For a moment she hesitated. But her mother was smiling; looking relaxed and happy. And that made her happy too.
Seizing the lowest branch, she began to pull herself up.
‘What a lovely afternoon,’ said her mother that evening.
‘Can we go again next weekend? Uncle Andrew said he’d take us.’
‘I don’t think so, darling. Uncle Andrew’s a busy man. We mustn’t take up too much of his time.’
But in the weeks that followed they took up an increasing amount.
There were more drives in the country and walks in the woods. There was dinner at a smart hotel in Oxford where Susan was allowed a sip of wine and marvelled at all the different knives and forks around her plate. One Sunday he cooked them lunch at his house. ‘Very badly,’ he joked as he carved the joint of beef. He made a lot of jokes. They weren’t as funny as her father’s but still made her smile. His house was very tidy, full of old furniture and with paintings hanging on every wall. Susan spilled a drink on the carpet, much to her mother’s horror, but Uncle Andrew said that he was always spilling things and that it didn’t matter at all.
There were presents too. A book about famous explorers. A new basket for Smudge. A bicycle with a red seat and a shiny bell. Her mother expressed concern that she was being spoilt but Uncle Andrew said she deserved a bit of spoiling after losing her father, and then her mother would nod and agree that he was right.
One Saturday they went to the cinema to see a Disney film. The first feature was a history of comedy in cinema with clips of Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin whom she found just as wonderful as her father had promised. During the interval her mother went to buy ice creams. A small thank-you to Uncle Andrew, who had paid for the tickets.
‘You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?’ he said, when they were alone.
She nodded.
‘It hurts, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘The pain will go away, Susie. You probably don’t believe me but it’s true.’
She looked up into his face. He was smiling. She smiled back.
‘Your mother’s very proud of you. She thinks you’re the bravest girl in the world.’
‘She’s brave too.’
‘You love her very much.’
‘More than anyone.’
‘She went away once.’
‘Yes. She got scared.’
‘Scared?’
‘Scared of everything. That’s what Dad said. But then she got brave so she came back home.’
‘Do you think of what would happen if she became scared again?’
She remembered the blank look in her mother’s eyes. A chill swept over her. ‘I won’t let her get scared.’
A lock of hair had fallen across her cheek. He brushed it back. ‘That’s a big responsibility for someone as young as you.’
‘I’m not a baby.’
‘I know that. But it’s still a burden. Perhaps I can help.’
‘How?’
‘By being your friend. Someone you can talk to if you get scared now your father’s not here. You do get scared, don’t you?’
Silence.
‘You do, don’t you? It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Even the bravest girl in the world is allowed to get scared sometimes.’
She wanted to deny it. But his eyes were sympathetic. Understanding. Just like her father’s had been.
‘I get scared Mum will go away and never come back.’
‘Is that what scares you most in the world?’
‘Yes.’
He took her hand. Squeezed it gently. ‘Thank you for trusting me with that, Susie. I’ll keep it secret. You can trust me. I’m your friend. You know that, don’t you?’
She nodded.
‘Good.’
Impulsively she kissed his cheek. He blushed slightly. Again he squeezed her hand. A woman in the next row smiled at her. She smiled back, happy to have a friend like Uncle Andrew.
A wet November day. Susan’s class were spending their mid-morning break indoors.
Susan sat on a desk with Charlotte, talking to Lizzie Flynn and Arthur Hammond. Lizzie was small, dark and spirited and lived above the tiny pub her father ran. Arthur was small, blond and timid and lived in one of the grand houses in The Avenue.
‘I wish I didn’t have to go,’ said Arthur. He was leaving Kendleton at the end of term for the boarding school in Yorkshire that three generations of his family had attended. His elder brother, Henry, was already a pupil there.
‘So do I,’ said Lizzie.
‘If you stayed here,’ said Susan, ‘you could go to Heathcote. My mum says it’s really good.’ Heathcote Academy was a private day school on the outskirts of the town that took boys and girls from the age of eleven. Most Kendleton parents aspired to send their children there but the fees were a barrier for many.
Arthur shook his head. ‘My father says I have to go to Yorkshire.’
‘Your father’s stupid, then,’ said Lizzie bluntly. ‘Henry says they beat up new boys and put their heads down toilets.’
‘Henry’s just trying to scare you,’ Lizzie told him. ‘He’s stupid too.’
Susan nodded. ‘He must be. He’s friends with Edward Wetherby.’
Lizzie laughed. Rain pounded the window. Outside the skies were black. Alice Wetherby, sitting near by, looked over. ‘What are you talking about?’ she demanded.
‘Mind your own business,’ replied Susan.
‘Yes. Go and sit in a cow pat,’ added Lizzie.
They all laughed except Charlotte, who was quieter than usual. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ Susan asked.
‘My mum says your mum’s going to marry Mr Bishop.’
‘No. He’s just our friend.’
‘Well, that’s what my mum says and she says that when that happens you and your mum will go and live in Queen Anne Square.’
‘My mum’s not marrying Mr Bishop.’
‘But my mum says …’
‘I don’t care what your mum says.’
Alice approached with a girl called Kate, who was the only member of her gang not to have been struck down by a flu bug. ‘You’re going to have a loony as a neighbour,’ Alice told Kate, who lived in Queen Anne Square herself.
‘She’ll probably kill everyone,’ said Kate.
‘No, Kate,’ said Susan sweetly. ‘Only you.’
Even Charlotte laughed at that. Lizzie began to hum ‘Old MacDonald had a farm’. Alice, lacking her usual number of reinforcements, sneered then walked away.
‘I hope your mum doesn’t marry him,’ said Charlotte, ‘because if you live in Queen Anne Square then you’ll be crossing the Court and we won’t be best friends any more.’
‘Yes you will,’ said Arthur. ‘Lizzie and I are best friends and we live across the Court.’
‘Not for much longer,’ Lizzie told him, ‘now you’re going to stupid Yorkshire.’
‘I wish I didn’t have to go.’
‘So do I.’
‘If you stayed,’ said Susan, ‘you could go to Heathcote …’
And so the conversational circle continued.
Evening. Susan lay in her bed. Her mother sat on its edge. Smudge, who was supposed to sleep in a basket on the floor, purred on the pillow.
‘Are you going to marry Uncle Andrew?’
‘Why do you ask that?’
‘Because that’s what people at school said.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘That you weren’t. That Uncle Andrew was just our friend.’
She waited for her mother’s agreement but it didn’t come.
‘Are you going to marry him?’
‘He’s asked me to.’
‘Oh.’
Silence.
‘How would you feel, Susie, if I did?’
She didn’t answer. Her feelings were too complicated to express. She liked Uncle Andrew. He was kind and he was generous and he was her friend.
But he wasn’t her dad.
‘You like Uncle Andrew, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘So do I.’
‘As much as you liked Dad?’
‘No. Not as much as your dad. No one could ever be quite that special.’
She nodded. Her father had been special. The most special man in the world.
‘But Uncle Andrew’s special too, Susie.’ A pause. ‘In his own way. He makes me feel … I don’t know …’
brave?
Perhaps. But the sentence remained unfinished.
‘If you married him, would we live in his house?’
‘Yes.’
She thought of old furniture and paintings. Clear surfaces. Neatness and order. Her father had been untidy. One of the qualities she had inherited from him. It drove her mother mad. But when she had spilt a drink on Uncle Andrew’s carpet he hadn’t minded at all.
‘Would I have to call him Dad?’
‘Not if you didn’t want to.’
‘I don’t. He’s my friend but he’s not my dad. Are you going to marry him, Mum?’
‘I don’t know, Susie.’
They hugged each other. Her mother left the room, turning out the light. Susan lay in the darkness, waiting for her eyes to adapt and for the familiar shapes to appear. The wardrobe and cupboard. The shelves with her books and toys. The cradle her grandfather had made her. All as familiar as her own face in this, the only bedroom she had ever known.
She rose and walked towards the shelves, lifting Smudge on to her shoulder, ignoring the sting of his claws as she reached for the conch shell and pressed it to her ear. The roar of the sea filled her head, transporting her to a beach in Cornwall. A beautiful beach with miles of white sand where she and her father had built a giant sandcastle, decorating its ramparts with shells and stones, then watched, laughing, as the waves swept in, soaking their feet and wiping their creation away.
It had been a magical day. Every day spent with him had been magical. Her dad. The only one she would ever have or want. The one she missed so badly that sometimes the pain made her want to scream.
But screaming wouldn’t bring him back. Nothing would.
She started to cry, standing there in the dark with the shell against her ear.
February 1954.
They married in a register office, two weeks after Susan’s eighth birthday. Susan, her mother’s spinster aunt Ellen and a work colleague of Uncle Andrew’s called Mr Perry were the only guests. After the ceremony they ate lunch at a nearby hotel where a string quartet played in the foyer. Uncle Andrew ordered champagne and insisted that Susan be allowed a glass. Susan expected objections from her mother but none came. Just a nod and a smile that fell just short of the eyes.
Aunt Ellen, over eighty and not renowned for her tact, drank two glasses in quick succession. ‘Your mother’s very quiet,’ she said to Susan in a whisper loud enough to wake the dead. ‘Well, she’s bound to have mixed feelings, poor love. This chap’s a right bore compared to your father but at least he’s got money.’ Uncle Andrew and Susan’s mother pretended not to hear, but Mr Perry choked on his champagne and had to have his back pounded by a waiter.
Later, when her mother had taken Aunt Ellen to the ladies’ room and Mr Perry had returned to the office, Susan sat alone with Uncle Andrew. He too had consumed a great deal of champagne and seemed in very good spirits, impersonating the cellist, who was slashing away at the strings with his bow like a woodsman hacking down trees. It made her laugh. He laughed too.
‘Your mother looks beautiful today, doesn’t she?’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘So do you. The most beautiful bridesmaid in Oxfordshire.’
‘I wasn’t a bridesmaid.’
‘A sort of bridesmaid.’ He stroked her cheek. ‘You make me proud. I never dreamed I’d have a little daughter as beautiful as you.’
‘I’m not your daughter,’ she told him.
‘That’s right. I’m your friend. Your special friend who you trust. You do trust me, don’t you, Susie?’
She nodded.
Again he stroked her cheek. His hand was warm and dry. One finger tickled the back of her neck, making her giggle. He smiled down at her with eyes that were as soft and warm as her father’s had been. He wasn’t her father but he was her friend. And she did trust him.
Her mother approached with Aunt Ellen. As she waved to them Uncle Andrew’s hand slid quickly away.
They honeymooned in Paris while Susan stayed with Charlotte and her family.
It was a happy stay. She rode her bicycle up and down the street with Smudge in the basket and Charlotte clinging on behind. She helped bathe Charlotte’s little brother, Ben, and read him bedtime stories. She visited Charlotte’s father in his shoe shop and tried to balance on six-inch heels. Best of all, she lay awake with Charlotte, the two of them scaring each other with ghost stories and planning what they would do when they were grown up.
Only one thing spoiled her enjoyment. Passing number 37 and seeing new curtains in the window. It was now the home of the Walters family, who had moved to Kendleton from Lincolnshire, just as Ramsey’s Studio was now a dress shop. She knew these things were inevitable. But they still hurt.
‘You’ll still be my best friend, won’t you?’ asked Charlotte as they lay in their beds on the last night of her stay. ‘Even though you’re crossing the Court.’
‘Of course. We’ll always be best friends.’
‘Promise.’
‘Is my finger wet? Is my finger dry? God strike me dead if I tell a lie.’
‘I wish God would strike Alice Wetherby dead.’
‘I wish he’d turn her into a cow. Then she’d have to stand in a field all day, trying to look superior as she poos cow pats.’
They both began to laugh, making so much noise that Charlotte’s mother had to shout upstairs for silence.
Uncle Andrew’s house had three floors. Uncle Andrew and her mother slept on the first floor. They had separate bedrooms. ‘I snore like a foghorn,’ Uncle Andrew explained. ‘Your poor mother would never get any sleep if she had to share with me.’ Susan, aware that her mother often slept badly, was pleased at the arrangement.
Her own bedroom was on the top floor at the end of a corridor that also included Uncle Andrew’s study and a bathroom in between. It was bigger than her last one with sensible furniture and a window looking out on to Kendleton Church. The bed was bigger too. ‘A grown up bed for a grown-up girl,’ said Uncle Andrew. Her toys and books lay in boxes on the floor. Her mother helped her unpack. ‘You must keep your room tidy, Susie. Uncle Andrew doesn’t like mess.’ She promised to try.
They ate supper in the dining room. Beef stew cooked by her mother. A favourite dish of her father’s that Uncle Andrew liked too. There were candles on the table and expensive chinaware. Uncle Andrew insisted that Susan be allowed a small glass of wine. ‘This is a celebration for me. It’s not every day I gain a new family.’ The room was dark and austere with no photographs anywhere. The ones from Osborne Row were packed in boxes except for a picture of Susan’s father that she had insisted on having by her bed.
As they ate, Uncle Andrew told her about Paris. ‘There are wonderful cafés where artists draw your picture. One of them drew your mother and said I had the most beautiful wife in the world.’ Susan said that the artist had been right while her mother gave Uncle Andrew a quick peck on the cheek. He smiled but did not return the gesture.
‘Do you like this room?’ asked her mother while tucking her into bed.
‘I wish Smudge was here. He’ll be scared in the kitchen.’
‘I’m sure Uncle Andrew will soon let him stay up here with you. Remember that he’s never had an animal in his house before. Now settle down and happy dreams.’
The window was behind her bed. A full moon shone through a gap in the curtains, bathing the room in pale light. Everything looked strange and cold. She could not imagine sleeping one night here. But this was her home now and she would grow used to
it in time.
Her father’s picture was on the bedside table. Hugging it to her chest, she shut her eyes and tried to sleep.
So began her life in Queen Anne Square.
In the weeks that followed a routine began to develop.
Each morning her mother would wake her. When she had dressed the two of them would eat breakfast in the kitchen. Uncle Andrew, who worked in Oxford, had usually left the house before she rose, but sometimes he would allow himself a late start so that the three of them could eat together.
Her journey to school had changed. She had to cross Market Court and could not go and knock on Charlotte’s door as she once had. Generally her mother walked with her, but as she was a big girl of eight increasingly she walked alone. Sometimes Charlotte would come and wait for her at the Norman cross so that the two of them could go the rest of the way together, holding hands and bumping satchels just as they had in the old days.
The school day over, it was time for homework. One full hour between five and six. Uncle Andrew was very particular about this. When she had finished she would want to go and play with Charlotte but there was never enough time. Dinner was always at half past six and eaten in the dining room. Two other points on which Uncle Andrew was insistent. Charlotte’s family had a television and often ate in front of it but Uncle Andrew said that television killed the art of conversation and refused to have one in his house.
Not that there was much actual conversation. Uncle Andrew did most of the talking, describing the events of his day. Her father had been the same, though she did not remember him growing angry over incidents the way Uncle Andrew did. When his voice began to rise, she would start to feel anxious, but then he would diffuse the tension with a joke and she would laugh and relax.
Occasionally there were guests for dinner. Clients of Uncle Andrew to whom she would be introduced and fussed over by. It was the same as when guests had visited her parents in Osborne Row, though she didn’t remember her father praising her quite as effusively as Uncle Andrew did. ‘Isn’t she beautiful?’ he would ask. ‘The loveliest child you’ve ever seen?’
The guests agreed that she was. ‘That’s because she takes after her mother,’ said one elderly man with sleepy eyes, causing Susan’s mother to blush and shake her head. Uncle Andrew told her not to be modest. ‘You are beautiful, darling. That artist in Paris said I had the most beautiful wife in the world. I’m going to have his drawing framed and hang it in my office.’ He was always talking about doing this yet never managed to find the time.
Apple of My Eye Page 9