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
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
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