Apple of My Eye (11 page)

‘Perhaps next weekend I could take you both for a ride in my car.’

Susan’s mother looked uncertain. ‘That’s very kind. I’m not sure …’

‘Go on, Mum. It’ll be fun.’

‘Well, perhaps. If the weather’s good.’

It was.

They drove through country lanes, Susan in the back seat, while her mother sat up front with Uncle Andrew. The roof was down, the wind blowing in her face, blasting her hair and making her cheeks tingle.

Later they walked in the woods to the west of the town. Pine trees stood in rows like pillars in an outdoor cathedral while banks of flowers covered the ground like coloured marble. She ran ahead, searching for her favourite oak tree while her mother and Uncle Andrew followed behind. When she found it she
prepared to climb, squinting up at the sunlight that shone through the branches and feeling the familiar rush of excitement.

Then she stopped.

Her father had loved these woods. The two of them had spent many afternoons hunting for new trees to climb. This oak he had christened the Golden Hind because its branches were like the rigging of a giant ship. She would climb as high as she could, pretending she was in the crow’s-nest while he would stand below with an imaginary telescope; the two of them on a voyage of exploration, their discoveries limited only by the powers of their combined imagination.

Now it was just a tree. All the magic had gone. He had taken it with him and it would never return.

She stood at its base, close to tears, fighting them back, determined to be brave.

Uncle Andrew approached with her mother. His eyes were sympathetic, as if understanding her feelings. ‘Go on, Susie,’ he said, gently. ‘I’d love to see you climb.’

For a moment she hesitated. But her mother was smiling; looking relaxed and happy. And that made her happy too.

Seizing the lowest branch, she began to pull herself up.

‘What a lovely afternoon,’ said her mother that evening.

‘Can we go again next weekend? Uncle Andrew said he’d take us.’

‘I don’t think so, darling. Uncle Andrew’s a busy man. We mustn’t take up too much of his time.’

But in the weeks that followed they took up an increasing amount.

There were more drives in the country and walks in the woods. There was dinner at a smart hotel in Oxford where Susan was allowed a sip of wine and marvelled at all the different knives and forks around her plate. One Sunday he cooked them lunch at his house. ‘Very badly,’ he joked as he carved the joint of beef. He made a lot of jokes. They weren’t as funny as her father’s but still made her smile. His house was very tidy, full of old furniture and with paintings hanging on every wall. Susan spilled a drink on the carpet, much to her mother’s horror, but Uncle Andrew said that he was always spilling things and that it didn’t matter at all.

There were presents too. A book about famous explorers. A new basket for Smudge. A bicycle with a red seat and a shiny bell. Her mother expressed concern that she was being spoilt but Uncle Andrew said she deserved a bit of spoiling after losing her father, and then her mother would nod and agree that he was right.

One Saturday they went to the cinema to see a Disney film. The first feature was a history of comedy in cinema with clips of Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin whom she found just as wonderful as her father had promised. During the interval her mother went to buy ice creams. A small thank-you to Uncle Andrew, who had paid for the tickets.

‘You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?’ he said, when they were alone.

She nodded.

‘It hurts, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘The pain will go away, Susie. You probably don’t believe me but it’s true.’

She looked up into his face. He was smiling. She smiled back.

‘Your mother’s very proud of you. She thinks you’re the bravest girl in the world.’

‘She’s brave too.’

‘You love her very much.’

‘More than anyone.’

‘She went away once.’

‘Yes. She got scared.’

‘Scared?’

‘Scared of everything. That’s what Dad said. But then she got brave so she came back home.’

‘Do you think of what would happen if she became scared again?’

She remembered the blank look in her mother’s eyes. A chill swept over her. ‘I won’t let her get scared.’

A lock of hair had fallen across her cheek. He brushed it back. ‘That’s a big responsibility for someone as young as you.’

‘I’m not a baby.’

‘I know that. But it’s still a burden. Perhaps I can help.’

‘How?’

‘By being your friend. Someone you can talk to if you get scared now your father’s not here. You do get scared, don’t you?’

Silence.

‘You do, don’t you? It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Even the bravest girl in the world is allowed to get scared sometimes.’

She wanted to deny it. But his eyes were sympathetic. Understanding. Just like her father’s had been.

‘I get scared Mum will go away and never come back.’

‘Is that what scares you most in the world?’

‘Yes.’

He took her hand. Squeezed it gently. ‘Thank you for trusting me with that, Susie. I’ll keep it secret. You can trust me. I’m your friend. You know that, don’t you?’

She nodded.

‘Good.’

Impulsively she kissed his cheek. He blushed slightly. Again he squeezed her hand. A woman in the next row smiled at her. She smiled back, happy to have a friend like Uncle Andrew.

A wet November day. Susan’s class were spending their mid-morning break indoors.

Susan sat on a desk with Charlotte, talking to Lizzie Flynn and Arthur Hammond. Lizzie was small, dark and spirited and lived above the tiny pub her father ran. Arthur was small, blond and timid and lived in one of the grand houses in The Avenue.

‘I wish I didn’t have to go,’ said Arthur. He was leaving Kendleton at the end of term for the boarding school in Yorkshire that three generations of his family had attended. His elder brother, Henry, was already a pupil there.

‘So do I,’ said Lizzie.

‘If you stayed here,’ said Susan, ‘you could go to Heathcote. My mum says it’s really good.’ Heathcote Academy was a private day school on the outskirts of the town that took boys and girls from the age of eleven. Most Kendleton parents aspired to send their children there but the fees were a barrier for many.

Arthur shook his head. ‘My father says I have to go to Yorkshire.’

‘Your father’s stupid, then,’ said Lizzie bluntly. ‘Henry says they beat up new boys and put their heads down toilets.’

‘Henry’s just trying to scare you,’ Lizzie told him. ‘He’s stupid too.’

Susan nodded. ‘He must be. He’s friends with Edward Wetherby.’

Lizzie laughed. Rain pounded the window. Outside the skies were black. Alice Wetherby, sitting near by, looked over. ‘What are you talking about?’ she demanded.

‘Mind your own business,’ replied Susan.

‘Yes. Go and sit in a cow pat,’ added Lizzie.

They all laughed except Charlotte, who was quieter than usual. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ Susan asked.

‘My mum says your mum’s going to marry Mr Bishop.’

‘No. He’s just our friend.’

‘Well, that’s what my mum says and she says that when that happens you and your mum will go and live in Queen Anne Square.’

‘My mum’s not marrying Mr Bishop.’

‘But my mum says …’

‘I don’t care what your mum says.’

Alice approached with a girl called Kate, who was the only member of her gang not to have been struck down by a flu bug. ‘You’re going to have a loony as a neighbour,’ Alice told Kate, who lived in Queen Anne Square herself.

‘She’ll probably kill everyone,’ said Kate.

‘No, Kate,’ said Susan sweetly. ‘Only you.’

Even Charlotte laughed at that. Lizzie began to hum ‘Old MacDonald had a farm’. Alice, lacking her usual number of reinforcements, sneered then walked away.

‘I hope your mum doesn’t marry him,’ said Charlotte, ‘because if you live in Queen Anne Square then you’ll be crossing the Court and we won’t be best friends any more.’

‘Yes you will,’ said Arthur. ‘Lizzie and I are best friends and we live across the Court.’

‘Not for much longer,’ Lizzie told him, ‘now you’re going to stupid Yorkshire.’

‘I wish I didn’t have to go.’

‘So do I.’

‘If you stayed,’ said Susan, ‘you could go to Heathcote …’

And so the conversational circle continued.

Evening. Susan lay in her bed. Her mother sat on its edge. Smudge, who was supposed to sleep in a basket on the floor, purred on the pillow.

‘Are you going to marry Uncle Andrew?’

‘Why do you ask that?’

‘Because that’s what people at school said.’

‘And what did you say?’

‘That you weren’t. That Uncle Andrew was just our friend.’

She waited for her mother’s agreement but it didn’t come.

‘Are you going to marry him?’

‘He’s asked me to.’

‘Oh.’

Silence.

‘How would you feel, Susie, if I did?’

She didn’t answer. Her feelings were too complicated to express. She liked Uncle Andrew. He was kind and he was generous and he was her friend.

But he wasn’t her dad.

‘You like Uncle Andrew, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘So do I.’

‘As much as you liked Dad?’

‘No. Not as much as your dad. No one could ever be quite that special.’

She nodded. Her father had been special. The most special man in the world.

‘But Uncle Andrew’s special too, Susie.’ A pause. ‘In his own way. He makes me feel … I don’t know …’

brave?

Perhaps. But the sentence remained unfinished.

‘If you married him, would we live in his house?’

‘Yes.’

She thought of old furniture and paintings. Clear surfaces. Neatness and order. Her father had been untidy. One of the qualities she had inherited from him. It drove her mother mad. But when she had spilt a drink on Uncle Andrew’s carpet he hadn’t minded at all.

‘Would I have to call him Dad?’

‘Not if you didn’t want to.’

‘I don’t. He’s my friend but he’s not my dad. Are you going to marry him, Mum?’

‘I don’t know, Susie.’

They hugged each other. Her mother left the room, turning out the light. Susan lay in the darkness, waiting for her eyes to adapt and for the familiar shapes to appear. The wardrobe and cupboard. The shelves with her books and toys. The cradle her grandfather had made her. All as familiar as her own face in this, the only bedroom she had ever known.

She rose and walked towards the shelves, lifting Smudge on to her shoulder, ignoring the sting of his claws as she reached for the conch shell and pressed it to her ear. The roar of the sea filled her head,
transporting her to a beach in Cornwall. A beautiful beach with miles of white sand where she and her father had built a giant sandcastle, decorating its ramparts with shells and stones, then watched, laughing, as the waves swept in, soaking their feet and wiping their creation away.

It had been a magical day. Every day spent with him had been magical. Her dad. The only one she would ever have or want. The one she missed so badly that sometimes the pain made her want to scream.

But screaming wouldn’t bring him back. Nothing would.

She started to cry, standing there in the dark with the shell against her ear.

February 1954.

They married in a register office, two weeks after Susan’s eighth birthday. Susan, her mother’s spinster aunt Ellen and a work colleague of Uncle Andrew’s called Mr Perry were the only guests. After the ceremony they ate lunch at a nearby hotel where a string quartet played in the foyer. Uncle Andrew ordered champagne and insisted that Susan be allowed a glass. Susan expected objections from her mother but none came. Just a nod and a smile that fell just short of the eyes.

Aunt Ellen, over eighty and not renowned for her tact, drank two glasses in quick succession. ‘Your mother’s very quiet,’ she said to Susan in a whisper loud enough to wake the dead. ‘Well, she’s bound to
have mixed feelings, poor love. This chap’s a right bore compared to your father but at least he’s got money.’ Uncle Andrew and Susan’s mother pretended not to hear, but Mr Perry choked on his champagne and had to have his back pounded by a waiter.

Later, when her mother had taken Aunt Ellen to the ladies’ room and Mr Perry had returned to the office, Susan sat alone with Uncle Andrew. He too had consumed a great deal of champagne and seemed in very good spirits, impersonating the cellist, who was slashing away at the strings with his bow like a woodsman hacking down trees. It made her laugh. He laughed too.

‘Your mother looks beautiful today, doesn’t she?’ he said.

‘Yes.’

‘So do you. The most beautiful bridesmaid in Oxfordshire.’

‘I wasn’t a bridesmaid.’

‘A sort of bridesmaid.’ He stroked her cheek. ‘You make me proud. I never dreamed I’d have a little daughter as beautiful as you.’

‘I’m not your daughter,’ she told him.

‘That’s right. I’m your friend. Your special friend who you trust. You do trust me, don’t you, Susie?’

She nodded.

Again he stroked her cheek. His hand was warm and dry. One finger tickled the back of her neck, making her giggle. He smiled down at her with eyes that were as soft and warm as her father’s had been.
He wasn’t her father but he was her friend. And she did trust him.

Her mother approached with Aunt Ellen. As she waved to them Uncle Andrew’s hand slid quickly away.

They honeymooned in Paris while Susan stayed with Charlotte and her family.

It was a happy stay. She rode her bicycle up and down the street with Smudge in the basket and Charlotte clinging on behind. She helped bathe Charlotte’s little brother, Ben, and read him bedtime stories. She visited Charlotte’s father in his shoe shop and tried to balance on six-inch heels. Best of all, she lay awake with Charlotte, the two of them scaring each other with ghost stories and planning what they would do when they were grown up.

Only one thing spoiled her enjoyment. Passing number 37 and seeing new curtains in the window. It was now the home of the Walters family, who had moved to Kendleton from Lincolnshire, just as Ramsey’s Studio was now a dress shop. She knew these things were inevitable. But they still hurt.