Her mother smiled, looking more relaxed than she had in months.
‘Why don’t you come too, Mum?’
‘I’ve got things to do.’
‘You need to have some fun.’
‘You sound like your father when you say that.’
‘And he was always right. Please come.’ She smiled too. ‘They’ve got swing-boats.’
Her mother shuddered.
‘Remember when we went on swing-boats at Lexham fair with Dad and Charlotte?’
‘Don’t remind me. You sat on my knee and Charlotte sat on your father’s and you swung us so high I was terrified that after all the candy floss you’d eaten you’d both be sick!’
‘Liar. You were scared because you don’t like heights. I remember you shouting, “No, Susie! Not so high! For the love of God not so high!”’
‘And your father kept singing “Swing Low Sweet Chariot”!’
‘And then that stuck-up cow on the next boat complained about him singing “nigger music”, so he did his Al Jolson impression and started calling her mammy!’
Both of them were now laughing hard. As she wiped her eyes Susan had a sense that somewhere her father was watching and laughing too.
‘Please come, Mum. I know you’ll enjoy it.’
‘Very well. But we must finish this first. There’s a plate in your stepfather’s study that needs washing too.’
‘I’ll get it.’
As she walked upstairs she realized that she felt happy. Suddenly the reasons for Uncle Andrew’s changed behaviour were not important. The change itself was enough.
His study door was open. The plate was on his desk, sitting on top of a pile of papers. She picked it up.
And saw the brochure underneath.
Collins Academy – A good place to learn
She turned to the first page.
Founded in 1870, Collins Academy has a long history of academic success. A boarding school for girls between the ages of 11 and 18 situated in the beautiful Scottish countryside …
Scotland?
Her heart racing, she read on.
Five minutes later she re-entered the kitchen. ‘What the hell is this?’
Her mother turned. When she saw the brochure she paled.
‘I’m not going to boarding school!’
‘It’s just an idea.’
‘Whose? Yours?’
‘No.’
‘His, then. I thought so. He’s trying to separate us but it’s not going to work. If he sends me away I’ll just get expelled and sent home again. Don’t think I won’t!’
‘But Susie …’
‘He’s being nice now but how long do you think that’s going to last? What if it stops when I’m not here? Who’ll protect you then?’
‘And what if it stops when you are here? Do you really think you’ll be able to protect me, because I don’t. Not when it’s your fault he acts like that in the first place.’
‘That’s not true!’
‘Yes it is! He’s a good man. He only acts badly because you make him angry.’
‘Who are you trying to convince, Mum? Me or yourself?’
‘He is a good man. He is!’
‘And you need him, don’t you? That’s what you believe. What he’s taught you to believe. That you need him far more than you need me.’
Silence.
‘I’m right, aren’t I?’
Her mother lowered her eyes.
‘Thought so.’
‘Susie …’
‘You don’t have to come to the fair. Like you said, you’ve got things to do.’
She put the brochure on the table then left the room.
A Monday morning at the start of September. The first day of the school term. After finishing her breakfast Susan went upstairs to brush her teeth.
She was wearing her Heathcote uniform. Since her discovery of the brochure her mother had made no mention of boarding school. Neither had Uncle Andrew.
But that didn’t mean he wasn’t thinking of it.
And what will he do to Mum if I refuse to go?
As she reached the second floor she heard voices coming from his study. Uncle George was visiting. She knew she should say hello but did not feel sociable. Instead she tiptoed down the corridor so as not to alert them to her presence.
She stood in the bathroom between the study and her bedroom. In the mirror she noticed a piece of loose thread hanging from her sleeve. Picking up a pair of nail scissors, she prepared to cut it off.
Their voices carried easily from the study. She assumed they were talking about the previous day’s golf. Idly she began to listen to their conversation.
And realized they were discussing something very different.
‘It’s not that I don’t want to take her,’ said Uncle George. ‘Of course I do. She’s my daughter. But there’s going to be so much travelling. I could be away for weeks at a time.’
‘And that would mean leaving her with strangers in a strange country. It wouldn’t be fair when she’s so young.’
‘I still wonder if I should tell them I’ve changed my mind.’
‘You can’t do that.’ Uncle Andrew’s tone was forceful. ‘You’ve been saying all along that this job is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, just as I’ve been saying all along that leaving Jennifer with us is the perfect solution.’
‘But it’s such an imposition.’
‘No it’s not. We love Jennifer. And she could come to you in the holidays when you’ve got time to spend with her. That way she doesn’t have to be uprooted from her home, her school and her friends.’
‘I wish Susie was going to be here too. You know how Jennifer adores her.’
‘Yes, but it can’t be helped. It’s just not working at Heathcote and there are no other suitable schools in the area, so from next term it will have to be boarding school.’ A pause. ‘One good thing, I suppose. Jennifer can have Susie’s room. I’m sure she’d like that.’
‘I’m sure she would too.’ Uncle George sighed. ‘Well, if you’re certain.’
‘I am, so stop worrying. I’ll take good care of Jennifer. She’ll be the apple of my eye …’
Susan grew cold all over.
The conversation continued. She tried to listen but suddenly it was like the day her father died and all the sound had drained out of the world, leaving her trapped in a silent movie with only the cue cards of her thoughts for company.
But this time they were not just collections of random words. They had form and they had structure. To read them was as simple as breathing.
And at last everything was clear.
Her right hand hurt. The scissors had cut into her finger. Blood from the wound dripped into the basin. The same dark liquid that had proclaimed her womanhood and freed her from Uncle Andrew’s attentions.
But Jennifer was still a child. A sweet, pretty, vulnerable child who believed implicitly in the goodness of others. A child who would believe anything a trusted adult told her. A child no one could consider wicked. Not unless they were truly wicked themselves.
She pictured Jennifer lying in the bed she had lain in, listening to the sounds from the study, watching for shadows in the hall, knowing that she was wicked and that this frightening ritual was her own fault. Knowing but not understanding. Praying for Uncle George to come and save her yet convinced he would hate her if he discovered just how wicked she was.
Praying for Susan to come and save her …
You must never tell anyone, Jenjen, because if you do they’ll tell your father and he’ll stay in Australia and you’ll never see him again. You’ll lose him for ever, Jenjen, just like you lost your mother.
She gazed into the mirror. In her mind’s eye she saw her own father looking just as he had on the day he died. A kind man with untidy hair, twinkling eyes and a smile that could light up a whole room. But he wasn’t smiling now. His expression was fearful, as if sensing the violence that was stirring inside her.
This is wron
g, Susie. This isn’t the way. Listen to me. Please listen …
But she wouldn’t. Not to a ghost from an earlier life that seemed more like a fairy tale than anything real. He couldn’t help her. The only person she could depend on was herself.
Stretching out her hand she touched the glass. ‘Goodbye, Dad,’ she whispered. ‘I love you and I’ll always miss you.’
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.
Part 5
Kendleton: September 1961
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.’
Apple of My Eye Page 23
