The Girl In His Eyes: a dark psychological drama

by Jennie Ensor

  Laura dug her spoon into the fruit and let it stay there. It would be so easy to tell her now, the easiest thing in the world.

  ‘Laura?’

  ‘Oh, lots of things … the way he used to get so angry, then suddenly be all smiles. The way he …’

  Her mother’s frown deepened. ‘He’s been like that more often, lately. I think there’s something wrong, something he’s keeping from me. I’ve been wondering if he might have some condition that’s gone undiagnosed. A few years ago, I asked if he could get a referral to a psychiatrist. He said I’m the one who needs treatment, not him. He’d never go in a thousand years.’

  There is something wrong, Mum. There’s something I have to tell you.

  The words waited inside her head. A magpie landed on the roof, pecked out a piece of moss and flew away.

  ‘Is something the matter, Laura? Aren’t you going to eat any dessert?’

  ‘There’s something I have to …’ she began. The moment passed. She swallowed, suddenly voiceless, aware only of her mother’s face, concerned and confused. ‘There’s something I have to ask you about.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Remember when Uncle Rich died? I asked you why you were taking pills, and you said they stopped you feeling unhappy. Was that true?’

  Her mother put down her spoon and looked at her in surprise, then she rubbed the bridge of her nose and sighed heavily.

  ‘It was an awful time, really awful. I’m surprised you can remember so much, that far back. July 1999. You’d only have been ten.’

  ‘Were you having a breakdown?’

  ‘That’s what they said. It wasn’t the worst kind, I didn’t hear voices or anything. I just found it hard to keep going.’

  A shiver hovered about Laura’s shoulders. ‘What happened, Mum?’

  ‘It was so sudden.’ Her mother tugged at her scarf. ‘No one had any idea there might be something wrong with his heart.’ Her voice wobbled slightly. ‘I didn’t know how to cope without Richard. He was such a wonderful brother, always going out of his way to help. I was much closer to him than to Irene. It was as if my father had died all over again. The same feelings came back that I had then. One part of me was determined to carry on, to look after you and your brother. But part of me just wanted to go to sleep and not wake up.’

  ‘And the drugs helped you get through it? That was when you started taking them?’

  ‘I’d taken antidepressants before, on and off. After Richard died, I started taking them regularly – anti-anxiety drugs too. I went to see a therapist – he said I had an anxiety disorder. He helped me deal with the shock and the grief, he helped such a lot.’ Her mother gave a small, sad smile. ‘I’m so sorry to shock you, darling. I didn’t want you to know, I wasn’t proud of myself for caving in like that. I didn’t tell you and your brother because I didn’t want you to think I wasn’t coping, that I wasn’t there for you. But maybe it’s time you knew.’

  ‘How long did you see him for? The therapist?’

  ‘Six months. I got a referral from Doctor Edwards.’

  She couldn’t speak. A thousand questions whirled in her brain. Had she always known about the breakdown, or half known? The pills, the crying, the long rests in bed – they all made sense now. That was why, for much of her childhood, her mother had been only half there. Why her mother hadn’t noticed things that other mothers would have.

  ‘Laura, are you alright?’

  ‘He used to impersonate people, didn’t he? Uncle Richard. I remember him talking like Patrick Moore, wiggling his eyebrows.’

  ‘Oh, his Patrick Moore was unbelievable. He’d have me and Irene in stitches.’ Tears shone in her mother’s eyes. ‘How I wish he were still around.’ She dabbed at them with a tissue. ‘I’m glad I’ve told you all this – I don’t like having things we can’t talk about. I’ve wanted to, but I was worried how you might react. I didn’t want you to think your mother was some sort of fruit-loop.’

  ‘Come on, Mum, you’ve had such a lot to deal with, that’s all. Your dad dying suddenly when you were so young.’ She thought of her own father, and her innermost wish when she was growing up – that he would disappear.

  ‘I suppose certain things can affect you more than you’d ever imagine,’ her mother replied.

  Laura looked at her mother’s hand, resting on the table. Her skin was thinner than it used to be, strung with blue veins. It was odd, she thought, how they had both been keeping secrets, waiting for the right time to reveal them. Only her mother had got there first. She put her hand over her mother’s.

  ‘Do you think you could have another breakdown, Mum? If something like that happened again?’

  ‘Someone dying, you mean? No, I don’t think so.’ A frown. ‘You mustn’t worry about that, darling. I’ve talked things through ad infinitum with the therapist. I’m much stronger than I used to be.’

  Her mother sounded a little too certain. Was it true, or was it only meant to reassure? Mum was a lot chirpier these days than back then, when she and Daniel had lived at home. Laura felt a growing impatience with herself. Now was the time. She had something to share too. Why not just spit it out and be done with it? Her mother would have to find out sooner or later, wouldn’t she?

  She got up and took their bowls into the kitchen, then put her head around the door to ask if her mother wanted coffee. She was fiddling with something in her bag. Her stash of pills. She popped a pale blue one into her mouth.

  No, she couldn’t do this. Not yet. How much could her mother have changed from the woman she’d been twelve years ago? How would her mother handle the truth about Dad? It would be such a terrible shock. Worse, even, than a death. How would she cope with losing her husband, on top of losing her brother?

  Laura put down her cup of coffee. ‘How’s Dad? Is he taking Emma swimming on Saturday?’

  ‘He was supposed to be, but Jane cancelled. Emma wants to see a friend instead that day, and from the following week on she’s got netball practice every Saturday.’

  ‘So, he’s not taking Emma to the pool anymore?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Her mother’s voice sharpened a fraction. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Oh, no reason. I just wondered.’

  Her mother said she’d better be going, there was a man coming to the house to fix the gutter.

  Laura kissed her goodbye. She promised to phone soon.

  She slumped on the sofa. The room slowly became quiet, except for occasional doors slamming on the landing and the faint whoosh of passing cars. Images came to her, fragments of early memories.

  Sitting in Uncle Rich’s garden, listening to him put on the voices of celebrities and politicians, her mother teary from laughing. Standing in the kitchen waiting for her mother to let her lick the cake mixture spoon, or press the cutter into the pastry. Watching Mum expertly toss an omelette, shake the stir-fry pan, or blend the perfect strawberry smoothie. Back then the kitchen was the centre of the universe, her mother a warm, reassuring presence, always around on weekends and after school, the bright star beside her father’s uneven light.

  Until Uncle Rich died.

  It’s her first funeral. They’re standing by his grave, stiff and silent, she and her brother, Mum and Dad. A man is speaking to the clump of people around them. Everyone’s in black despite the bright flowers and the hot sunshine. Everyone looks sad, dabbing at shiny eyes. Except Mum, who seems beyond sad. Her eyes are dry and empty.

  ‘Can I take this off now?’ she asks, when the man stops speaking and everyone starts to move away.

  But her mother ignores her, not noticing, even when she tugs on her sleeve and asks a second time. Her brother rushes off to the toilet. Her father takes her hand and walks with her, leaving Mum behind, staring at nothing.

  Eventually they got back to normal, more or less. But her mother faded. She spent less time in the kitchen or the garden and more time upstairs. And she stopped noticing things. Mum would let her go to school without her hair tied back,
or with a stain on her tie, and would forget when she needed a clean PE kit.

  Not long after that, her father started to notice her in ways he hadn’t before.

  Laura got up from the sofa and went to the window. Her spirits lifted as she watched the distant green spaces under the open sky, the last minutes of sunshine colouring in low ribbons of cloud.

  Her thoughts turned back to her father. She tried to decide what to do about him. Now she knew what he’d said about her mother’s breakdown was true, didn’t it change things? And there was even less reason to say anything to Mum, now she knew her father wasn’t going to take Emma swimming anymore. But maybe she should warn Jane, just in case he had another chance to get to Emma.

  It was hard to imagine that her father would ever be desperate enough to pursue Emma, or any other girl. Why would he take such a risk? He had everything to lose. And how would he get close enough to do anything to Emma, even if he wanted to? As his daughter, trusting him and loving him, living in the same house day after day, she’d been an easy target. Other girls, even the ones he knew already, would be far more difficult. They were constantly warned by their parents and teachers about the dangers of paedophiles. She’d met Emma a few times, years back. The girl had been a feisty thing, seemingly quite able to stand up for herself. Surely, even if her father did see Emma again, she’d never let him do anything.

  But what if he did do something to harm her? How would she be able to live with that?

  10

  Laura

  11 March 2011

  Laura reached out to ring the doorbell then lowered her arm. From inside, raised voices. A boy and a girl, arguing. The boy’s voice wobbled with suppressed tears. The girl’s was sarcasm-inflected, bored. Clearly, Jane wasn’t in – or was she in another part of the house?

  She scanned the front of the modest semi. It was the same as she remembered. Its modernish, bland exterior matched all the others in the street, though the paintwork looked fresh and the windows boasted wooden blinds, not net curtains. She pressed the bell, which set off a loud electronic chime. The voices carried on. She pressed the bell again, for twice as long this time.

  Silence, then the hurried thump of feet. Emma opened the door.

  ‘Hello?’ She wore her school blouse and skirt. She had grown half a foot, into a skinny teen. A sullen line of lips had replaced the eager-to-please smile.

  ‘Hi, Emma, I’m Laura. My mum is friends with yours—’

  ‘I remember.’ Emma’s expression didn’t alter. ‘Hi there.’ Her voice was flat.

  ‘I’m really sorry to disturb you, but I wanted to speak to your mum.’ Laura paused, hoping for Jane’s voice to intervene. ‘Is she in?’

  ‘She’s at work. She won’t be in till seven thirty, maybe eight.’

  She hesitated, checking her watch. It was only 6.45pm now. For some reason, she hadn’t considered that Jane might be out. ‘Can I come in and wait for her?’

  ‘Yeah, sure. If you like.’ Emma pulled the door open a fraction further and made way for her to pass. Blue painted fingernails. Skin bitten at the edges.

  Laura stepped over a plastic dumper truck in the hall and followed Emma into a long room, a living area at one end and a dining table at the other. Toby leaned over the table, his legs dangling off the floor, mopping up the mound of peanut butter on his plate with a slice of toast.

  ‘Hello, Toby. How are you doing?’

  Toby stared at her in silence. His fair hair, slightly too long, tickled long-lashed, intensely blue eyes. He had the angelic features of a boy destined to become a heartbreaker – a boy who was probably used to being admired by grown women. Laura did her best to smile. She was always awkward around small children, never knowing what to say – they seemed such alien creatures. Emma sat down beside Toby and helped herself to a taco chip from a large bag in the middle of the table.

  ‘I’ll wait over here, shall I?’ Laura gestured to an armchair.

  Emma made a wordless mumble in reply.

  Laura took off her jacket and sat in an armchair, with the dining table to one side of her. From here, she could see the children without having to face them. She took her phone from her bag and checked her emails. Two replies to her latest job enquiries. She opened the first.

  Thanks for your interest, but we’ve been overwhelmed with the response to our ad and are no longer taking applications.

  The other was from an agency. She would be welcome to come in to register, but she’d need recent experience and the ability to type 60 words per minute. With a sigh, she put her phone back in her bag.

  ‘You’re making a mess all over the table!’ Emma hissed at Toby, and their squabbling resumed.

  Laura checked her watch, nearly 7.30pm. She felt uncomfortable. This was not what she’d imagined; she’d wanted a short chat with Jane, alone. It seemed wrong to sit here listening to the children’s increasingly loud verbal thrusts, without intervening. She fidgeted in her chair, taking in the room. It was all quite tasteful, middle class. Expensive looking furniture. Framed paintings – all originals, abstracts – everywhere. But there were signs of stagnation. She counted a dozen marks on the walls. A wooden side table bore a deep scratch. What looked like the base of an iron was imprinted on the carpet near the TV.

  ‘I am not!’ Toby yelled. ‘Stop kicking me!’

  ‘Shut up, dick-brain.’

  She thought about what she’d planned to say to Jane, who would be coming home tired from a long day at work. This probably wasn’t the best time to mention that Dad might pose a serious danger to Jane’s daughter, given he’d taken Emma swimming every weekend for the past six weeks.

  A loud bleat made her start. Surely, they didn’t keep sheep in the garden? No, it was Emma’s mobile.

  Emma stopped glaring at Toby and studied her phone. ‘It’s Mum.’

  Laura got to her feet. ‘Will she be long?’

  ‘She’s going to be another forty minutes probably. The District Line is stuffed.’

  ‘Oh.’ Disappointment ballooned in her chest. She considered staying for forty minutes more. No, that wasn’t possible.

  Toby sprang up and pointed a remote control at the TV. A smiling, smooth-skinned, lightly-tanned, late-teen girl ran through a sunny room in skimpy shorts. An advert for deodorant.

  ‘What I wanted to say to your mum, it’s to do with you.’ Her words petered out. Emma was frowning at her. She glanced at the glass panelled door that led into the kitchen. She couldn’t talk about this in front of Toby. ‘Could we go in the kitchen for a moment?’

  The kitchen was modern, designer. No one ever tidied here, it looked like. The surfaces were cluttered with papers and toys and books, and the cooker was scabbed and stained.

  Emma waited for her to speak, jiggling from one foot to the other.

  ‘I heard you’re going to the pool with my dad.’

  The girl stopped jiggling and looked down at her fingernails. ‘I’m not going there anymore, I’ve got other stuff to do. I’m in the netball team now. Our matches are starting soon.’

  ‘Did everything go OK, then? With the swimming lessons, I mean. Did you enjoy going to the pool with him?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose.’ A quick smile. ‘I’m a much better swimmer now.’

  ‘And he’s not done anything … unusual?’

  Emma righted a toy car that lay on its side on the worktop. She seemed uncomfortable, as if she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.

  ‘You shouldn’t let my dad take you swimming again, Emma. He’s not …’ Not right in the head, she nearly said. In the other room, the TV volume increased. Men shouted angrily against a volley of gunfire. ‘He’s not the sort of person you should be with – alone.’

  Emma shrugged and studied her nails again. ‘Sure, OK.’

  ‘There’s something you don’t know about him. I don’t know for sure, but …’ In her head, a succession of words came and went. They all sounded too dramatic, or plain scaremongering. ‘You sho
uld be careful,’ she said at last. ‘He could try to take advantage of you. I don’t think you should spend any more time with him.’

  Another shrug. ‘Sure. I’m not figuring on that anyway.’ From next door, a rattling blast of bass. A scowl rucked Emma’s features. She yanked open the door. ‘Toby! Shut up in there, will you? What did I tell you?’

  Laura followed Emma into the living room. Toby was now sitting on the sofa, knees up, feet on the coffee table, watching cars screech across the TV screen. She reached for her jacket.

  ‘I’d better go now.’

  There was no point in staying any longer. She needed to be away from this house now, alone, in the quiet. How did Jane put up with this commotion? It was a mystery to her how mothers looking after children on their own managed to carry on without walking out or strangling them.

  At the front door, Laura stopped. Should she leave a note for Jane?

  An image thrust its way into her mind. Her mother, sobbing hysterically in the back of a car, on the way to some terrible place where the flowers were changed daily and listless people sat about with medicated smiles, a cross between a psychiatric ward and a care home for the elderly. Then she imagined a policeman, taking her father’s arm, tugging him into a police car.

  No, she’d already talked to Emma, and Emma would be bound to tell Jane. Leaving a note would make this too formal, somehow.

  Laura opened the door. Male voices boomed from the TV.

  ‘Thanks, Emma.’

  Emma shrugged, her lower lip jutting out sulkily. ‘No worries.’

  She tried to read Emma’s face. Should she kiss the girl goodbye? But Emma didn’t look like the kissy type. She touched her arm.

  ‘You’ll remember what I said, won’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, of course.’ Emma’s lips puckered into a smile. Her next words were the friendliest sounding so far. ‘See you, then.’

  11

  Paul

  12 March 2011