Apple of My Eye (22 page)

Last of all was Susan’s bedroom, at the end of the corridor with a view of Kendleton Church. Mae could never enter it without feeling sad. On the bedside table was a framed photograph of Susan’s father, John Ramsey. Ten years earlier, Mae had spent an afternoon in his studio with her twin sister, Maggie; the two of them in fits of laughter at his jokes as he took their portrait. Now Maggie was dead and pictures were all Mae had to remember her by, just as they were all that Susan had to remember John.

The room was as tidy as all the others. Books stacked neatly on shelves and school texts piled carefully on the desk in the corner. Everything else was packed away in
cupboards and drawers except for a Victorian doll’s house that stood by the wardrobe and a conch shell that lay under the bed. A far cry from the bedroom of Maggie’s granddaughter, Lizzie Flynn, which was a shambles of dirty clothes, battered records and pictures of Alain Delon. Lizzie’s father had died the previous year and an unsettled Lizzie was showing increasing signs of rebelliousness. Mae was glad that Maggie had not lived to see it and wished that Lizzie could find the sort of stabilizing father figure that Susan had in Mr Bishop.

Her work complete, she packed up her things and prepared to leave.

August. In his surgery near Market Court, Dr Henry Norris braced himself to break the news to the man with the round face who sat before him.

‘Susan has gonorrhoea, Mr Bishop.’

A soft intake of breath. ‘I was afraid of that.’

‘Were you? Susan is only thirteen.’

‘I know, but you see …’ A sigh. ‘I’m sorry. This is difficult for me. On a recent holiday Susan met an older boy at a party. He got her drunk and then …’ A pause. ‘Took advantage of her. Afterwards she was too ashamed to say anything, poor darling. She would have kept quiet for ever if she hadn’t discovered that she was … um, unwell.’

‘What of the boy? He forced himself on an underage girl. Have you told the police?’

‘That wouldn’t achieve anything. Susan can’t
remember his name or much about what he looked like. He was probably on holiday too and could be anywhere now.’ A shake of the head. ‘No, it really wouldn’t achieve anything.’

‘What does Susan’s mother think about this?’

‘She doesn’t know. As you will have seen from Susan’s records, her mother had a severe nervous breakdown seven years ago. She’s not a strong woman emotionally and needs to be protected from shocks.’ Another sigh. ‘I did consider telling her but Susan made me promise not to. She’s very protective of her mother and doesn’t want her worried or upset.’

‘Your wife’s doctor is William Wheatley. I see that he was Susan’s doctor too until she was nine but she’s since moved twice. Why was that?’

‘Though my wife likes Dr Wheatley I’ve always found him …’ A conspiratorial smile. ‘A little stuffy. Susan did too. A friend recommended Dr Jarvis but sadly Susan didn’t take to him.’

‘So you thought you’d try me.’

Another smile. This time ingratiating. ‘And I’m very glad that we did.’

‘Who is your doctor?’

‘He’s in Oxford. I work there so it’s practical.’

‘So each family member has a different doctor. That’s unusual.’

‘It’s just the way things worked out.’

Henry nodded. It was plausible enough. The whole story was plausible.

It was the manner of its telling which troubled him.
The confiding tone, awkward pauses and embarrassed sighs. All so seamless that it was like listening to an actor delivering lines that had been carefully rehearsed.

He studied the man who faced him. The earnest eyes, sad expression and clasped hands. Everything to suggest concern. Nothing to suggest guilt.

Except for faint drops of sweat on the forehead.

‘So, Dr Norris, if we could …’

‘I’d like to talk to Susan alone.’

The eyes widened like those of a startled owl. ‘Why?’

‘Is that a problem?’

A faint tremor of the Adam’s apple. ‘No.’

Henry remained at his desk. From the waiting room came the sound of whispering, then Susan Ramsey appeared in the doorway. A tall, slender girl with long dark hair and one of the loveliest faces he had ever seen. For a moment, in spite of his concerns, he was happy just to look at her. In a prosperous town like Kendleton prettiness was everywhere. As commonplace as rain. But real beauty was still rare.

‘You wanted to talk to me, Dr Norris?’

He gestured to the chair her stepfather had vacated. ‘Sit down, please.’

She crossed the room on coltish legs. Her movements were gangly and awkward, typical of a girl adjusting to changes in her body. But they were also erotic. Sensual and inviting. Ripened by knowledge that had come too soon.

He smiled, wanting her to trust him. She smiled
back, her huge violet eyes full of suspicion. Like orchids spiked with razors.

‘Your stepfather told me what happened. About the boy.’

A nod.

‘What was his name?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘Nice.’

‘Just nice?’

‘Yes.’

‘There was no boy, was there, Susan?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

But she did. He could see it in the tightening of the lip and the finger that fiddled with a lock of hair. Unlike her stepfather, she was not an accomplished liar.

People told him he was lucky to live in Kendleton. Such a beautiful place, they said. But human nature was the same in any location. Secrets existed even in idyllic settings. Dark, ugly ones that could blight the lives of all they touched.

He leant forward, making his voice as soft as possible. ‘Susan, what’s happening to you isn’t right. It’s not your fault either. You’re not to blame no matter what anyone else has told you. If your mother were to …’

‘You mustn’t tell my mother!’

‘Susan …’

‘You mustn’t tell her. Not ever!’

She looked so genuinely frightened that he felt ashamed. As if he were the one to blame for what she was living through.

But he wasn’t and he wanted to help.

‘Recently my sister discovered she had cancer. At first she didn’t tell me because she didn’t want me to worry but eventually she did and I’m glad because I love her and want to help her. Just as your mother would want to help you.’

She lowered her head, staring down at shoes that shuffled on the ground. He waited, hoping.

Then she looked up again. The fear was gone, replaced by a composure so total that it seemed out of place in a girl so young. Just as so much else about her did.

‘The boy’s name was Nigel. I remember now. He looked like James Dean. He had horrid breath. I remember smelling it when he first tried to kiss me. I told him to stop but he was stronger than me. The next day I went looking for him to tell him what he’d done was wrong but I couldn’t find him and no one from the party knew who he was.’

Henry wanted to keep questioning but knew it would do no good. The steel in her voice told him that.

Two years earlier another girl had sat in his office. A girl of around Susan’s age whose father had had a similar tale to tell. He had spoken to the girl alone, trying to make her confide in him, but it had done no good. She had stuck to the story she had been taught, reciting it in a voice that was little more than a whisper.
A sad, sweet girl whose eyes were a heartbreaking mixture of shame, self-hatred and total defeat. A girl who had given up on herself before she had ever really had the chance to live.

He could see some of the same emotions in Susan’s eyes. The shame and self-hatred. But not the defeat. Her spirit, though crushed, had not yet been destroyed.

‘I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, Susan. I just want you to know that I’m your friend. Someone you can talk to should you feel the need.’

‘I won’t.’

‘Perhaps you’d ask your stepfather to come back in.’

On reaching the door she stopped, stood still, then turned back.

‘I’m sorry about your sister, Dr Norris. I hope she gets well.’

‘Thank you, Susan. I appreciate that.’

Half an hour later Susan walked home with her stepfather.

He was holding her hand, just as he often did when they walked together. It was early evening, warm and balmy. As they crossed Market Court a few people stopped to watch their progress. Perhaps they found his behaviour strange. Perhaps they thought it charming. She didn’t know. Sometimes she felt as if she didn’t know anything except how to be afraid.

It was with her all the time. The terrible, gnawing dread of discovery. Of exposure. Having her wickedness laid bare for all the world to see.

He was talking but she wasn’t listening. In her head she was six years old again and returning home from school to a mother who had suddenly become a stranger. A mother who had left her for so long that it had seemed as if she would never return. A dreadful dress rehearsal for her father’s death the following year.

‘He knows,’ she said.

‘No he doesn’t.’

‘He does. What if he tells Mum?’

They entered Queen Anne Square. A neighbour called out a greeting from the other side of the road. Both responded brightly. Acting cheerful and relaxed. Giving nothing away.

‘He won’t tell anyone, Susie. He can’t.’

‘But he still knows.’

‘Forget about him.’

‘He said it wasn’t my fault. That I wasn’t to blame. That …’

‘He’s lying.’ The hand tightened around her own. ‘People like him always do. They pretend to be your friend then trip you up with lies. I’m your friend, Susie. The one who’s protected you all these years. The one who’s kept your secret safe and made sure your mother has never found out because we both know what would happen if she did.’

They crossed the north side of the square. The corner house was number 16, once the home of her godmother, Auntie Emma, who had left her too. Moved to Australia with Uncle George, so far away that she had
feared never seeing her again. A fear that had been realized as Auntie Emma had died after unexpected complications following childbirth, leaving Uncle George to return a widower who now lived alone with his daughter, Jennifer.

Their own house was number 19. They stood outside it, facing each other.

‘Your mother needs me, Susie. You know how vulnerable she is. How easily she can be frightened. I protect her from that. As long as we stick together she need never be frightened again.’ He smiled, his eyes warm and reassuring. ‘And we will, won’t we?’

‘Yes.’

He went to unlock the door. She turned towards number 16. Jennifer sat in the front window; a tiny, pretty girl of four playing with a doll. She waved to Susan, her smile as bright as a tiny sun. Susan waved back, masking her fear with a smile that was just as bright.

September. At Heathcote Academy the autumn term was just beginning.

Heathcote, situated just outside Kendleton, was in fact two schools facing each other across a country lane.

The boys’ school, founded in the eighteenth century, boasted of having educated numerous politicians and an officer who had been instrumental in quelling the Indian Mutiny. It had also educated a viscount who had murdered his entire family then fled to the
Continent to die of syphilis, but the prospectus kept silent on that. Its buildings were grand, its grounds vast and its sporting facilities the best in the area.

The girls’ school, founded one hundred years later, had always been considered a poor relation. Its buildings were humbler, its grounds smaller and its facilities less impressive. Its academic record had been inferior too but in recent years it had begun to outshine its neighbour, leading to a fierce rivalry between the two sets of teaching staff, who groomed gifted pupils for Oxbridge entry like thoroughbreds being trained for the Grand National.

Charlotte Harris sat in a ground-floor classroom preparing a list of her holiday reading. Miss Troughton, the English teacher, required her pupils to produce one at the start of each term to check they were broadening their minds rather than rotting them in front of ‘that infernal machine’, television. As Charlotte had spent her holidays doing just that, some fabrication was called for. Her list included
Silas Marner
and
Middlemarch
, the plots of both having been summarized for her by a kindly librarian the previous afternoon.

The classroom was still but not silent. Whispered conversations filled the air like the hum of bees while the profoundly deaf Miss Troughton marked essays obliviously. Kate Christie and Alice Wetherby watched Pauline Grant, whose grandmother was Russian and who, at the start of the previous term, had drawn rapturous praise for having read
Anna Karenina
in its
original language. Alice, who considered herself the English star, had taken offence and ordered the rest of the class to pretend that Pauline had body odour and protest if they were made to sit near her. This had gone on for weeks, and Pauline had ended up with skin that was raw from excessive washing. Charlotte, who had lacked the courage to stand up for her, hoped that Pauline would not make the same mistake again.

A prefect strode by the window, a group of new girls trotting after her like chicks following a mother hen. All were dressed in blue blazers and dark skirts with satchels slung over their shoulders. One wore a blazer that looked shabby and second hand. A scholarship girl, probably. Plebs, as Alice and her gang called them. Alice thought girls whose parents couldn’t afford the fees should not be admitted. She said so often and Charlotte, who was only there because of the generosity of a wealthy aunt and wore a second-hand uniform herself, would pretend not to realize that the comments were aimed at her.

Miss Troughton walked between the rows of desks collecting lists. ‘Rather sparse,’ she told Pauline.

‘I’m sorry, Miss Troughton.’ Though Pauline’s tone was humble her voice was loud. One had to shout to be heard by Miss Troughton. The teacher in the next classroom was always complaining about it.

‘Too much time watching that infernal machine.’

‘Yes, Miss Troughton.’

Miss Troughton moved on. Pauline and Alice exchanged glances; Pauline’s submissive, Alice’s
triumphant. The sight made Charlotte feel both angry and helpless.