Apple of My Eye (13 page)

‘What shall we do today?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Perhaps a walk by the river. We can’t waste such a lovely day sitting indoors.’ The doorbell rang. ‘Who can that be?’

As he went to find out she watched Mrs Hastings push Paul higher and higher. Paul had blond hair and blue eyes. Her mother thought Paul a very good-looking boy.

She wondered whether Paul was wicked too.

There were footsteps in the hall. He re-entered the room, followed by Mrs Christie from number 5 and her daughter Kate, who was one of Alice Wetherby’s gang, both dressed in their church clothes. Mrs Christie took Kate to church every Sunday. Twice sometimes. Kate was always complaining about it at school.

‘You’ve caught us still at breakfast,’ Uncle Andrew told Mrs Christie. ‘We’re being very lazy today, aren’t we, Susie.’

She nodded. Kate was scowling. She had tightly curled dark hair and big features. Alice called her ‘Golliwog’. Alice could be cruel even to members of her gang.

Mrs Christie was talking about a fete the church was running in the summer. Raising money for charity. Uncle Andrew said that he would be pleased to help. Mrs Christie was delighted. ‘It will be such fun for the children. Kate’s friends are all going to get involved.
Bridget and Janet and Alice Wetherby. It would be lovely if Susan joined in too.’ Uncle Andrew agreed that it would.

Kate, safe beside her mother, made a face at Susan. Normally Susan would have retaliated, but not this time.

Was Kate wicked? Was Bridget, Janet or Alice?

Or am I the only one?

Mrs Christie pointed at the bluebells. ‘What beautiful flowers.’ Uncle Andrew explained that Susan had picked them the previous day. ‘A present for her mother as they’re her favourites.’ Mrs Christie beamed at Susan. ‘What a lovely thought. Your mother’s lucky to have such a kind daughter.’

‘No she’s not.’ The words were out before she could stop them.

Uncle Andrew frowned. So did Mrs Christie. ‘Whyever not, dear?’

Because I’m bad. Because I’m wicked.

And I don’t know why.

They were all watching her. Unable to stand it she ran from the room.

Dragonflies danced on the surface of the river, catching rays of sunlight and irritating the swans that glided by the narrow boats waiting to pass through the lock. One boat moved in front of another. The two owners exchanged words.

She crouched at the base of a tree, hidden from view. Needing to be alone to try to make sense of the
thoughts that swarmed like angry bees inside her brain.

She was wicked. Uncle Andrew had said so. He was a grown-up. He was her friend and she trusted him. If he said so it must be true.

But she didn’t know why.

If her father had lived she would still be living in Osborne Row. Her mother would not have married Uncle Andrew and the previous night would never have happened.

Would it?

Suddenly she was back in her bed, watching Uncle Andrew’s face close in upon her. Except that this time it was not Uncle Andrew. It was her father.

If her father had known she was wicked would he have forgiven her? Would he have carried on loving her like Uncle Andrew did?

She wanted to believe it. But in her head his face grew cold. ‘You’re wicked, Susan. Bad and wicked and I hate you. You’re not my Susie Sparkle any more.’

The voices inside her brain grew louder and louder. A hurricane of sound that threatened to split it in two. Burying her head in her knees, she started sobbing while a spider crawled up her leg and began to weave a web in the folds of her dress.

When she was too tired to cry any more she raised her head. It was cooler. A wind was rising in the east, blowing clouds across the sky and making the boats bob in the water. It found her through the branches of the tree, lifting her hair and blowing it across her face. She brushed it back.

And in that moment she was with her father again; the two of them sitting together by the river bank on the day she had fought with Alice Wetherby.

I wish you’d known my father, Susie. He would have been so proud of you.

Why?

Because you’re strong. Your grandfather was the same. You felt safe around him because you knew that no matter what you asked of him he’d never let you down.

Strong.

She rose to her feet, as if the word were a rope to pull her up.

Strong.

To be strong wasn’t wicked. To be strong was good.

It
was
good, wasn’t it?

Or at least it was a start.

Her father had said that they would protect her mother. That they would not let her be scared ever again. But now he was gone and it was up to her.

And she would do it. Whatever it took. Whatever secrets she had to keep. It was what he had asked of her and she would not let him down. She was strong. She would prove that she was good.

The noise inside her head died away. She felt empty. Drained of everything except a single thought.

I am strong and I will survive this.

She wiped her eyes. There would be no more crying. Tears were for the weak and she had to be strong. For her father. For her mother. And for herself.

Turning, she began the walk home.

*

The front door was open. Her mother stood in the doorway with Uncle Andrew.

‘Susie, where have you been?’

‘By the river.’

‘You shouldn’t have been away so long. We were worried. It was naughty.’

Wicked.

‘I’m sorry, Mum.’

‘It’s all right. At least you’re here now. Did you have a nice time while I was away?’

Uncle Andrew was watching her, his expression anxious. Was he worried she would tell their secret? She put on the brightest smile she could find.

‘I picked you some flowers, Mum. Bluebells. Uncle Andrew helped me. We put them in a vase. Do you want to see?’

Her mother smiled too. ‘I’d love to.’

She led her mother into the dining room. Uncle Andrew followed behind.

June.

It was almost midnight. She lay on her side in bed, staring at the frame of the door. Watching for the light. Listening for the footsteps. Wondering whether this would be the night.

He had visited her four times. Or was it five? As the weeks passed she found it harder to keep count.

When it was over she would ask him why she was wicked. Whether she was the only one. What it was she
had to do to be good. ‘I don’t want to be wicked,’ she would tell him. ‘Please help me be good.’ He would answer but his words were confusing. She would tell him that she didn’t understand and he would smile and say that in time she would.

The light went on. He was coming. Her heart began to race. She knew that he was her friend. That he wanted to help her. But still the prospect of his visit filled her with dread.

She reached under her bed for the conch shell hidden there. As the footsteps drew closer she pressed it against her ear, listening to the sound of the sea, remembering that day by the river with her father. Remembering that she was strong.

Remembering that she was going to survive.

July.

Quarter to nine on a Tuesday morning and already the sun was climbing into a cloudless sky. Edith Bruce stood in Market Court, clutching her basket and wrestling with her dog, Warner, who wanted to chase an aloof-looking poodle that an equally aloof-looking woman was walking. When the poodle passed out of sight he turned, gave her one of his sheepish grins then jumped up, licking her face and almost knocking her over in the process.

‘Oh, Warner, what am I going to do with you?’

She knew the answer. Give him to someone who could control him. A twenty-stone wrestler probably. But she couldn’t do it. Her husband was dead and
Warner was the only family she had. He was a terror but he was hers and she would have been lost without him.

The Court was filling: women with baskets, waiting for the shops to open; parents leading small children with satchels towards the primary school on the west side of town. The children were generally in high spirits. Excited at the prospect of a summer holiday that was only days away. Little Susan Ramsey, her former neighbour, walked with her stepfather, Andrew Bishop. Edith gave her a wave and promptly dropped Warner’s lead.

‘Hell! Warner, come back here!’

Warner bounded away, chasing an alarmed-looking pug and having to be stopped and returned by Mr Bishop.

‘You’ve got a lively fellow here,’ he told her.

‘I certainly have. Thank you so much. Hello, Susie.’

Susan stoked Warner’s head. ‘Hello, Mrs Bruce.’

‘Looking forward to the holidays?’

‘Yes.’

‘We’re going to have a lovely summer, aren’t we, Susie?’ said Mr Bishop. ‘Lots of fun.’

Susan nodded but said nothing. Normally she was a chatterbox but not today.

‘I’ve got a late start this morning,’ Mr Bishop explained. ‘So I’m saving my wife a job by taking Susie to school.’

‘How is your mother, Susie?’

‘Fine, thank you.’

‘Give her my love, won’t you.’

Again Susan nodded. She looked tired. As if she had slept badly. Excitement at the holidays, probably. Warner started licking her face. Mr Bishop looked amused. ‘You’ve got a friend there, Susie.’

‘Typical male,’ joked Edith. ‘A sucker for a pretty face.’

Mr Bishop pretended to frown. ‘Pretty?’

‘Beautiful.’

‘Absolutely. The most beautiful girl in the world. That’s my Susie.’ He looked at his watch. ‘We must be off. Goodbye, Warner. Be good for your mistress.’

The two of them walked away. Edith watched them go. On her right was the dress shop that had once been John Ramsey’s photographic studio. Poor John. A good man with a kind heart, a lively wit and a smile that could light up a cathedral. A man she had always liked and still missed.

Though not as much as if she had been his daughter.

But times changed. Susan had a new father now. A good man too, by all accounts. A new home. A new life. Was it enough to ease the pain?

She hoped so.

‘Goodbye, Susie.’

Susan turned. For a split second her eyes seemed troubled. Frightened even.

But the sun was bright and she could have been mistaken.

Then came the smile. As big and as warming as her father’s had been. And the wave that followed was warming too.

*

Little Susie Sparkle, all peaches and cream.

Little Susie Sparkle, sugar and spice and all things nice.

Little Susie Sparkle, hiding her wickedness behind a smile.

Little Susie Sparkle …