by Susan Lewis
Oh, to have a great mind, to be a respected thinker, a philosopher of lasting merit.
My stomach seems to have settled down a bit now, so when the record stops I decide to go up and check on our Susan.
Instead of asking if I can go into her room I stand at the top of the stairs and call out to her. ‘Are you all right?’ I say.
‘Yes thank you,’ she replies.
I stay where I am for a minute or two, looking out of the landing window to where Gary’s kicking a ball round our grass, and a couple of girls from across the street are playing touch. They’re the same age as our Susan, but I have to admit, they look a lot younger. They behave it too, with their skipping and hopscotch and decent clothes. I doubt they go wandering off at night so their mothers don’t know where they are, or what they’re up to.
‘Susan?’ I shout.
‘What?’
I brace myself, because I know already she’s not going to like this question, but I have to ask it, so here goes. ‘Are your bosoms all right?’
I can almost hear her cringing with embarrassment, and I have to say I’m glad she can’t see my face, because I know I’ve gone pretty red myself.
‘Of course they are,’ she snaps.
I’ve obviously upset her, but I can’t leave it at that, so I say, ‘Are you sure?’
‘Why don’t you go away? There’s nothing wrong with me, so go and ask someone else your stupid questions.’
‘It’s just that your mother …’ There’s no point continuing because she’s put on another record, obviously to drown out my voice.
If we’d realised sooner that the lump in Eddress’s left bosom was going to turn out to be the cancer that ended up killing her, there’s a good chance we wouldn’t be where we are today. Can I say all that to our Susan? Maybe I should try, but it’s about such an intimate part of her body that I can’t bring myself to put her through the shame of it.
Chapter Twenty-One
Susan
I’VE BEEN TRYING on Mum’s clothes. There are loads of them hanging in her wardrobe, her black and white check skirt, her blue polka-dot dress, her best suit with satin lapels, her trousers with loops under the feet … They’re all miles too big for me, so are her shoes, but I put them on anyway to see how much more I have to grow until I’m as big as her. When I was little I used to play dress-up in her clothes. It always made her laugh.
I had a look in her dressing-table drawers after, where she kept her jumpers and brassieres. They’re all much too big for me too. I went on sorting through, trying on her earrings and necklaces and then her perfume, which made it seem like she was in the room. That spooked me a bit, in case she was a ghost about to tell me off for poking around in places I had no business to be.
There were some letters from people I don’t know, but they all asked about Dad so that was all right. No more photographs of a bloke called Michael, like the one I once found in her cookery book. I don’t want to find anything like that again. I used to think he might be the bloke she’d run off with, but that was when I was trying to pretend she wasn’t dead. I don’t do that any more.
I went on looking through her stuff, trying on her brooches and sprinkling her talc on my arms. There were lots of nylons, but they’re all too long for me, and anyway, I don’t wear them any more. I wonder what she’d think of tights.
Then I found her engagement ring all snug inside a little velvet box. When I tried it on my wedding finger it fell straight off again, so I slipped it on my middle finger instead and held up my hand to have a look. It’s gold with three little sapphires. I can remember her wearing it. She never used to take it off, or her wedding ring.
For ages I sat inside her wardrobe with the door closed. I don’t like remembering her because that’s when the screaming starts, but sometimes I can’t help it. We used to lie on my bed together singing the nursery rhymes on my wallpaper. I’ve got different wallpaper now, I made Dad change it after I left Red Maids. Sometimes I think I can hear her laughing, or shouting at me, or saying something to Dad. I know it’s not real, but it feels like it is. I wonder where she is and if she can see me. I don’t expect she can, because like Auntie Nance said to Auntie Doreen, she’d never let me get away with the way I behave. Except being dead, she can’t do anything about it.
When I got out of the wardrobe I made a promise to myself that I would never think about her again if I could help it. I don’t think Dad does, or Gary, because they never mention her, so I won’t either. It’ll serve her right for not being here to take care of us. If she was I might not have all that screaming inside, or feel that I want to hit people and smash things up.
I liked her engagement ring so much that I thought I’d keep it, so I’m wearing it now, holding my fingers tightly together to stop it slipping off. It’s on my third finger and I’m hoping, if Kev sees it, that he’ll think I’ve met someone else and be jealous.
We’ve been in the bus shelter for ages now, and he still hasn’t come. I don’t think he will, but Mandy wants to wait a bit longer, just in case. I wish I’d brought Lucky. She looked really sad when I left without her, but I was afraid Kev might be mean to her if she growled at him again.
I wonder what Dad would say if he knew I had this ring. He’d probably go mental, but I think I should have it, or it won’t ever get worn again, and that would just be a waste. I wonder where her wedding ring is. I think I ought to have that too.
We’re back at school now, which is such a waste of time that I don’t know why we bother. I hate leaving Lucky at home – Dad and I had a terrible row about it, but I can see his point, I suppose, that she’d be unhappy tied up outside the gates all day and besides, someone might come along and steal her.
Lainey and I were going to knock off all this week so we could stay at home with her, but I came in today because there’s a trip up to Gloucester that I quite fancied going on. It’s where I am now, sitting on the grass outside the cathedral that we’ve just had a look around. It was quite interesting, if you like that sort of thing, and actually I do, because history’s one of my favourite subjects. Miss Hawkins, who takes us for the lesson, gave a fascinating talk all about Edward II whose tomb is here, and about the sculptures and stained-glass windows. Then we went down to the crypt, which was lovely and spooky and made me think of the one where John Whitson’s buried in Bristol Cathedral.
I haven’t heard from Sadie and the others for ages, and I haven’t been up to see them either. I got a bit fed up with it to tell the truth, because they were always going on about things that were happening at school, and laughing their heads off at stupid stuff that I didn’t really get. It’s not that I want to lose touch with them, but they’re not the only ones who are too busy to write.
Miss Hawkins is in a café at the moment with Mrs Webber, the Cennick housemistress. They’re next to the window, keeping an eye on us all as they eat their dinners, while we tuck into our sandwiches out here in the cold. Still, at least it’s not raining and it’s a lot better than being at school. I just wish I had a packed lunch, because I’m starving. I told Dad last week about the trip, but he must have forgotten, because there was nothing waiting for me when I came down this morning, and there was no time for our new home help, Mrs Bees, to make anything for me.
It would be nice if someone offered me a crisp or a finger of their Kit Kat, but, selfish pigs, they’re just sitting there stuffing their faces and watching me starve. If my real friends were here that wouldn’t happen, but this is A group History, and Lainey and the others are all in B and C. I keep meaning not to work so I can go down a group too, but the trouble is, I can’t help listening because Miss Hawkins (she’s one of Miss Vaughan’s – oops, Mrs Philpott’s – dinnertime friends) has a way of telling us about what happened in olden times that nearly always makes us laugh. She does crafty things, too, like asking us which year Guy Fawkes blew up the Houses of Parliament. Everyone stuck up their hands and said 1605, but she kept shaking her head and they couldn’t
understand why, when she had the date chalked up on the board. In the end, she said, ‘Susan, you haven’t put your hand up yet. Can you tell me the answer?’
‘I think it’s a trick question, miss,’ I replied, ‘because he was caught before he blew them up.’
She laughed, and so did everyone else, and I felt quite proud of myself for having guessed the joke.
She’s always nice to me, but we did have a bit of a row once, when I turned up late for her lesson. We ended up friends though, and later she said that with my red hair and fiery temper I was probably Queen Elizabeth I in an earlier life.
I think she could be right.
She’s coming across the grass towards me now looking very concerned.
‘Susan, don’t you have anything to eat?’ she asks.
‘No, miss,’ I reply. ‘My dad forgot all about me, and I don’t have any money, so I have to sit here and starve.’
I swear she nearly laughs, which actually I meant her to. ‘Well, we can’t have you going hungry, can we?’ she says. ‘You’d better come inside with us.’
And now here I am, sitting in the café eating shepherd’s pie, which is so tasty I might ask for seconds. I know everyone’s watching me, green with envy, but I don’t even bother to look out at them. Let them eat cake, as Marie Antoinette would say – or in their case, worms!
When we’ve finished our meals Mrs Webber gets out her cigarettes and offers one to Miss Hawkins. Then she only goes and offers one to me. I can’t believe it. She’s obviously gone off her rocker.
‘I know you smoke,’ she tells me, ‘so don’t pretend you don’t.’
I look at Miss Hawkins, who’s clearly as shocked as I am.
‘Well, do you want one or not?’ Mrs Webber is shoving the packet towards me.
I grin at her. ‘You’re going to put me in detention if I take one, aren’t you?’ I challenge.
She sighs and starts to put the packet away.
‘All right, I’ll have one,’ I say, and to my amazement she not only lets me take one, but she strikes a match herself to give me a light.
This is the most hilarious thing I’ve ever done, sitting in a café with two teachers, smoking a fag while the rest of the class look on, hardly able to believe their eyes.
I know Mrs Webber is waiting to see if I take back, so I do, and I think she’s quite impressed by how expert I am.
She shakes her head. ‘What are we going to do with you, young lady?’ she asks.
‘I don’t know, miss,’ I reply.
She takes a puff of her fag. ‘You’re like a Stradivarius that could play beautiful music if we only knew how to tune you,’ she says.
I don’t know what a Stradivarius is, but I think she’s given me a compliment, so I blow out my smoke and say thank you.
‘Do you know what Miss Fisher said about you the other day?’ she goes on. ‘She said, “Imagine what a joy it would be if we always saw Susan at her best.”’
That sounds quite a nice thing to say, so I thank her again.
‘What do you want to do when you leave school?’ Miss Hawkins asks.
I shrug. ‘I haven’t really made up my mind yet,’ I tell her, ‘but I definitely don’t want to work up Fantasy.’
‘Fantasy?’
‘It’s the corset factory up Kingswood,’ I explain. ‘I’ll probably join the commercial group next year, to learn office practice, so I can get a job as a typist or secretary, or something like that.’
‘Why don’t you join the general group, and go on to take your O levels?’ Miss Hawkins suggests. ‘I’m sure you’d pass them.’
I’m quite flattered that she thinks that.
‘And then you could go on to sixth-form college to take A levels,’ Mrs Webber adds. ‘Which subjects would you choose for that, I wonder? There have to be three.’
It doesn’t take me long to decide that. ‘English, history and French,’ I announce.
‘Mm, yes, I hear you’re doing very well in French,’ Mrs Webber says. ‘And we know you’re good at English and history, so I think there’s a fair chance you’d achieve some excellent grades. You might even be able to go on to university. Would you like that?’
I screw up my nose. ‘No, thanks. All that studying would do my head in. I’d rather get married and have kids.’
Miss Hawkins says, ‘Wouldn’t you like to travel the world and get lots of experience under your belt before you settle down?’
I give it some thought, and soon find that the idea of visiting different countries is quite appealing. Not if I have to go on my own though, and I can’t see Lainey wanting to come with me, because she wants to work up Fantasy. Mandy might, but it would mean leaving Kev and Rich behind and we definitely don’t want to do that. And what if I got lost and ran out of money, or was abducted for the white-slave trade? I might end up in a harem and never see England again. ‘I think I just want to get married and have kids,’ I say again.
‘Do you have a special boyfriend?’ Mrs Webber asks.
I think that’s rather nosy, but they’re paying for my dinner and letting me smoke, so in return I decide to tell them a bit about Kev. I make it sound as though we’re going steady and that he’s really mad about me, or they probably won’t be very impressed.
‘And he’s already at work?’ Miss Hawkins says. ‘What does he do?’
‘He makes faggots down Brains,’ I tell her. ‘I don’t know if you’ve ever had them, but they’re delicious.’
‘I’m sure,’ she murmurs. ‘And how old is he?’
I decide I’d better not say nineteen, so instead I say, ‘Sixteen.’
‘Has your dad met him?’
‘Um, not yet, but I expect I’ll take him home soon.’
A waiter comes up to collect our plates, and empty the ashtray. When he puts it back down again I flick my ash, and because they’re being chatty with me, I decide I can be the same with them. ‘Did you go to Mrs Philpott’s wedding?’ I ask.
‘Oh yes, we both did,’ Miss Hawkins replies. ‘It was such a shame you couldn’t come. She looked lovely.’
I can imagine it, because Mrs Philpott’s very pretty. ‘She said she’ll probably have the photos back soon, so she’ll bring them in to show me,’ I tell them. I can’t wait to see them, as much to find out what her husband’s like as to have a look at her dress. ‘Are you in them?’ I ask.
‘Probably,’ Mrs Webber chuckles, and leans forward to stub out her fag. ‘I expect you’re going to miss her when she leaves at the end of term,’ she adds.
I feel my face drop.
Miss Hawkins starts to look worried. ‘Oh dear, she hasn’t told you yet that she’s leaving?’ she says.
I shake my head. I wish I could go outside now.
Miss Hawkins glances at Mrs Webber.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I tell them. ‘I don’t mind if she leaves.’
Mrs Webber watches me put my fag out.
Miss Hawkins says, ‘She’ll miss you when she goes, we know that, because she’s become very fond of you.’
I just shrug. So what? ‘Are there any toilets in here?’ I ask.
‘Uh, yes, they’re over there, behind the till,’ Mrs Webber replies.
I stand up. ‘Thank you for my dinner,’ I say politely. ‘I’ll see you outside.’
When I get there the other girls start flocking around me, wanting to know how I got the teachers to let me smoke, and what we talked about. Since none of them are my friends, I don’t want to tell them anything, so I push my way past and start walking away.
‘Look at her,’ Anita Cooper sneers, ‘she thinks she’s it, just because she went in that café, when really she’s just a common little tart.’
I spin round so fast that she catches her breath. I am so close to whacking her that my hand’s already in the air, but then I see the priest from the cathedral watching me like he’s God waiting for me to commit a sin. ‘You’re going to be really sorry you ever said that,’ I hiss at her.
; As I turn away I hear someone whisper, ‘Anita, she’ll smash your head in as soon as we get back to school.’
‘Her and whose army?’ Anita sneers.
‘You’ll find out,’ I tell her, ‘and when we get hold of you, you’ll wish you were never born.’
Actually, that’s how I feel, that it would be better if I’d never been born. There’s no point being here, it’s horrible, I hate it. All the way back on the coach I sit staring out of the window, wishing I was dead and trying to think of a way to do it. I wonder where Mrs Philpott’s going, and if she might be able to take me with her. She won’t want to though, and who can blame her? Why would she want me when I’m ginger and ugly and nothing more than a common little tart?
Eddie
I keep wondering if I should take a present into the shop for Anne to say thank you for the pictures of Concorde. The trouble is, if they weren’t a gift and someone really did hand them in by mistake, I could end up making a proper chump of myself. Of course, it would be good manners to acknowledge her kindness in holding them back for me, I think she’d appreciate that, but the question is, what to get her? I know she likes the Brontës, because we’ve talked about them once or twice when I’ve been in, but she’s probably got a full set that’s far nicer than anything I could ever afford. It can’t be scent because that’s much too personal and anyway I don’t know what she likes, and the same goes for nylons, or headscarves or handkerchiefs, that would be going several steps too far. I can’t ask our Nance or Doreen, because they’ll wonder who it’s for, and I don’t want them getting the wrong idea, which I know they will. The blokes down work aren’t any good either, because none of them knows anyone as refined as Anne, so they wouldn’t have any more of a clue what to get than I do.
I haven’t been back to the shop since she gave me the photographs, because I don’t want her thinking I’m reading things into her gesture that she didn’t intend. I only ever used to go in once a month or so anyway, generally on a Saturday, so it wouldn’t look right if I started going in more often now. She might think I was after more gifts, or some other kind of special treatment, and that wouldn’t do at all. She could be wondering what’s happened to me by now though, because it’s been closer to two months since I was last there. I hope she doesn’t think I’ve taken her generosity for granted, because that certainly isn’t the case. Maybe I should go in this weekend. There’s probably a nice new stock of books by now, and that’s what I go over there for really.
