Apple of My Eye (23 page)

Her parents told her she was lucky to attend Heathcote but often she would think wistfully of primary school and the friends she had had there: feisty Lizzie Flynn, timid Arthur Hammond and her best friend in the world, Susan Ramsey. Now Arthur and Lizzie were at different schools and, though Susan was sitting by the window less than ten feet away, it might as well have been a thousand miles.

She wished she understood what had gone wrong. Why Susan had changed towards her. Once they had been inseparable, always laughing and joking, playing games and exchanging confidences. Now they rarely spoke, and when they did Susan’s eyes were wary and secretive, making Charlotte feel as if she did not know her at all.

It would have been easier if Susan had made new friends. If there had been others she could have blamed. But there was no one. Susan had no friends. Kept largely to herself.

And Charlotte didn’t know why.

But still she had her memories. Susan pushing Alice into a cow pat. Susan teaching her how to whistle with two fingers. Susan facing her in a swing-boat at a local fair, the two of them screaming with excitement as they swung higher and higher. Often, when feeling hurt and confused, she would bring these memories out and study them like precious stones.

Miss Troughton continued to collect lists. Charlotte’s was greeted with a nod, Alice’s with praise. Finally she
reached the row by the window. Marian Knowles was told that Dickens did not contain an ‘h’. Rachel Stark that she was too old for Enid Blyton. Susan’s list provoked a baffled frown.

‘This is blank. Didn’t you read anything?’

‘No, Miss Troughton.’

‘So what have you been doing all summer?’

‘Feeding the loony,’ whispered Kate, loud enough for all but Miss Troughton to hear. A soft giggle ran round the room.

Susan’s back stiffened. ‘That’s right,’ she said quickly. ‘But at your age, Kate, you really should be trying to feed yourself.’

More laughter. Louder this time. Miss Troughton moved on to the next desk. Kate flushed while Susan turned and gazed out of the window. She looked both isolated and remote. Someone who did not belong, nor wanted to either.

But watching her, Charlotte felt a warmth in her stomach and sensed that somewhere the friend she missed so badly still existed.

A Friday evening in October. Susan ate dinner with her mother and stepfather.

The table was laid as if for a dinner party. The best chinaware, crystal wineglasses and candles. Uncle Andrew liked to make an occasion of Friday evening. ‘The end of the working week,’ he would say, ‘and the chance to spend time with my family.’

They were eating
boeuf Bourguignon
, a favourite
dish of his. As they ate he told them about his day. One of his partners was considering early retirement. Another was acting for a local politician who had been accused of accepting bribes. Old Mrs Pembroke had asked him to visit her house for a six-monthly review of her affairs. ‘Which is a nuisance. I’ll be glad when her son can bring her into the office.’

‘Isn’t he in America?’ asked Susan’s mother.

‘He’s moving back here. I did tell you. Don’t you remember?’

‘No.’

Uncle Andrew gave her an indulgent smile. ‘You’re so forgetful, darling. Mind like a sieve.’ Reaching across the table, he patted her hand. Susan didn’t remember him telling her mother either but perhaps she had not been there.

‘And I doubt,’ Uncle Andrew continued, ‘that he’ll take kindly to the gold-digger companion. Not when it’s his inheritance she’s after.’

‘Are you sure she’s a gold-digger? I’ve met her in town and she seems very nice.’

‘You’re too trusting. You’d see good in Jack the Ripper. It’s lucky I’m here to look after you.’

Susan’s mother lowered her eyes. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

‘Hopefully you’ll never have to find out.’ Uncle Andrew gave her hand another pat, his own eyes locking briefly with Susan’s. She sipped her wine, feeling a dull ache in her abdomen. Her period was approaching. Only a day away.

Uncle Andrew continued to describe his day. Susan’s mother listened attentively, saying little herself. As Susan watched them she remembered meals with her father. The stories he had told. The impersonations he had performed that had been funny but not cruel. The way he had reduced her mother to tears of laughter. Looking at the demure, controlled woman who sat beside her, it was hard to believe she had ever laughed like that.

They finished their main course and her mother fetched a trifle. Another of Uncle Andrew’s favourites. Everything they ate was a favourite of his. As she served she told him about a radio play being broadcast later that evening. ‘It’s a spy story. The sort you like. I thought perhaps we could listen to it together.’

He shook his head. ‘You look tired, darling. An early night would do you good. Besides, I had to bring work home. I’ll do it tonight in the study.’ Again his eyes locked with Susan’s. She stared down at her plate, her small appetite suddenly gone while the ache in her abdomen increased. The blood would soon be here. He did not like the blood.

But it would not come soon enough.

Her mother was watching her. ‘You’re not eating, Susie. Isn’t it good?’

‘It’s lovely.’ She took a large mouthful. The sweet taste made her want to gag. Instead she swallowed and smiled.

November.

‘Are you my mummy?’ asked Jennifer.

Susan shook her head. The two of them were in the bathroom of Uncle George’s house. Jennifer sat in the bath, watching a toy boat bob through islands of foam bubbles. From downstairs came the sound of Beethoven playing on the gramophone and the click of the typewriter as Uncle George prepared a report on a new architectural project.

‘Where is she?’

‘In heaven, Jenjen, with my daddy, and they’re watching us now and hoping we’re not going to let the big monster eat the boat. Look out!’ She pushed a rubber duck across the water, making growling sounds while Jennifer squealed and pushed it away.

‘Are you clean now?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then out you get.’ She held out the towel and Jennifer leapt into it like a jumping bean. Susan began to dry her hair. It was blonde with reddish tinges. Auntie Emma had had lovely golden hair. She hoped that Jennifer would grow up to have golden hair too.

‘Anyway, how can I be your mummy if I’m your big sister?’

Jennifer frowned. ‘Mrs Phelps says you can’t be my sister ’cos you don’t live here.’

‘Do you want me to be your sister?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I am, and if Mrs Phelps says different I’ll smack her bottom.’

The frown faded, replaced by a laugh like the chiming of bells. Susan helped Jennifer brush her teeth
then carried her along the corridor to the bedroom decorated in pink and yellow. The bedspread was covered in moons and stars, just as Susan’s had been years ago. Smudge the cat lay purring on the pillow. She had given him to Jennifer at her mother’s suggestion. Uncle Andrew had never been happy having an animal in the house. It had hurt but Jennifer loved Smudge and at least she could still see him whenever she wanted.

She helped Jennifer put on her pyjamas. ‘Do you want Daddy to tuck you in?’

‘No. I want you.’

Susan felt proud. Apart from Uncle George she was the only person allowed to do so. As she listened to Jennifer’s prayers she had an image of herself at the same age, praying for a brother or sister of her own. Though her parents had never provided her with one her prayer had still been answered in the form of this motherless child, who was as precious to her as any sibling would have been.

Jennifer climbed into bed. Susan smoothed the blankets down. ‘Shall I sing to you?’

‘Yes.’

So she did. ‘Speed Bonnie Boat’, keeping her voice soft and soothing. One of Jennifer’s arms was wrapped around Smudge. The other lay across the bedspread. Gently Susan covered the tiny hand with her own, feeling a wave of protective love sweep over her. In all the chaos and confusion of her life, Jennifer was the one perfect thing. Someone who made her feel that, in
spite of all the badness inside her, there was perhaps just a little good too.

She sang until Jennifer was asleep. After kissing her on the cheek she crept from the room, leaving the door ajar so that the light from the landing and the sounds of music and typing would be a comfort should she wake.

December. Two days after the funeral of his sister, Henry Norris sat with a friend in a Kendleton pub sharing a companionable silence over a pint of beer.

‘Thank you,’ he said eventually.

‘What for?’

‘For not feeling the need to say how sorry you are. It’s all I’ve heard recently, as if what happened to Agnes was somehow unjust.’

‘People are sad, Henry. She was much loved.’

‘I know and it was sad. But it wasn’t unjust. She was sixty. She’d had a longer life than many and a happier one too. Far happier.’ He sighed. ‘A few months ago a man brought his daughter to my surgery. Only a child but she had the clap. He told me some story about a boy at a party but I knew he was the one who’d given it to her. She told me the same story herself while watching me with these suspicious eyes as if I was the one hurting her. Poor kid. Frightened and mistrustful of everyone. What sort of life is she going to have?’

‘Perhaps a happy one. You never know. Things can change. They can get better.’

‘I hope so. Such a beautiful kid too. Looks like a film
star.’ Henry laughed softly. ‘Not something people would have said about Agnes. But she wouldn’t have minded. Like I said, she had a happy life …’

March 1960.

Alice Wetherby hated Susan Ramsey.

There was no one else she hated. Not really. When her parents denied her something she would say she hated them. But she didn’t mean it. And anyway, it happened so rarely. She was lucky in that.

But she was lucky in most things. Her mother was always telling her so, and when she could control her irritation she would see that it was true. Her family was one of the wealthiest in the town and she lived in one of the loveliest houses. She was clever and could shine in class. She was confident and outgoing and had always attracted a circle of adoring friends. ‘But that’s Alice,’ her father would boast. ‘A light around which moths flutter. Edward is the same.’ Though Alice took major issue with her brother’s claims to luminosity, of hers she had no doubt whatsoever.

And she was pretty. Exceptionally so. From an early age she had understood the power her appearance gave her. And now, as she grew older, its power grew too.

She was standing outside the school gates with Kate Christie. Boys and girls, on foot or on bicycles but all in the same blue-and-black uniform, approached from either direction on the tree-lined lane. A group of boys gathered outside the gates opposite, standing with hands in pockets, affecting indifference or doing stunts
on their bicycles, all for the benefit of girls like Alice, who masked their own interest with outward disdain.

She watched Martin Phillips perform wheelies. Sixteen, handsome and a friend of her brother’s, he winked at her then rode in circles with his hands in the air. She smiled triumphantly at Sophie Jones, who pretended not to notice. Sophie was smitten with Martin.

Fiona Giles, a horse-faced prefect, strode past. Kate made a neighing sound and Alice choked back laughter. Martin grinned, his lips red and full. She wondered what it would be like to kiss them. She had never properly kissed a boy, let alone done anything more intimate. When her crimson-cheeked mother had explained the mechanics of sex she had been revolted. An older female cousin had told her that the idea would grow more appealing but two years down the line it still left her feeling sick.

But it didn’t matter. In fact it was a blessing. ‘Your reputation is precious,’ warned her mother. ‘Never do anything to damage it because you can never win it back once it’s lost.’

‘Boys are all the same,’ her cousin explained. ‘They want what they can’t have. Keep them believing that one day they’ll get it and they’re yours to command. Flatter and flirt. Hold hands. The occasional peck on the cheek. But that’s all. It works for me. It’ll work for you.’

And it did. Increasingly boys vied for her attention and competed for her smiles. She would giggle about
them with her friends, revelling in her sense of power while a tiny part of her longed for one boy who would be her slave without longing for physical intimacy too.

Girls walked through the gates talking about the previous night’s television, their latest pop star crushes or unfinished homework. Mousy Charlotte Harris scurried past. ‘Boo!’ yelled Alice, making Charlotte jump and Kate laugh while Martin rose up on his bicycle seat like a peacock performing just for her.

Then he stopped. His attention suddenly stolen by another.

Susan Ramsey approached. She walked quickly, her motions jerky yet strangely graceful. The drab uniform that turned other girls into black beetles had been casually thrown on yet looked as if it had been designed especially for her. Her hair was untidy, her face strained and tired, but in the cold morning light she still shone.

Martin began to circle her, trying to attract her gaze while other boys straightened their backs as if standing to attention. Susan ignored them all, staring straight ahead with a preoccupied expression on her face.

‘Ever tried using a comb?’ asked Kate sarcastically.

‘Ever tried thinking before you speak?’ retorted Susan without bothering to stop.

The bell for morning assembly began to ring. As Alice started up the school path she looked back. Martin was still on his bicycle. She waved but he stared straight through her as if she were invisible. Her own light extinguished by one that glowed infinitely brighter.

Susan walked ahead, her stride still quick. Alice followed more slowly, hatred swelling inside her like a tumour. There was nothing she could do about it. Not yet. But she would bide her time. Wait for an opportunity.

And when it came she would strike.

May.

It was nearly midnight. Susan lay in bed, watching the glow of the landing light creep under the door-frame.

Her stepfather was in his study. She could hear the creaking of his chair. Having spent so many nights listening for it, she could tell what each sound meant. The groan of the springs as he leant back and stretched. The rustling of fabric as he made himself more comfortable. Finally the sigh of the cushion as he rose to his feet.