The Question

by Jane Asher

  ‘That smells great. What did you say it was?’

  ‘Baked apples, Susan. Just baked apples – nothing fancy. Haven’t you had them before?’

  ‘No. No I haven’t. I like apples, but I haven’t had them hot like that. God – look at the steam!’

  ‘They’re very old-fashioned. I used to have them as a child. But they’re quite tasty. Very easy to do. Do you do any cooking?’

  ‘No, I’m not really bothered.’

  Eleanor nodded and pulled two white bowls towards her.

  ‘So, do you want to try some?’

  ‘Oh yes. It looks great.’

  Susan pushed her chair back and stood up. She walked the couple of paces over to the hardtop and leant onto it, crossing her arms on the surface and watching Eleanor intently as she carefully lifted a plump apple into a bowl and spooned the golden sticky liquid over it.

  ‘This is really nice of you, you know,’ she said. ‘You didn’t have to do all this work.’

  ‘Would you like cream with it, or ice cream? I’ve got some Häagen-Dazs if you’d like that.’

  ‘Ice cream. And – no, that’d be silly, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Can I have cream as well? Or would that be silly?’

  Eleanor smiled again and put a hand onto Susan’s for a moment.

  ‘Of course it’s not silly. You have whatever you want, Susan. I’ve bought all this to give you a good lunch, so we’ll both be happy if you eat the cream and the ice cream, won’t we?’

  ‘Yeah, I guess so. That’s good then. I love cream.’

  ‘So do I.’

  Eleanor watched with enormous satisfaction as Susan finished her apple and then ate a second helping of ice cream. She knew now exactly what she had to do, and she continued to construct her plan, slowly and methodically, as she finished clearing away the remains of the meal and clicked the dishwasher door shut.

  ‘Shall we walk round the garden?’ she asked, unsure if she might be suggesting something unbearably boring.

  Susan pushed her chair back and stood up. ‘Yeah, OK, if you like. Thanks again for the lunch – it was great.’

  ‘I’ll get your jacket. I put it in the cloakroom.’

  ‘The cloakroom!’ Susan laughed. ‘Sounds like at school.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it does,’ smiled Eleanor. ‘But they’re jolly useful things to have, even if you don’t find them in many houses nowadays. I hate to think where I’d put my muddy boots and gardening gloves and things like that.’

  Susan followed her as she made her way out of the kitchen and down the back passage, stretching her arms above her head and grunting with the effort. ‘Yeah, well most of my friends’ houses haven’t got gardens, let alone special rooms to put the gloves in.’

  ‘No, of course not. I’m very lucky – and very spoilt. Don’t think I don’t know it. But your flat is very comfortable too, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s OK. I wish we had big rooms like this, though.’

  ‘Well, the drawing room’s quite large, isn’t it? And with the balcony – that’s a lovely room, isn’t it?’

  ‘How do you know?’ Susan asked her, turning to look at her in genuine puzzlement. ‘How do you know how big our lounge is, and about the balcony?’

  ‘I took a quick look round before I burst into your bedroom,’ Eleanor answered calmly, relieved at how quickly and smoothly she had covered her mistake. ‘Now, let’s find your jacket.’

  Susan looked round in fascination at the muddle of walking sticks, tennis rackets, boots, flower vases, climbing shoes and dog bowls that were collected on the grass-matting floor of the long thin room. Waxed jackets, fishing rods, loden coats and assorted heavy cardigans and raincoats hung on hooks along the wall, almost obscuring the small handbasin that nestled among them. Eleanor pulled Susan’s anorak from the nearest peg and held it out to her, but then hesitated.

  ‘It’s really quite damp out there – spitting a bit I think. I’ll lend you a longer coat or your trousers’ll get soaked.’

  ‘No, it’s OK – I don’t mind.’

  ‘Well I do. You’ll be freezing. Here – don’t be silly.’

  She smiled and lifted a well-worn Burberry mac from a hook and held it out to Susan, quickly hanging the anorak in its place before she could protest again. She watched as the girl put it on, and then took her own coat and a thick scarf from the nearest hook and ushered her back out into the passage.

  Eleanor held open the back door and gestured for Susan to go past her into the garden. For a moment Eleanor stood still, the doorknob in her hand, watching, thinking how well the creaminess of the raincoat fabric suited her. She had been right when she talked about modelling: the girl had a natural elegance and beauty that was quite charming. She closed the door and took a few quick steps to catch up, then the two of them walked side by side along the gravel path that edged the lawn.

  ‘Are you cold?’ asked Eleanor.

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘Yes you are, I can see you are,’ laughed Eleanor. ‘You’re freezing, aren’t you?’

  ‘Well, I am a bit,’ Susan laughed back.

  ‘You’re a townee, that’s your problem. Here, look at me,’ she said, and she stopped walking and touched Susan’s shoulder gently so that she turned to face her. Eleanor lifted her hands to the girl’s collar, turning it up and tucking it snugly together at the front. She took the scarf from round her own neck and wound it gently round Susan’s, then stood back again and smiled.

  ‘Better?’

  ‘Yes, much, thanks.’

  ‘You look quite stylish. Rather chic. The colour of that brown scarf is lovely with your hair. I’ve always thought it looks rather dreary on me.’

  They walked on past the end of the lawn and under the pergola, whose skeletal frame was barely covered by the fast-fading climbers that twined along its wooden stakes.

  ‘You should see this in the summer,’ said Eleanor. ‘It’s really beautiful.’

  Susan didn’t answer, and Eleanor went on, ‘Covered in roses and clematis. It smells marvellous when you walk along underneath it. We planted it about ten years ago and it’s amazing how quickly it’s grown.’

  As soon as she had spoken she realised her mistake, and searched desperately for another subject to cover her tracks and divert Susan from the obvious question. But it was too late.

  ‘Who’s “we”, Aunt Eleanor? If you don’t mind me asking? Was that with your husband, then, or –’

  ‘Oh well, yes, sort of Susan I mean – but we don’t want to talk about that, do we? I’m afraid that’s going to be another thing you’re just going to have to let me keep rather to myself. I’ve had a very – well, let’s just say there have been many unhappinesses in my life and I – I’d rather not talk about some things. Sorry, I’m being impossible, I know. I can only say that I promise I’ll talk to you about anything and everything one day, if you still want me to. But for the moment just let me be a rather batty, eccentric old aunt. All right?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And, talking of aunts, do stop calling me Aunt Eleanor. It makes me feel ancient. Just call me Eleanor, will you? Now, let’s go through the gate at the end of the garden there and we can have a good long walk to work off our lunch.’

  By the time Eleanor and Susan returned to the house Susan’s nose was pink with the cold and Eleanor’s fingers were beginning to go numb. After hanging their coats up they made their way back towards the kitchen, but Eleanor caught Susan by the arm and pulled her into the large, light drawing room on the other side of the hall. ‘Come in here,’ she said. ‘We’ll light a fire and warm ourselves up.’

  There was a tray of biscuits and crumpets ready on the low stool in front of the fire, and once Eleanor had used the gas poker to get the fire blazing, she settled Susan into one of the two armchairs that faced the fireplace, and disappeared into the kitchen to make tea.

  ‘Have you ever toasted crumpets in front of a real fire?’ she c
alled as she went.

  ‘No,’ answered Susan.

  ‘You’ll love them,’ Eleanor shouted back. ‘I bet you love butter too, don’t you, as well as cream?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I said, I expect you like butter, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah – I do. But it’s so fattening. I eat Flora, mostly.’

  How crass I am, thought Eleanor as she poured a little hot water into the empty teapot and swirled it around. The girl’s probably never seen a crumpet, let alone toasted one. She probably lives on crisps and Coke while she’s drifting around Marylebone keeping out of the way while John and the bitch – ‘LA LA! Di dum di dum!’ she suddenly sang out loud. ‘Not going to get into any of that, now, am I? Pom pom pi tom. Keep it happy and bright. Keep it happy and bri-hight!’

  ‘Are you calling me, Eleanor?’

  ‘No, dear. Just singing to myself. Won’t be long!’

  Now should it be Earl Grey or Lapsang? Or will she hate that? Do I make Indian for now and wait till she trusts me more before I introduce her to China tea? Or do I go all out now and start the process of – of what? What is it? How do I label it in my head? Her re-education? Grooming? No, no that sounds like some dreary finishing school. Enlightening. That’s good. Very modern. I shall think of it as her enlightening.

  Eleanor emptied the hot water into the sink and held the warm pot between her cupped hands for a moment, enjoying the familiarity of the smooth, round china against her palms. She put it down with a little sigh and reached for the tin of Lapsang Souchong.

  All out, she thought. I go all out, straight away. Operation enlightenment.

  Susan looked into the little pile of coal and logs that was just beginning to smoke in the hearth, and then at the tray of tea things on the stool. For the first time since she had arrived, she felt ill at ease, and tried to work out why. There was something in the room that worried her, something wrong; something that didn’t make sense. She glanced up at the mantelpiece, scanning the objects on it from left to right in search of the cause of her sudden change of mood, but the display of Staffordshire china dogs, carriage clock, candlesticks and small silver boxes told her nothing. There were several white invitation cards slotted between them, and she stood up to get close enough to read them, knowing they couldn’t have been the cause of her discomfort, but intrigued to know what kind of social life this strange aunt might have.

  ‘What are you doing, Susan?’

  Eleanor’s voice was almost sharp, and Susan turned round quickly, guilty at having been found with one of the cards in her hand.

  ‘Oh, sorry, Eleanor. I just wanted to see. They looked so – so sort of official. I just wondered what they were. Sorry.’

  ‘They’re just invitations, of course. To drinks and things. I didn’t mean to snap – I just thought of something, and I—Do sit down, dear. You’re awfully close to that fire, and it’s going to flame any second now.’

  Susan put the card back on the mantelpiece and sat down again as Eleanor carried the teapot and milk jug over to the tray. Susan still felt uneasy, and knew that Eleanor could sense her change of mood, but she lent forward and tried to cover it with a smile as Eleanor spoke.

  ‘Mind you don’t touch this – it’s boiling. Now, do you like milk, or shall I get you some lemon?’

  ‘No, milk, please. And two sugars.’

  Eleanor poured the dark golden liquid into one of the cups, and gestured towards the plate of crumpets with one elbow.

  ‘Now, take one of those crumpets and spear it onto that long-handled fork thing. There’s a little bit of flame there now, enough to start toasting, I think.’

  When Susan had eaten two crumpets and a slice of fruit cake, she sat back in her chair and stretched her arms in front of her. ‘That was lovely,’ she said. ‘Really nice. China tea’s my favourite. And I don’t usually eat tea. I love crumpets, but I never seem to cook them enough in the toaster, they end up a bit white and squidgy.’

  Oh well, thought Eleanor, I suppose John’s tastes are bound to have filtered down to the child a little; found their way through the common, plastic little sieve that is Barbara. Maybe my task won’t be so great after all.

  ‘It’s a bit of old-fashioned fun, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Toasting them in front of the fire. I don’t think I’d want to do it every day for breakfast though.’

  She paused for a moment, watching Susan as she looked into the fire, charmed at the tiny orange flickers reflected in the girl’s dark eyes, but still uncomfortably aware that something unspoken had disturbed the girl since the time she had gone out to the kitchen for the tea.

  ‘Do you think you might like to come again, Susan?’ she asked. ‘I’d love to show you a bit more of the house, and some of the lovely old paintings and things I’ve got.’

  She suddenly had a vision of the three of them. John, Susan and herself. Seated just where she was now. Around the fire. Laughing, chatting. Toasting crumpets. Two parents and a child. Is this what she wanted? Her plan – the enlightening – had been so hastily assembled by her subconscious that she hadn’t yet mentally taken it to its logical conclusion. Even before the addition of the child into the equation – before the thrilling possibilities of tormenting Barbara through the seduction of her daughter had occurred to her – she had never faced the question of what she wanted her future to be; of what result she hoped would eventually emerge from the mess of lies and misery in which she was enmeshed. She had pushed aside so many times decisions about if, when and how to confront John with her knowledge that she had lost the habit of thinking about it coherently at all. The attacks of physically tormenting jealousy – lessening now a little in their frequency, if not in their intensity – left her grappling desperately with rage and longing; torn between the desire to hurt, maim – even kill – the object of her furious desire, and to embrace him, hold him, smother him and make love to him again and again and again. After each little storm abated she never got any further than to turn away exhausted and put off the decision to another time.

  It’s going to worry you, Barbara, isn’t it? It’s going to be frightening. When she starts to notice the way you speak. The way you look; the cringing way you approach everything; the apologetic, cringing way you live. When she sees the beautiful things I have, what I can show her, give her. Barbara. Barbara. She’ll see it, Barbara. She’ll learn to look down on you; to pity you; for the way you are, for the things you like, for the way you behave. And then. And then I shall tell her. Tell her what you really are. How it’s worse than that. How your disgusting little veneer hides something even more revolting. How beneath the common, pathetic little surface you’re a whore. A husband stealer. A liar. And that’s when she’ll start to hate you.

  ‘Susan, how would you like to come and see me regularly? I mean, perhaps each week or so? I’ve really enjoyed our afternoon and there are so many things I’d love to show you. Things we could do together too. I mean – theatre, or concerts. Do you enjoy going to the theatre, for instance?’

  ‘I’ve only been a couple of times. With the school. And at Christmas, I think. I like the movies, of course. And I’ve been to a few concerts. Wembley. And – oh I don’t know, I can’t remember.’

  ‘Well, I’d love to take you to the theatre. I’ll find something I think you’d like. And you must let me do a little shopping, too. Buy you a few things.’

  ‘No, you mustn’t do that. I don’t need anything. I’m fine.’

  ‘I know that. I know you don’t, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t anything you want, does it? Think of it like a story – when a rich old lady turns up and buys the heroine beautiful clothes and jewels. A sort of fairy godmother. A godmother to show you just how beautiful the world can be; how magic some of its music is. How special it feels to have silk next to your skin, or to drink ice-cold champagne while you listen to Mozart.’

  Susan laughed and put her teacup down on its saucer. ‘Well, you’re not old, for a start. And you’re certainly not a
fairy. Or not like the ones you imagine. But you do sound a bit like a story. This doesn’t seem real, somehow.’

  But Eleanor could see, in the tiny gleam of excitement flickering in the girl’s eyes as she turned them towards her, that a little flame of aspiration had been lit in Susan’s soul, and that nothing and nobody would now be able to put it out.

  Eleanor drove Susan to the station and saw her onto the London train. When she returned she went straight to the mantelpiece and checked the card that she had found in the girl’s hand. It was an invitation to a local drinks; nothing to worry about there. Across the top ‘Mr and Mrs Hamilton’ had been written by hand in ink.

  ‘Well, if I was married to his brother, then presumably there must have been – or still is – a Mr Hamilton. And even if one assumes he’s dead, the people inviting me might not have known. Nothing too serious there, I think,’ she said out loud.

  But she still couldn’t quite relax. She was convinced there had been something different about Susan when she had come back into the room with the tea. She had looked a little guilty; a little unsure. Eleanor glanced around the room. She had taken great trouble before Susan’s arrival to remove any obvious evidence of John’s inhabitation, not wanting to risk any awkward questions from the girl on encountering obvious signs of a man around the place, and she could see nothing that could cause suspicion.

  But had she tried sitting on the stool in front of the fire, she might have noticed, from the different viewpoint it gave across the room, the framed wedding photograph hanging on the wall in the corner.

  Chapter Fourteen

  John sat in his armchair opposite Barbara trying to read the newspaper. It wasn’t often that he worried. His policy in life of taking the line of least resistance had stood him in good stead, and his barked-out orders at work and controlled testiness at home hid nothing more than a desire to be left in peace and avoid problems. He couldn’t bear people fussing about things – any hint of argument or emotional scene made him want to run for cover – and it was unsurprising to those who knew him that his favourite tasks were those that could be tackled alone in his office, and that his favourite moments of relaxation were spent buried in newspapers or books. But occasionally he would be forced by events to stand back and take an objective view of his life, and what he saw would fill him with sweaty horror. For a man who liked simple arrangements and problem-free domesticity the extraordinarily dangerous and complex setup that he had slipped into almost without noticing was a potential nightmare.