Apple of My Eye (26 page)

Miss Troughton began to collect the lists. Hers was greeted with a frown. ‘This isn’t very impressive.’

‘Don’t be too hard on her,’ hissed Alice. ‘She’s had her hands full recently.’ Muffled giggles echoed round the room.

‘Your brother being the exception. Thank God for microscopes and tweezers.’

More giggles. Shocked this time. Well, let them be shocked. Let them think ill of her. Let them think whatever they wanted.

What if someone tells Mum?

An icy hand squeezed her heart. She kept her breathing steady, refusing to give in to fear. If her mother found out anything she would simply deny it. Pass it off as spiteful gossip. Charlotte would back her up and no one could prove anything. If Paul challenged her she would call him a liar and a lot worse besides. She would fight back and she would beat him. She would beat them all if she had to.

Because she was strong. That was her weapon. She would be strong for her mother, just as she would be strong for Jennifer. And she would survive this.

She stared ahead, her back straight, ignoring the whispers and the eyes.

And the aching desire that just once someone would be strong for her.

That evening she told Uncle Andrew. She didn’t want to but thought it best he knew.

She told him in his study while her mother cooked supper downstairs. ‘Are you absolutely sure you didn’t mention me?’ he asked when she had finished.

‘Yes.’

He nodded, his face a patchwork of different emotions; concern, relief and something else she couldn’t identify.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t supposed …’

‘Did you enjoy it?’

She was too embarrassed to answer.

He leant forward. ‘I need to know.’

‘Yes.’

Whose idea was it? Yours or his? Tell me, Susie. We don’t have secrets from each other.’

‘Mine.’

‘Only fourteen but you took the lead.’

She swallowed. ‘Don’t.’

‘But I must. It’s important.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it means I was right. You’re just as wicked as I always said.’

At last she identified the final emotion in his face. Pleasure.

It made her feel dirty. She left the room.

A windy Saturday in November. She sat in Randall’s Tea Room watching Jennifer finish a strawberry milk shake.

‘Can I have another?’

‘No. I told your dad I wouldn’t feed you so remember to keep quiet.’

A waitress cleared their table while two others gossiped by the counter. There were only three other customers. Most people in town favoured Hobson’s Tea Shop but Susan had never been able to enter it since the April evening seven and a half years ago when she had watched her father die.

The window looked out on to Market Court. Mrs Wetherby and Alice entered the dress shop that had once been Ramsey’s Studio. Someone had told her that the shop was not doing well and she had felt a guilty pleasure.

While waiting for the bill she listened to Jennifer read from a story book, assisting with unfamiliar words. Not that there were many. At almost six Jennifer was an accomplished reader.

‘Well done, Jenjen,’ she said when the story was finished.

Jennifer looked proud. ‘Miss Hicks says I’m the best reader in my class.’

‘I bet you are. What shall we do now?’

‘Go on the swings.’

Susan had visions of midair vomiting. ‘Let’s go to the river and feed the ducks. I’ve got bread in my pocket.’

Jennifer beamed.

‘Do you need the toilet first?’

‘Yes. You come too.’

The toilet was at the back of the shop. As Jennifer used the cubicle Susan studied her reflection in the mirror. There were bags under her eyes. Her problems with sleep continued. The wind had messed her hair. She smoothed it down. ‘Are you all right, Jenjen?’

Silence.

‘Jenjen?’

A flushing sound. Jennifer appeared. ‘What’s a tart?’

‘What?’

‘It says you’re a tart.’ Jennifer pointed to the cubicle. Again she looked proud. ‘I read it all by myself.’

And there it was on the wall, in dark letters an inch high.

Susan Ramsey is the biggest tart in town.

It wasn’t the piece of graffiti which upset her. She was already seeing worse at school.

It was the fact that Jennifer had seen it.

And that her mother might.

Jennifer came to stand beside her. ‘What’s a tart?’

‘Nothing.’

‘But it says …’

‘It’s nothing.’

‘But …’

Deny, deny. Be strong, be strong.

‘It’s a joke. Someone thinks I look like a jam tart. Isn’t that silly? Let’s go to the swings after all. Would you like that?’

‘Yes!’ Jennifer grabbed her hand and tried to pull her towards the door. Instead she knelt down and put her hands on Jennifer’s shoulders.

‘Jenjen, promise me you won’t tell anyone about this.’

‘Why?’

‘Because …’ She struggled to think. ‘Because Mum is proud that people think I’m beautiful. She’d be cross if she knew someone thought I looked like a jam tart. Just like your dad would be cross if he knew you’d had a milk shake.’

Jennifer nodded.

Susan put her fingers to her lips. ‘So shush.’

Jennifer copied the gesture then tried to pull her forward. Again she held firm, soaking her handkerchief and trying to rub the words from the wall, managing to blur the letters so that her name could no longer be read. Only then did she allow herself to be led.

*

Christmas Day. She ate lunch with her mother and Uncle Andrew.

The atmosphere was strained. Uncle Andrew, who had been drinking continually since their return from church, prodded his turkey with a fork and pronounced it undercooked.

‘Are you sure, dear?’ asked her mother anxiously.

‘Of course I’m sure. The potatoes are undercooked too. Everything is.’

Outside it was snowing. The square was dusted in white like a great cake. The Hastings family walked past the window, wrapped up against the cold. The previous evening they and other neighbours had been guests at a party Uncle Andrew had organized. He had been the perfect host, gracious and charming, giving no clue as to what he was really like.

It wasn’t just the drinking. His temper was now so bad that any failing by her mother or herself provoked an explosion of rage. And if the mood took him and the failing did not exist he would simply invent one, just as he was doing now.

He began to drum on the table with his fingers. She felt herself tense. Outside the Hastings boys threw snowballs.

‘How can you serve me this muck? Look around you. Look at where we live. Look at what we have. Do you know how hard I have to work to pay for it all? I give you everything and you can’t even give me a decent meal.’

He poured himself more wine. Susan longed to tell
him there was nothing wrong with the food but that would only have made things worse.

A snowball thudded against the window. Mr Hastings called out an apology and ordered his sons indoors. Uncle Andrew smiled and waved. All joviality and charm. Careful to give nothing away.

‘Don’t you remember what things were like after John died? The mess he left you in? Where would you be now if I hadn’t come along? Not living in a lovely house like this. There aren’t many men who’d marry a woman with your history. People told me I was a fool but I wouldn’t listen, though God knows there have been enough times since when I wish I had.’

Her mother looked close to tears. Under the table Susan clenched her fists, nails digging into palms so hard they threatened to draw blood.

Don’t say anything. He’ll stop soon. He always stops.

Don’t make it worse don’t make it worse don’t make it worse.

‘But you’re not grateful, are you? Oh, no. You probably wish John was sitting here now instead of me. A failure who couldn’t even provide for his family. A pathetic nobody who couldn’t …’

‘Don’t talk about my father like that!’

Her mother looked alarmed. ‘Susan …’

‘Why shouldn’t I?’ demanded Uncle Andrew. ‘It’s the truth.’

‘No it’s not. And even if it was he’d still be twice the man you are.’

His eyes widened. He looked as if he’d been struck.

Then he picked up his plate and hurled it against the wall. Her mother shrieked.

‘You don’t want to make me angry, Susan. Otherwise I might forget myself and say things better left unsaid. You don’t want that to happen, do you?’

They stared at each other.

‘Do you?’

Her heart was racing. She wanted to scream. Instead she shook her head.

Her mother was crying. He put his arm around her, making soothing noises as if comforting a frightened child. ‘Hush, now,’ he whispered, his voice suddenly tender. ‘I only say these things for your own good. You know I love you. Who loves you more than me?’ As he spoke he smiled at Susan. This man who claimed to be her friend. Who had always kept her secret hidden.

Just as she had hidden his.

She made herself smile back while realizing for the first time how much she hated him.

March 1961.

Half past ten in the evening. She sat with her mother in the living room, waiting for Uncle Andrew to return.

He had spent the afternoon at Riverdale, dealing with Mrs Pembroke’s will. The gold-digger companion had been left nothing; a fact he had gloated over as if it were a personal triumph. Increasingly he seemed to relish the misfortune of others.

He should have been home for supper. But more and more frequently he was spending his evenings away
from home, drinking in the Crown pub over the river in Bexley. It was the oldest pub in the area, dating back to the sixteenth century. Her father had taken her there sometimes on summer afternoons. She remembered sitting with him at an outside table, drinking lemonade from a bottle with a straw. But Uncle Andrew only ever went there alone.

She watched the clock on the mantelpiece, wondering what time he would eventually return. And what mood he would be in when he did.

‘You should go to bed,’ said her mother. ‘It’s me he’ll expect to wait up.’

‘Then I’ll wait with you.’

‘Susie …’

‘You know what he’s like when he’s been drinking. Better we’re both here.’

‘He’ll be angry if you’re still up. He’ll say it proves what a bad mother I am.’

‘You’re not bad. You’re wonderful.’

Her mother shook her head.

‘You are. If he says different he’s wrong.’ A pause. ‘Though you’d better not tell him that.’

‘You can stay up till eleven. No later.’

Eleven o’clock came and there was still no sign of him. Reluctantly she went upstairs, leaving her mother to wait alone.

Next morning the two of them ate breakfast in the kitchen. Uncle Andrew was still in bed. ‘He’s not due at work until noon,’ her mother explained.

‘What time did he come in?’

‘Late.’

‘And what was his mood like?’

‘Not good, but I’m sure it will be better today.’

Susan didn’t believe it but tried to look convinced. Though she had no appetite, she reached for another slice of toast. Her mother worried if she didn’t eat.

The window was open. A moth flew into the room and hovered above the table. As her mother brushed it away the sleeve of her dressing gown fell back to reveal an angry bruise on her upper arm.

‘What’s that?’

‘Nothing.’ Hastily her mother covered it again.

She moved around the table, pushing up the sleeve. The bruise had rounded indents at the top. Like the knuckles of a fist.

‘He hit you, didn’t he?’

‘I bumped into the door on my way to bed.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘You should go. You’ll be late.’

‘But Mum …’

‘That’s enough, Susie.’

They faced each other. She was taller than her mother now. Not that it changed anything. Ever since the breakdown she had always felt taller.

‘You don’t have to protect me, Mum. It’s my job to protect you.’

‘No it’s not.’

‘Yes it is. I promised Dad.’

‘You were only a little girl then.’

‘That doesn’t matter. I meant it then and I mean it now.’

‘You still miss him, don’t you?’

‘Every day.’

‘So do I. He was a good man. The best I ever knew.’ Her mother’s lip began to tremble. ‘And if I had one wish it would be …’

There were footsteps overhead. Heavy and ominous, making them both jump. Hastily her mother wiped her eyes. ‘But your stepfather’s a good man too, Susie. We’re lucky to have him. Now go to school.’

‘But Mum …’

‘Please, Susie, just go.’

Feeling a hateful mixture of anger and helplessness, she made for the door.

Morning assembly was over. She walked along a corridor full of the smell of polish and the clicking of sensible heels on tiles. Dozens of voices bounced off the walls and ceiling, all shrill with excitement. The Easter holiday was only days away.

There was laughter behind her, soft and conspiratorial, following her like a bad smell. She tried to ignore it but the rage and frustration were still inside her. A Molotov cocktail of emotion that needed only a spark to ignite.

She swung round, confronting two girls from the year below. ‘What’s so funny?’

Both looked alarmed. ‘Nothing,’ said one quickly.

‘You think it’s funny to laugh at people behind their backs? To write things about them on toilet walls?’

‘We weren’t …’

‘If you’ve got something to say then have the guts to say it to my face!’ She took a step towards them, her fists clenched. They backed away, clearly frightened.

‘What’s going on?’ A prefect hurried over. ‘Susan? Alison?’

‘She thinks we were laughing at her,’ the girl called Alison babbled. ‘But we weren’t, honestly. We went to see
Spartacus
last night at the pictures and Claire was saying she thought Kirk Douglas looked sexy in his gladiator shorts.’

The girl called Claire nodded in agreement. Both looked weak and defenceless and Susan realized they were telling the truth.

She felt ashamed. As if she were as big a bully as Uncle Andrew.

‘I’m sorry,’ she told them. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’

‘Then get to your lesson and stop causing trouble,’ said the prefect.