vase at the centre of the table. A surprise for her mother, who would be returning after lunch, eager to know what they had done in her absence.

He closed his paper. ‘Finished?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’ He was smiling, just as he had been all morning. Happy and cheerful and making no mention
of the previous night. True to his word he was keeping it secret, even between the two of them.