Apple of My Eye (29 page)

His image faded. Drops of blood slid down the glass. She drew a line across them with her finger, turning them into a row of crosses that seemed to grow before her eyes, filling the room, turning it into a crimson graveyard where every tomb bore the same name.

Suddenly a voice broke through the silence. Her mother’s, shrill and anxious. ‘Susie, where are you?
You’re going to be late.’ There was no sound from the study. Who knew how long she had been standing there, lost inside the dark caverns of her mind.

But now she was back.

And she knew what she had to do.

Half past two that afternoon. Audrey Morris, an elderly teacher, stood in the entrance hall of the girls’ school, waiting for one of the fifth-years to arrive.

Two boys stood with her, both wearing the blue-and-black uniform. Fifth-years too and new that term. The rest of their class were in the art room with the fifth-year girls, listening to a lecture from a successful local painter. Art was the one field where the girls’ school had facilities to outshine its rival across the lane.

One boy explained why they were late. Something about administrative procedures. His companion apologized for any inconvenience they had caused, speaking with a faint London accent. Normally Audrey disliked regional accents but this one, delivered with a courteous smile, had a certain charm.

She heard footsteps. Susan Ramsey approached. Beautiful, wilful Susan Ramsey who had slept with half the boys in town if the stories about her were to be believed. But Audrey didn’t believe them. She had always been fond of Susan.

Quickly she made the introductions. The boy with the London accent offered his hand. As Susan took it Audrey was struck by what a handsome couple they
made. Like a pair of film stars meeting for the first time on a glamorous Hollywood set.

Greta Garbo, meet John Gilbert. Vivien Leigh, meet Laurence Olivier. Lauren Bacall, meet Humphrey Bogart.

Susie Sparkle, meet Ronnie Sunshine.

They faced each other in the hallway. Two people meeting for the first time and performing the rituals such an event demanded. The shaking of hands, the exchange of names and smiles and the masking of any negative feelings the encounter might provoke.

She didn’t register a person. Just a body. Nothing about him made any impression. She had other things to occupy her mind.

He saw a girl of his own age, as tall as he was and beautiful enough to be arrogant. In his experience beautiful girls were always arrogant. Convinced they could win any boy they wanted with a smile.

But not him. He could never desire a girl with nothing in her face to remind him of his mother.

She told him her name. Her eyes were like violets. Deep and dangerous. The sort an unwary boy could fall into and be lost for ever. But not him. He stared into them calmly, sure of his immunity to their power.

And suddenly he knew.

It was like an electric shock inside his brain. An
absolute certainty that had nothing to do with logic or reason. It was something far more primitive. A bolt of pure animal instinct.

You are my kind.

‘This way,’ she said.

The art room was crowded. Boys and girls sat at desks around a table where books, fruit and a globe were carefully arranged. Pencils scratched against paper while the local painter explained the techniques of still life and Mrs Abbott, the art teacher, kept reminding them of how lucky they were to have so distinguished a guest.

She sat near the back, staring straight ahead, watching the film that played on a screen behind her eyes. The one with the girl who lay awake night after night, heart racing and throat dry, listening for the footsteps and watching for the shadows. A film that was soon to be remade with a new actress in the lead. One who would be crushed by the demands of the role and whose casting she would oppose with all the strength she possessed.

She waited for the fury, the dread and desperation. All the emotions she had learned to understand if not to welcome. But since that morning all she had felt was a calmness so alien that it seemed to belong to someone else. Another person who had no time for apprehension or fear. Not when it was clear what had to be done.

Time passed. She continued to watch the screen,
unaware of her hand moving pencil over paper like that of a medium guided by a spirit.

He sat near the window, studying his new surroundings. The school buildings were far smarter than those he had left behind in Hepton. Those across the lane were smarter still, with facilities to make his former classmates gasp. A vast library, a brand-new science laboratory, a swimming pool and half a dozen sports pitches all mown and marked and ready for use.

His new companions worked around him, taking their surroundings for granted in a way he never could. It was strange to think he now lived in a grander house than any of them. Two boys cracked jokes, prompting frowns from the teacher and giggles from some girls. His fellow new boy followed suit, eager to fit in and gain acceptance. He could have done the same. Made a better job of it too. But first he would have had to have wanted their good opinion, and none had yet done anything to stir that wish.

Except for the girl whose violet eyes were focused on a view a million miles from the room they sat in.

The teacher told them to stop. The painter moved between the desks, commenting on each drawing. When he saw the girl’s effort he frowned. ‘What is this supposed to be?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘It looks like a cross.’

‘Perhaps that’s what it is, then.’ Her voice was flat and as distant as the moon.

‘Why didn’t you draw what you were asked?’

‘There was no point.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because when I leave school I’m going to become a prostitute and in that line of work no one cares if you can draw a decent bowl of fruit.’

A gasp went round the room. Even the jokers looked shocked. ‘To the headmistress this instant!’ cried the teacher when she had finally regained the power of speech.

He watched her cross the room, looking for signs of embarrassment or attention-seeking but finding neither. She seemed completely detached from her surroundings. He wondered where her thoughts had led her and if there was room for him too.

The flustered-looking painter continued his inspection. The work of a pretty, blonde girl drew praise. Alice Wetherby, one of his new neighbours, now looking very pleased with herself. His own effort drew another frown. ‘This isn’t what you were asked to do.’

‘Isn’t it? I’m sorry. I was late arriving and must have misunderstood.’

‘This is very good, actually. You have real talent.’

‘Thank you. I want to be an artist when I leave school.’

‘Which artists do you admire?’

‘Hogarth for his realism. Turner for his colour. Blake for his imagination. And Millais. His Ophelia is my favourite painting.’

‘It’s one of my favourites too.’ The painter smiled. ‘Well, best of luck … er …’

‘Ronnie. Ronnie Sidney.’

‘That’s a good name for an artist. I’ll watch out for it in the future.’

Alice was staring curiously at him. One of the jokers mouthed the word ‘queer’. He looked down at his drawing, liked what he saw and smiled too.

Twenty minutes later she walked out into the afternoon. Boys and girls from the art room stood in groups on the main steps. The buzz of conversation died away when she appeared. Charlotte rushed over. ‘What happened?’

‘A week’s suspension. Another slip and I’ll be expelled. From now on I’m to be a perfect young lady.’

She began to laugh while others watched, whispering and judging. Once their condemnation would have hurt. Now it was as trivial as rain.

‘It’s not funny, Susie!’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘Why are you acting like this?’

‘Maybe I’m possessed.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I’m not talking at all. This is someone else’s voice.’

Charlotte looked upset. ‘What will your parents say?’

‘My mother will say whatever my stepfather tells her to. But he’s not going to care. He has other things to think about.’

‘What things …?’

‘Excuse me.’

One of the new boys stood beside her. He handed her a drawing. ‘This is for you.’

‘Why have you drawn me?’

‘Because I think you’re interesting.’

‘No, you think I’m cheap. But I’m not. Like all prostitutes I only fuck for money. Not for scruffy little sketches like this.’

She ripped the drawing in two, letting the pieces fall to the floor before making for the main gate. Charlotte followed, spouting words Susan didn’t want to hear, so she blocked them out as easily as if there were a volume control inside her brain.

And still the sense of calm remained.

He watched her walk away. Some boys called out things but she ignored them, keeping her dignity and her head held high.

His ruined drawing lay on the ground. The present she didn’t want, just as she didn’t want to know him.

But in time she would.

Alice watched Ronnie Sidney pick up pieces of paper. Her curiosity intensifying, she walked over. ‘May I see?’

He shook his head, lowering his eyes as if shy. She liked that.

‘Go on. I promise not to say anything horrid.’

He gave her the fragments. ‘You’re really good,’ she told him.

‘Thank you.’

‘And she’s really beautiful.’

‘Do you think so?’

‘Isn’t that why you drew her?’

‘No.’

‘Why, then?’

Again he looked shy.

‘Tell me.’

‘Because you had your hand over your face.’

Surprise was eclipsed by delight. A smile spread across his own face, tentative at first then growing brighter. He was very good-looking. More so than she had first realized.

‘You’re Alice Wetherby,’ he said. ‘You live in my street.’

‘Why haven’t you come and said hello, then?’

‘I would have but …’ Another shake of the head. The shyness had returned but the smile remained. It was a lovely smile. Really lovely.

She felt a fluttering in her stomach.

Kate Christie appeared beside them. ‘Why have you drawn that loony?’

‘Ronnie, this is my friend Kate.’

Ronnie offered his hand. Kate giggled. ‘You look like John Leyton. I really like him.’

‘What do you want?’ demanded Alice, trying not to sound irritated.

‘If you’re coming for tea we’d better go.’

‘I’m not.’

‘But you said …’

‘That I’d come on Friday.’

‘No …’

‘Yes. See you tomorrow.’ Her tone was firm.

Kate left, once again giggling. ‘Sorry,’ said Alice. ‘She can be very childish.’

‘But nice, though. She must be if she’s a friend of yours.’

The fluttering sensation returned. ‘Are you going home now, Ronnie?’

‘Yes.’

‘Shall we walk together?’

‘I’d like that.’

Two boys watched them as they set off. She had flirted with both in the past, relishing the sense of power it gave. Boys were all the same. Coarse, blundering creatures interested in only one thing and willing to suffer any humiliation in its pursuit.

But Ronnie seemed different. Courteous and charming. A lone gentleman in a landscape of oafs.

They entered the lane. The sun was high above the trees. ‘It’s beautiful here,’ he said. ‘In Hepton, where I come from, everything is grey and dull, but here it’s like a painting.’

‘Will you do a painting for me?’

‘If you promise not to rip it up when I give it to you.’

‘Of course not.’ She touched his arm. ‘I’m nothing like her.’

‘Is she really a loony?’

‘Absolutely. She attacked me last term for no reason. It was really frightening.’

‘It must have been.’ He looked concerned. ‘Tell me what happened …’

She entered Market Court, Charlotte following at her heels like an anxious puppy. It was full of people all moving in slow motion and speaking without sound. Her calmness was like a tranquillizing drug, dulling her senses and turning the world into a dream.

Until the moment she saw Jennifer, when everything became real again.

She was with another little girl outside a sweet shop, both of them wearing the same red-and-brown primary school uniform that Susan had once worn and eating ice creams. She ran over to Susan, who hugged her so tightly that it provoked cries of protest. ‘You’re hurting me!’

‘Sorry.’ Susan relaxed her hold. ‘I’m just pleased to see you, that’s all.’

‘My new teacher’s called Mrs Boyd. She made us read aloud and said I was the best and she taught us a new song called “Land of the Buffalo”. Listen.’

Jennifer began to sing. Her mouth was covered in chocolate sauce. Gently Susan wiped it away. ‘Can I tell you a secret, Jenjen?’

‘What?’

‘We’re never going to be parted. We’ll always be together.’

Jennifer’s face lit up. ‘Always?’

‘Always.’ Susan licked sauce from her finger then wiped it clean. ‘Is my finger wet? Is my finger dry? God strike me dead if I tell a lie.’

Jennifer was smiling. It was bright and pure and full of trust. The smile of a child who knew nothing of wickedness, shame or fear.

And never would.

‘Now go and finish your ice cream and I’ll see you later.’

Jennifer did as she was told. Rising to her feet, Susan watched the people around her, all going about their business as if everything was normal. From now on she would do the same. There would be no more suspensions. No more behaviour that drew attention to herself and raised questions in others. She would be restrained and controlled, projecting a surface so perfect that no one would ever guess at the ugliness that lay beneath.

Hesitantly Charlotte approached. ‘Susie …’

Susan pointed to the two little girls eating ice creams without a care in the world. ‘Remember when that was us?’

‘What’s the matter, Susie? What’s going on?’

‘Nothing. I just feel a bit mad today but I’ll be sane again tomorrow.’

‘Shall I come home with you? Moral support when you break the news.’

‘No. I’m a big girl now. But thanks for caring. I’m lucky to have a friend like you.’