A Cuckoo in Candle Lane (21 page)

Sally still found John’s aunt an enigma. There was the haughty, prim and efficient Miss French, her manageress, who attended church twice a week and helped with fund-raising events. But at home she was Lottie, transformed, like a butterfly that had broken out of its chrysalis: Lottie, who would play the piano for them, pounding out Brahms and Beethoven with passion, and producing paintings that were bold splashes of colour that screamed at you from the canvas.

‘Well now,’ she asked, breaking into Sally’s thoughts. ‘Have you fixed a date for the wedding?’

‘Hold on, Auntie, we’ve only just got engaged,’ John answered, laughing softly.

Feeling hot and sticky, Sally decided to freshen up, and placing her glass of sherry on the coffee-table, she said, ‘Please excuse me, I’m just going to the bathroom.’

Leaving the sitting room, she started to walk along the hall, her eyes drawn to one of Lottie’s newly hung abstract paintings. She peered in fascination at the vivid daubs of yellow, orange and red swirling across the canvas, finding herself thinking of a Spanish dancer, arms held high and spinning in a frenzy of wild passionate movement.

Then, becoming aware of John’s voice drifting from the sitting room and hearing her name mentioned, she pricked up her ears.

‘Yes, I know, John, she’s perfect – so innocent and pliable. I’m glad that you’re so fond of her, but are you sure you’ll be able to deal with it when you’re married?’

‘Don’t worry, it won’t be a problem.’

‘Very well. I was right about her then and she’ll be a good cover. But be careful, John; it would be a disaster if anyone found out.’

Sally frowned. What were they talking about? It didn’t make sense, and what would be a disaster?

‘Ah, there you are, Sally,’ Lottie said, her eyes narrowing suspiciously as she stepped into the hall. ‘I see you’re looking at my painting. Have you been to the bathroom?’

She felt her face flush. ‘Yes, thank you, I was just on my way back,’ she lied, not wanting Lottie to know she’d been eavesdropping.

‘Well, what do you think of it then?’

‘What? Oh, the painting. It’s wonderful, it reminds me of someone dancing the flamenco.’

‘How marvellous,’ Lottie smiled. ‘That’s just what it is. Well done, Sally, my technique must be improving. Now come on, I’ve poured you another drink.’

The reception they received at Sally’s house was in complete contrast. Her mother stared at them in horror. ‘But she won’t be seventeen until February,’ she spluttered, her eyes on John. ‘She’s far too young to get married.’

‘We aren’t planning to get married straight away, Mrs Marchant. We thought perhaps when Sally is eighteen.’

Ruth did a rapid calculation on her fingers, ‘Hmm, and that’s in about eighteen months. Yeah, well, I suppose that’ll be all right,’ she said begrudgingly. ‘But I still think it’s too young.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Mum,’ Sally said indignantly. ‘You were married at nineteen; there’s only a year’s difference. Please, can’t you just be happy for us?’

‘All right, I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you expect – it was a bit of a shock springing it on me like that. Well, come on then, you might as well show me yer ring.’

Sally could see the tight expression on her mum’s face and sighed, longing for the closeness they had once shared. It was the same with gran; since she had been going out with John there was a constraint between them. She held out her hand, the ring sparkling as it caught the light.

Ruth gave it a cursory glance. ‘Yes, very nice,’ she said quietly.

‘It belonged to my mother, Mrs Marchant,’ John told her.

She didn’t make any comment, just smiled grimly, her manner dismissive as she sat down.

The strained atmosphere made conversation impossible. Sally squirmed with embarrassment, relieved when, after a short time, John said he had to go. She saw him out, lifting her lips for a kiss that was as light as a feather as his mouth skimmed across hers.

‘Bye, darling, see you tomorrow,’ he murmured.

Standing on the doorstep she gazed after him as he sauntered down the Lane, only turning her head when she heard a car pulling into the kerb. Her aunt was the first to climb out, followed by Arthur, hurrying round from the driver’s side to assist her gran as she struggled stiffly onto the pavement.

Sally went across to help. ‘Was everything all right at your house, Auntie?’

‘Yes, and I’ve brought a few more things back with me.’ She turned to Arthur. ‘Thank you so much for taking us, it was very kind of you.’

‘That’s all right, it was no trouble. Hello, Sally,’ he grinned. ‘How’s things?’

‘Fine, thank you,’ she told him, smiling happily. ‘In fact John and I have just got engaged.’

‘What!’ her gran yelped. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve got engaged to that poncy git?’

Glaring at her gran, Sally felt her happiness draining away. How could she say that, and in front of Arthur too! Turning on her heels, she marched indoors.

Now, sitting gazing out of her bedroom window, she wondered what was wrong with her family. Why didn’t they like John? He was wonderful. Gentle, kind, and not at all like Arthur who made her shiver with fear every time he looked at her, his eyes dark with lust.

She ignored the soft knock on her bedroom door, not even turning her head when her aunt came into the room.

‘Sally, can I talk to you?’

‘No, not now. I’m sorry, I just want to be on my own for a while.’

‘Please, dear, we really do need to talk. There’s something I want to tell you, something that nobody else knows – except for my psychiatrist, that is. Can I trust you to keep it confidential?’ she added softly.

Despite her unhappiness Sally found that she was intrigued, and twisting around to look at her aunt, she said, ‘Yes, you can trust me.’

‘Sally, I’m sure you know the facts of life, so you must know what happens between a man and woman when they get married.’

She shivered. Yes, she knew a little, but she was mainly in ignorance of what really happened. It was something she preferred not to think about and always pushed to the back of her mind.

‘This is so difficult,’ her aunt murmured, taking a deep breath before continuing, her hands clenched so tightly together that the knuckles gleamed white. ‘You see, Sally, even though I’ve been married to your uncle for twenty years, I’m still a virgin. Yes, I can see by your face that you’re surprised, aren’t you?’ She paused, the parody of a smile on her face. ‘The reason I’m telling you this, is because I don’t want you to end up like me.’

Sally averted her eyes, embarrassed by her aunt’s revelations and suddenly nervous about where this conversation was leading. She folded her arms across her chest defensively, shrugging in an effort to look nonchalant. ‘Why should I end up like you?’

‘Because, like me, you’ve had a bad sexual experience. Mine made me frigid, terrified of sex. I just want to make sure that you haven’t been affected in the same way by what your uncle did to you.’

Her breath caught in her throat; she felt herself go hot, then cold. It had never been discussed before; it had been buried, like her shame. Why did her aunt have to bring it up after all these years? ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ she croaked.

‘But not talking was the cause of my breakdown,’ Mary said urgently. ‘I understand that now. I’ve never spoken about my feelings, I’ve always been too proud. Always worried about people’s perceptions of me, and to cry in front of anyone would have been anathema for me, a sign of weakness. So you see, I never had an outlet for my pain.’

‘Is that what caused your illness, this OCD thing that you’ve got?’

‘Well, partly I suppose. But what really caused it was guilt, Sally. Guilt and self-hatred, and that’s why I keep washing my hands all the time. My psychiatrist said it’s the root of my illness.’

She stared at her aunt. ‘I don’t understand: what have
you
got to feel guilty about?’

‘Oh, my dear, I was feeling guilty about you, of course. I thought that if I’d been a proper wife to Harry he might not have turned his sexual attentions towards you.’

Sally placed her elbows on the windowsill and rested her head in her hands as she contemplated her aunt’s words. She sighed deeply, raising her eyes at last. ‘Do you know, Auntie, I too have always felt guilty for what happened. I thought it was my fault that Uncle Harry did those horrible things to me.’

Her aunt advanced across the room, placing a hand on her arm. ‘Oh, how awful. I didn’t realise that you felt like that,’ she said, her voice deep with compassion. ‘Hasn’t your mother talked to you about it?’

‘No, it’s never been discussed.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘Until now.’

‘Well, I’m glad we’re bringing it into the open at last. I’ve learned a lot from my psychiatrist, some of it not very pleasant. But one of the things I’ve come to realise is that your uncle is a paedophile. Do you know what that is?’

‘No, is it an illness?’

‘Huh, he’s sick all right, but not in the way you mean,’ Mary answered, her face grimacing in distaste. ‘A paedophile is a person who is attracted to children sexually. I know, disgusting, isn’t it? But you see, when my psychiatrist explained that my rejection would not have turned him into a paedophile, it was such a huge relief. He told me that I wasn’t to blame for what Harry did to you. A normal man would have looked for a sexual relationship with another woman – not a child.’

She stared hopefully at her aunt. ‘So if he’s a paedophile, does … does that mean it wasn’t my fault either?’ she whispered.

‘No, of course it wasn’t, and it’s awful to think that you’ve carried this burden for so long. But now, I must ask you a very difficult question.’

Her aunt began to pace the room, head down as she walked back and forth in agitation. Then, suddenly coming to a halt she blurted out, ‘Are you frightened of sex?’

Sally bristled. ‘John is wonderful. He doesn’t expect sex before we’re married.’

‘That’s nice, dear, but it isn’t what I asked. All right, perhaps I have no right to ask you such a personal question. But please, I just want you to know that if you do have a problem, it is possible to get help.’

‘I don’t need any help,’ Sally protested, squirming with embarrassment. ‘I’m fine.’

‘That’s all right then. Please forgive me for probing into your personal life, but you see I just wanted to make sure that your uncle didn’t cause you any lasting damage.’ Mary smiled tenderly. ‘I’ll leave you in peace now, but I’m glad we had this little chat.’

As the door closed behind her aunt, Sally turned back to the window, going over the conversation in her mind. For so long she had shied away from thinking about her uncle, but now that her aunt had brought the whole thing into the open, she found herself relieved that it hadn’t been her fault after all. Now, as she gazed down into the Lane she let out a long sigh, feeling that a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

She was about to turn away when she saw Jenny crossing the road, tottering on high stiletto-heeled shoes, a tight skirt clinging to her hips. Arthur was polishing the chrome bumper on his car and smiled as she draped herself seductively across the bonnet. He threw down his duster, reaching out to pull her into his arms, their bodies merging passionately.

Sally averted her eyes, clicking her tongue with disgust. Ugh, she thought. Thank goodness John doesn’t hold me like that. Unable to resist another peep, she saw that their lips were now fused together in a long and ardent kiss. Her stomach lurched, and though she didn’t want to acknowledge the feeling, she felt a surge of jealousy.

S
ally found that the months following her engagement were something of an anti-climax. The subject was rarely mentioned at home and though her gran had apologised, there was still a constraint between them.

One Friday as she walked home from work, the sun low in the sky and an autumn chill in the air, she was once again realising how much she missed Ann. She desperately wanted someone to confide in about her relationship with John, but who? Mum and Gran made it obvious that they didn’t like him, and somehow she thought her auntie was still too fragile.

She hunched her shoulders. Perhaps she was worrying about nothing. Yet John rarely held her in his arms and had never really kissed her, except for an occasional peck on the cheek. It had been wonderful at first, she had felt so safe, but lately she had begun to notice how much he avoided touching her, almost as if he found her repulsive. Should it be like this, she wondered. Did he really love her?

Turning into the Lane, she was surprised to see Nelly Cox standing on her doorstep. Her steel-grey hair was pulled back into an untidy bun and although the evening was chilly, she only had a thin cardigan over her faded cotton dress. Since her husband’s death she had become very frail, almost as if she had lost the will to live, and every time Sally saw her, she was wracked with guilt.

‘Hello, Nelly, are you all right?’ she asked worriedly as she approached.

‘Yeah, I was looking out for you. Do you fancy coming in for a cuppa?’

Sally sighed inwardly; she wasn’t in the mood, but how could she refuse? ‘Yes, all right, I’d love one. I can’t stay for long though, Mum will have my dinner ready.’ She followed Nelly inside, wrinkling her nose at the sour smell. It had been so different when George was alive, the house had been immaculate, but now, sitting at the kitchen table, Sally couldn’t help but notice how grimy everything looked.