Twice, Charlotte had come to the house to play. On the second visit Lizzie Flynn came too and broke a vase. Uncle Andrew had flown into a rage, shouting at them, but when Charlotte burst into tears he had apologized and taken them out for milk shakes. ‘He didn’t mean to get angry,’ Susan’s mother told her afterwards. ‘He’d had a busy day at work and he’s not used to having lots of children in his house. Perhaps you should stop asking them to come over. Just for a little while, that’s all.’
She went to bed at eight o’clock, after her nightly bath. Her mother would always tuck her in. Smudge continued to sleep in the kitchen. Her mother kept promising to ask Uncle Andrew about Smudge sleeping with her but never seemed to find the right moment.
Sometimes, late at night, she was woken by the sound of footsteps. Uncle Andrew coming upstairs to work in his study. She would lie in bed, watching the glow of the landing light through her door frame, and know that he was there.
One night the footsteps continued past the study, coming to a halt outside her door. She called out a greeting but was answered only by silence. The footsteps moved away, she went back to sleep, and in the morning her memory of the incident was so faint that it seemed like nothing but the fragments of a broken dream.
In May Aunt Ellen was taken ill.
It wasn’t serious, just a stomach bug, but Susan’s mother decided to visit for a weekend. She wanted to take Susan but Uncle Andrew persuaded her to change her mind. ‘She’ll be bored and besides I’ll be lonely without you. Susie will be company for me.’
Saturday was warm and sunny. In the morning they went for a drive, then walked in the woods which were full of bluebells. Uncle Andrew helped her pick some. They found the Golden Hind and she climbed into its branches while Uncle Andrew stayed on the ground, the two of them playing the game of exploration her father had invented. It still hurt to think about him but not as much as it once had. The pain was fading just as Uncle Andrew had said it would.
They had lunch at a pub, sitting at an outside table, drinking Coca-Cola from bottles with straws. In the afternoon they went to the cinema to see an Elizabeth Taylor film. ‘You’re just as beautiful as she is,’ Uncle Andrew whispered as they sat together in the dark. ‘One day I’ll be watching you up there on that screen.’
‘That’s what my dad said,’ she whispered back.
‘Of course. He was very proud of you, Susie. Just as I am.’
That evening he cooked supper. Fish and chips. Her favourite meal. Later they sat together in the living room and he read her a story about smugglers, using different accents for different characters just as her father would have done. His voice was soft. It made her drowsy. The clock on the wall showed that it was past her bedtime. She waited for him to send her upstairs but he continued reading, stopping only to pour himself another brandy from the bottle on the table. As her yawns increased he put an arm around her, pulling her close, running his fingers through her hair. He felt warm and safe, just as her father had done. She rested her head against his chest, closed her eyes and drifted into sleep.
When she woke he was still stroking her hair.
She was lying in her bed, covered by blankets right up to her neck. He sat on its edge, facing her.
‘It’s time,’ he said.
The room was in semi-darkness. The only light came from her bedside lamp. As her tired eyes adapted she saw that he was wearing his dressing gown. Below it his legs were bare. How late was it? Was he going to bed too?
His hand slid through her hair, tugging at the curls, starting to caress her cheek. ‘You’re so beautiful. I’ve never seen anyone as beautiful as you.’ His fingers were clammy. They made her uncomfortable. She squirmed in bed, felt the sheets rub against her skin and realized that she was naked. Her pyjamas were kept under her pillow. Why wasn’t she wearing them? Did he not know they were there?
He was smiling, but there was something strange about his eyes. They seemed brighter somehow. Clearer. As if until that moment she had only ever seen them through a screen.
And they made her afraid.
‘I want my mum.’
He shook his head.
‘I want my mum.’
‘Not tonight. Tonight is just for us. I love you, Susie. Do you love me?’
‘No. I loved my dad. You’re not my dad.’
‘You can love me too. You have so much love to give. I sensed it the moment I first saw you. It was incredible. As if God had made you just for me.’
His hand was on her throat, stroking her skin, one finger lifting the top of the bed covers. Instinctively her own hands moved upwards, clutching at them, holding them tight against herself. ‘You mustn’t be afraid,’ he said. ‘We both know this was meant to be.’ His voice was soft yet rigid with tension. Velvet backed with steel.
He leant forward, bringing with him the smell of sweat and alcohol and something else she couldn’t identify. A dank, ripe odour that filled her nostrils so she felt she couldn’t breathe. Dark chest hair poked through the top of his dressing gown.
‘Don’t,’ she whispered.
‘I won’t hurt you. I just want to touch you.’
‘Please.’
‘Hush. Lie still.’ He moved over her, his body blocking the lamp and swallowing the last of the light.
When it was over he remained on the bed. This time he kept his back to her; his eyes focused on the far wall. In time he began to speak.
‘I’m not a bad person.’
She didn’t answer. Just lay there.
‘I’m not a bad person. It’s just that I can see things in you that others can’t. They think that because you’re beautiful you’re also good. But you’re not. You’re wicked. As wicked as the queen in Snow White.’
She swallowed. Her throat was dry. She wanted a glass of water. She wanted him to be gone.
‘You made me do this. You wanted this to happen.’
She found her voice. ‘No …’
He turned towards her. His eyes were no longer strange. Once again they were warm and soothing. Eyes that she had learnt to trust. And when he spoke his voice was warm and soothing too.
‘It’s true, Susie. You are wicked. A special wickedness that very few children have. I see it in everything you do. And if someone else found out about tonight they’d see it too. If your mother found out …’
He stopped. Sighing, he shook his head.
‘If she found out, she’d get scared again. She’d have another breakdown. Only this one would be much worse. She’d never recover. She’d go away, you’d never see her again and it would be your fault. So we have to keep this secret, Susie. No one else must ever find out because if they do they’ll tell your mother. You know how to keep a secret, don’t you?’
She nodded.
‘So do I. I don’t care that you’re wicked. I still love you, Susie. I’ll teach you how to be good. It will take time but I’ll do it. All you have to do is trust me.’
Silence. They stared at each other. She tried to picture life without her mother but she couldn’t. It was too terrible even to think about. Like every nightmare she had ever had rolled into one.
She began to cry. Gently he wiped her tears away.
‘I don’t want Mum to go away.’
‘She won’t. Not if we keep our secret. I’ll never tell anyone. You can trust me, Susie. Can I trust you?’
‘Yes.’
He kissed her forehead. His lips were cool and dry. ‘I’m thirsty,’ she whispered.
‘I’ll get you some water.’
He rose to his feet, walked towards the door. When he reached it he turned back.
‘I love you, Susie. More than anyone else in the world. You’re the apple of my eye, you know.’
Then he was gone.
Half past eleven the next morning. They sat together in the dining room, eating a late breakfast. Bacon, eggs, tomatoes and fried bread. All the things she liked. She had no appetite but ate anyway. They always breakfasted in the dining room on Sun
day so he could read the papers and watch the world go by.
The bay window looked out on to the square. There was a small garden at its centre where an elderly couple sat on a bench and Mrs Hastings from number 22 pushed her son Paul on a swing. Others walked by on the pavement; returning from church or enjoying the sun.
Her plate was almost empty. She chewed on fried bread that tasted like chalk. His newspaper had a picture of the Queen on the front page. She tried to read the headline but her brain refused to process the words. The bluebells stood in a vase at the centre of the table. A surprise for her mother, who would be returning after lunch, eager to know what they had done in her absence.
He closed his paper. ‘Finished?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’ He was smiling, just as he had been all morning. Happy and cheerful and making no mention of the previous night. True to his word he was keeping it secret, even between the two of them.
‘What shall we do today?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Perhaps a walk by the river. We can’t waste such a lovely day sitting indoors.’ The doorbell rang. ‘Who can that be?’
As he went to find out she watched Mrs Hastings push Paul higher and higher. Paul had blond hair and blue eyes. Her mother thought Paul a very good-looking boy.
She wondered whether Paul was wicked too.
There were footsteps in the hall. He re-entered the room, followed by Mrs Christie from number 5 and her daughter Kate, who was one of Alice Wetherby’s gang, both dressed in their church clothes. Mrs Christie took Kate to church every Sunday. Twice sometimes. Kate was always complaining about it at school.
‘You’ve caught us still at breakfast,’ Uncle Andrew told Mrs Christie. ‘We’re being very lazy today, aren’t we, Susie.’
She nodded. Kate was scowling. She had tightly curled dark hair and big features. Alice called her ‘Golliwog’. Alice could be cruel even to members of her gang.
Mrs Christie was talking about a fete the church was running in the summer. Raising money for charity. Uncle Andrew said that he would be pleased to help. Mrs Christie was delighted. ‘It will be such fun for the children. Kate’s friends are all going to get involved. Bridget and Janet and Alice Wetherby. It would be lovely if Susan joined in too.’ Uncle Andrew agreed that it would.
Kate, safe beside her mother, made a face at Susan. Normally Susan would have retaliated, but not this time.
Was Kate wicked? Was Bridget, Janet or Alice?
Or am I the only one?
Mrs Christie pointed at the bluebells. ‘What beautiful flowers.’ Uncle Andrew explained that Susan had picked them the previous day. ‘A present for her mother as they’re her favourites.’ Mrs Christie beamed at Susan. ‘What a lovely thought. Your mother’s lucky to have such a kind daughter.’
‘No she’s not.’ The words were out before she could stop them.
Uncle Andrew frowned. So did Mrs Christie. ‘Whyever not, dear?’
Because I’m bad. Because I’m wicked.
And I don’t know why.
They were all watching her. Unable to stand it she ran from the room.
Dragonflies danced on the surface of the river, catching rays of sunlight and irritating the swans that glided by the narrow boats waiting to pass through the lock. One boat moved in front of another. The two owners exchanged words.
She crouched at the base of a tree, hidden from view. Needing to be alone to try to make sense of the thoughts that swarmed like angry bees inside her brain.
She was wicked. Uncle Andrew had said so. He was a grown-up. He was her friend and she trusted him. If he said so it must be true.
But she didn’t know why.
If her father had lived she would still be living in Osborne Row. Her mother would not have married Uncle Andrew and the previous night would never have happened.
Would it?
Suddenly she was back in her bed, watching Uncle Andrew’s face close in upon her. Except that this time it was not Uncle Andrew. It was her father.
If her father had known she was wicked would he have forgiven her? Would he have carried on loving her like Uncle Andrew did?
She wanted to believe it. But in her head his face grew cold. ‘You’re wicked, Susan. Bad and wicked and I hate you. You’re not my Susie Sparkle any more.’
The voices inside her brain grew louder and louder. A hurricane of sound that threatened to split it in two. Burying her head in her knees, she started sobbing while a spider crawled up her leg and began to weave a web in the folds of her dress.
When she was too tired to cry any more she raised her head. It was cooler. A wind was rising in the east, blowing clouds across the sky and making the boats bob in the water. It found her through the branches of the tree, lifting her hair and blowing it across her face. She brushed it back.
And in that moment she was with her father again; the two of them sitting together by the river bank on the day she had fought with Alice Wetherby.
I wish you’d known my father, Susie. He would have been so proud of you.
Why?
Because you’re strong. Your grandfather was the same. You felt safe around him because you knew that no matter what you asked of him he’d never let you down.
Strong.
She rose to her feet, as if the word were a rope to pull her up.
Strong.
To be strong wasn’t wicked. To be strong was good.
It was good, wasn’t it?
Or at least it was a start.
Her father had said that they would protect her mother. That they would not let her be scared ever again. But now he was gone and it was up to her.
And she would do it. Whatever it took. Whatever secrets she had to keep. It was what he had asked of her and she would not let him down. She was strong. She would prove that she was good.
The noise inside her head died away. She felt empty. Drained of everything except a single thought.
I am strong and I will survive this.
She wiped her eyes. There would be no more crying. Tears were for the weak and she had to be strong. For her father. For her mother. And for herself.
Turning, she began the walk home.
*
The front door was open. Her mother stood in the doorway with Uncle Andrew.
‘Susie, where have you been?’
‘By the river.’
‘You shouldn’t have been away so long. We were worried. It was naughty.’
Wicked.
‘I’m sorry, Mum.’
‘It’s all right. At least you’re here now. Did you have a nice time while I was away?’
Uncle Andrew was watching her, his expression anxious. Was he worried she would tell their secret? She put on the brightest smile she could find.
‘I picked you some flowers, Mum. Bluebells. Uncle Andrew helped me. We put them in a vase. Do you want to see?’
Her mother smiled too. ‘I’d love to.’
She led her mother into the dining room. Uncle Andrew followed behind.
June.
It was almost midnight. She lay on her side in bed, staring at the frame of the door. Watching for the light. Listening for the footsteps. Wondering whether this would be the night.
He had visited her four times. Or was it five? As the weeks passed she found it harder to keep count.
When it was over she would ask him why she was wicked. Whether she was the only one. What it was she had to do to be good. ‘I don’t want to be wicked,’ she would tell him. ‘Please help me be good.’ He would answer but his words were confusing. She would tell him that she didn’t understand and he would smile and say that in time she would.
The light went on. He was coming. Her heart began to race. She knew that he was her friend. That he wanted to help her. But still the prospect of his visit filled her with dread.
She reached under her bed for the conch shell hidden there. As the footsteps drew closer she pressed it against her ear, listening to t
he sound of the sea, remembering that day by the river with her father. Remembering that she was strong.
Remembering that she was going to survive.
July.
Quarter to nine on a Tuesday morning and already the sun was climbing into a cloudless sky. Edith Bruce stood in Market Court, clutching her basket and wrestling with her dog, Warner, who wanted to chase an aloof-looking poodle that an equally aloof-looking woman was walking. When the poodle passed out of sight he turned, gave her one of his sheepish grins then jumped up, licking her face and almost knocking her over in the process.
‘Oh, Warner, what am I going to do with you?’
She knew the answer. Give him to someone who could control him. A twenty-stone wrestler probably. But she couldn’t do it. Her husband was dead and Warner was the only family she had. He was a terror but he was hers and she would have been lost without him.
The Court was filling: women with baskets, waiting for the shops to open; parents leading small children with satchels towards the primary school on the west side of town. The children were generally in high spirits. Excited at the prospect of a summer holiday that was only days away. Little Susan Ramsey, her former neighbour, walked with her stepfather, Andrew Bishop. Edith gave her a wave and promptly dropped Warner’s lead.
‘Hell! Warner, come back here!’
Warner bounded away, chasing an alarmed-looking pug and having to be stopped and returned by Mr Bishop.
‘You’ve got a lively fellow here,’ he told her.
‘I certainly have. Thank you so much. Hello, Susie.’
Susan stoked Warner’s head. ‘Hello, Mrs Bruce.’
‘Looking forward to the holidays?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’re going to have a lovely summer, aren’t we, Susie?’ said Mr Bishop. ‘Lots of fun.’
Susan nodded but said nothing. Normally she was a chatterbox but not today.
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