Jenny shook her head. She looked at me wide-eyed, the picture of innocence. “Really, it was when you and Daddy were cooking. You saw how I had my dolls out. They were my patients.”
“She did,” said Stephen. “You were tired last night. It is possible that you wouldn't have noticed.”
I got up without saying another word and went to the bathroom. I washed the lenses, over and over, until every trace of vinegar was gone. As I held each lens in turn under the cold water, I saw that my hands were trembling.
When I came into the bedroom, Stephen was sitting on the edge of the bed. He stood up and closed the door. Then he turned to face me. “Celia,” he said, “I can understand why you're so upset about the vinegar, but you have to remember what children are like. They live in a world of their own, and sometimes that makes them terribly thoughtless. Jenny's really sorry. The last thing she wanted was to hurt you.”
As he spoke, he took my hands and looked into my eyes. His voice sounded strange. Suddenly I remembered when I had heard him use this tone before. He had been arguing with his mother, and he had adopted a special voice, brisk and
light, like a doctor handling a difficult patient, and paid no attention to the points Joyce was making. All he had wanted was to terminate the conversation as rapidly as possible. If I explained again that Jenny could only have filled the case during the night, he would not listen. He would remind me once more of my fatigue, mention how I had jumped to a false conclusion in the case of the book.
“It would have been very painful if the vinegar had got in your eyes, but thank goodness it didn't. Jenny will never touch your contact lens things again. Once she knows that something is out of bounds you can trust her absolutely. I think you ought to forgive her.”
This must be what it feels like, I thought, to be a sane person locked up in an asylum; if everyone assumes you are mad, then proving your sanity becomes well nigh impossible. It was not Jenny's behaviour that worried Stephen, but my own. My attempts to enlighten him only increased his blindness.
He was still holding my hands, and as he reached the word “forgive,” the pressure of his grasp increased, crushing my fingers together. “All right,” I said. “I'll try.” Immediately he released me.
When I looked at Jenny, with my lenses in, I saw that her hair was especially glossy and her eyes were clear. She had a plump, sleek look, as if during the night she had fed upon some secret source of satisfaction.
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At work next day I shut my office door, pleading urgent proofreading, but the sheafs of paper lay ignored before me as I tried to follow the thin thread of reason through the labyrinth of confusion. When Stephen told me that he had given Jenny the money for the book, I had, in my embarrassment, been ready to discount all the other incidents that had persuaded me of her antagonism; now my earlier conviction flooded back. What was especially frightening about the
vinegar was not merely the cruelty of the act but the cunning of the confession. I had always assumed that Jenny did not want her father to find out what was going on and that her fear of his doing so was my main weapon. But there could be no accident about the vinegar in my lens case and no mystery about the author of the act. That was why my hands had begun to shake. Apart from anything else, Jenny had shown me that my ultimate deterrent was useless. I could talk to Stephen about almost everything, but on the subject of his daughter, there was a barrier between us which so far I had been able neither to scale nor demolish. That he should doubt my word rather than believe her capable of wrongdoing terrified me.
The telephone rang, startling me back into the present. I answered, and Marilyn told me that there was a package waiting for me in reception. I said I would be along to collect it soon.
After I hung up I found myself thinking about the remark Suzie had made at Hendersons, about how I hated Harry. At the time, I had repudiated the comparison between Jenny and myself, but when I stopped to think, I had to admit that Suzie was right: Jenny and I were both, roughly speaking, stepdaughters. Harry had always been kind to me, and for years I had rewarded him with rudeness and disdain. As far as I was concerned, he had stolen my mother. If I had felt this way at twenty, how much more so must Jenny feel at ten? Not only had she been abandoned by her mother, but in addition she was forced to share her father with a stranger. No wonder she was unhappy. If only, I thought, I could find a way to make her happier, then she would stop behaving badly.
When I put myself in Jenny's place, I knew at once what I must do. I must allow her time alone with Stephen. Before my advent in her life she had seen him less often, but at least when she did, she had had his undivided attention. Now, save for an hour or so after school, she could seldom rely upon having
him to herself. As I thought about all the ways in which I had come between Jenny and her father, I began to feel more cheerful. If I had behaved perfectly, then there would be real cause for grief, for there would be nothing I could do to improve the situation; as it was, a course of action lay plainly before me. There was even an immediate opportunity for me to put my new strategy into operation. The following weekend was Guy Fawkes, and we had planned to go to Abernethy. I resolved to let Stephen and Jenny go alone.
I had reached this point in my deliberations when the telephone rang again. Kate, the formidable assistant, announced that she had finished my typing; she hung up while I was in the middle of thanking her. I went off to fetch my package and on the way stopped to tell Suzie about Kate's latest piece of rudeness.
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When I announced my decision at supper that evening, Stephen at once offered to stay and keep me company. “Jenny's old enough to take the bus to Perth alone, aren't you?” he said.
Jenny did not reply. She seemed absorbed in her baked potato. “I'm staying behind to work,” I said. “Even if you were here, you wouldn't see me. I'll be going into the office both days.”
“But you'll have to emerge for meals. I could cook and be supportive.”
“Stephen, Joyce and Edward are expecting you. Just because I have to change my plans doesn't mean that you or Jenny should.”
With some difficulty I convinced him to go. While he and I settled her fate, Jenny's face took on an air of polite interest. No wonder she resents me, I thought. Only the day before, I had been oblivious to what effect this sort of behaviour must have upon her.
By dint of careful planning I managed to stay out of her
way for most of the week, and when I arrived home on Friday, she and Stephen had already departed; only Tobias came to greet me. He wove around my legs, purring at full throttle as I took off my coat. Throughout the evening, he shadowed me, following me from room to room and leaping onto my lap whenever I sat down.
I had never spent a night alone in the house before, and I had worried that I might feel uneasy. On the contrary, I found myself enjoying the unusual freedom of not having to take anyone else into account. I had lived alone for most of my adult life, and there were certain solitary pleasures that I missed and was glad to recapture briefly. Perhaps it was my imagination, but when Stephen and Jenny returned on Sunday, the atmosphere seemed lighter. By letting them go alone, I had acknowledged that there was a bond between them in which I had no part. They both said that they were pleased to see me. Over supper they took turns telling me about the fireworks.
During the days following Guy Fawkes, domestic life continued to run smoothly; Stephen made supper, or I made supper, we worked, and watched television, and played games. At last Jenny seemed to be learning to accept the present situation and my role in her life. Christmas was coming. She would be away for a fortnight, and then in the new year, as the days grew lighter and Helen's return grew closer, everything would become easier. Meanwhile I was determined to pursue my policy of making sure that she and Stephen spent time alone together. When Stephen announced at breakfast on Saturday that he and Jenny were planning a trip to the ice rink in the afternoon, I said that I had to go shopping. I was in urgent need of a new coat.
“But it'll be so busy,” he said. “Why not wait and go on Thursday evening?”
“It's just as busy then, and I'll be tired from work. Besides, I'm terrible at skating.”
“So am I. That makes it more fun.”
“Maybe next time,” I said, reaching for the butter.
After breakfast Stephen went to do the weekly shopping at Safeways. I fetched my blue pullover and began to wash it at the kitchen sink. I was adding the soap, when a sudden noise made me look round. Jenny was standing in the doorway. “Oh,” I exclaimed. My skin prickled. Then I pulled myself together and managed to laugh at my own surprise. “You
startled me. I thought you'd gone shopping with Stephen,” I explained. At breakfast she had said that she wanted to go to make sure that he bought things she liked.
“No. I had to get my homework done.” She held up the notebook she was carrying. “What's nine fourths times one third?” She carried the book over to the counter and sat down on her stool.
“What did your teacher tell you to do first?” I was not entirely sure that I remembered the technique myself.
“I don't know,” said Jenny.
I shook the water off my hands and came and stood beside her. “Didn't she give you an example?” Over her shoulder I peered at the list of sums. “Turn back a page.” She did so, and there were three examples of how to multiply fractions. We went through them and then returned to the first problem. “Now do you see what to do?” I asked.
“Maybe I should divide nine by three?”
“That sounds like a good idea.”
While I emptied and refilled the basin, Jenny scribbled furiously. “Do you think the answer could be three fourths?”
“Yes. Well done.” I finished rinsing the pullover and announced that I was going to hang it up outside. Jenny nodded.
I opened the back door. A thrush was standing on the flagstones with a snail in its beak. It had been hammering the shell against the stone and was poised for another blow. As I stepped forward, the bird dropped the snail and flew over the wall. I bent down; the topaz-coloured shell was badly cracked, but perhaps not fatally. I moved it to the herbaceous border in the hope that it might recover.
I draped a dish towel across the washing line and hung up the pullover. There was a good breeze, and if the rain held off, it would be dry in a few hours. Then I went to the vegetable patch to examine the Brussels sprouts which Edward had
planted a couple of months before. Beneath the dull green leaves the knobs were still extremely small.
Jenny had left the kitchen when I returned. I put the soap away, rinsed out the basin, and dried my hands. I reached for my bracelet. I had left it on the window sill. Stephen had been going over the shopping list, and I remembered as we talked sliding the bracelet over my knuckles and placing it in one corner of the sill. Now the sill was empty.
I almost ran across the dining room and into the hall. Without knocking, I pushed open the door of Jenny's bedroom.
She was sitting at her desk, writing in her arithmetic notebook, and nothing could have made me more certain of her guilt than the fact that she did not look up. If she had been twenty years older, I might possibly have believed that monumental concentration rendered her oblivious to my noisy entrance, or alternatively that she was desperate to hold on to some fleeting thought long enough to get it down on paper. But at her age I could not believe in this pretence over homework.
“Where's the bracelet?”
“What bracelet?” She looked up at last, but kept one finger resting on the page to mark her place.
“The bracelet I always wear.”
“I don't know. Did you lose it?” She turned her attention back to the page; her pencil was poised.
“Jenny, look at me.”
She raised her eyes again, as if it were only now dawning on her that I was upset. Faintly she smiled.
“I put the bracelet on the window sill. Now it's gone. I thought you might have tried it on and forgotten to put it back.”
“I didn't touch it. I've been busy doing my homework. Maybe you forgot where you put it.”
She was as smooth as ice. If I had turned my back, it would have been easy to imagine that I was conversing with an adult. “Jenny,” I said, “I'm going to give you five minutes to produce that bracelet. If you don't, it'll be the worse for you.”
“I don't know what you're talking about,” she said indignantly. “How would I know where your stupid bracelet is?”
“There's only the two of us here; there's no point in lying. I'm going to the corner shop. It had better be on the dining room table by the time I return.”
I walked swiftly from the room and out of the house. She will put the bracelet on the table, I thought, and later I will talk to Stephen, and we will make a plan for how to deal with his daughter. She has to be made to understand that her behaviour is unacceptable. I had not paused to put on a jacket, and by the time I reached the shop I was bitterly cold.
There was a queue at the register. I went around the counter to the biscuit display. I picked up first one package and then another, looking at the pictures of biscuits, glistening with chocolate or sticky with jam. Finally I shook myself out of this trance-like state, bought some chocolate digestives, and agreed with Mrs. Murgatee that we mustn't grumble about the weather.
On my way home I saw Charlotte and Irene coming down the street towards me. From a distance they looked more like sisters than mother and daughter, an illusion that was fostered by the matching anoraks they wore. “Where's your coat?” asked Irene, as they drew close.
“I just came out for some biscuits. I didn't know it was so cold.”
“That's how you catch a chill,” she admonished. Charlotte nodded to me and skipped off down the street; meanwhile Irene began to talk about the neighbourhood association petition for more street lights in the local park. I stood there with my arms wrapped tightly around myself, trying to take
in her remarks about wattage and maintenance. “They have to agree that it's their responsibility,” she was saying, when suddenly it occurred to me that once again I had been outmanoeuvred. I shivered.
“Goodness, what am I thinking of,” said Irene. “Hurry home and get warm. We can talk some other time.”
I ran down the street as fast as I could, and through the open gate. I turned the handle of the front door. Nothing happened. In my haste I had left the lock on the latch and not brought a key. I rang the doorbell and pounded my fist against the wooden panel. A terrible, choking sense of panic assailed me. I was locked out, and it seemed perfectly possible that Jenny would refuse to let me in. Why had she locked the door? It could only be in order to do something terrible.
I pounded with both fists as hard as I could. “Jenny, let me in. Jenny, let me in,” I shouted.
I was about to go and look through the window of her room, when the door swung open. “I was in the toilet,” she said.
As I pushed past her, I heard the sound of the cistern refilling. “Why did you lock the door?”
“Mummy always told me to lock the door when I was alone.” She knew Helen was sacrosanct. I thought of reminding her of all the occasions on which she had failed to follow her mother's advice, but I had other preoccupations.
She closed the door behind me and returned to her bedroom, closing that door too. I walked into the dining room. The table was bare. I stood there; my anger, like a stone in my mouth, rendered me dumb. Then I turned and went into Jenny's bedroom. She was back at her desk, pretending once more to do her homework.
“Where is it?” My voice was thin and harsh, quite unlike any sound I had ever heard myself produce, but Jenny did not seem to notice.
“What?” she said. The single syllable, bloated with insolence, hovered like a balloon between us.
I went over, took hold of her shoulders, and began to shake her. At that moment I could have done anything: hit her, banged her head against a wall, kicked her in the stomach, squeezed the breath out of her body. She did not say a word, utter a sound, beyond a small gasp. If she had still been acting, she would have protested innocence and bewilderment, but things were too far gone for that. We had both abandoned our disguises.
I stopped because I was afraid, not of what I might do to herâI would happily have left her for deadâbut of what I glimpsed in myself. I let go. My breath came and went with an ugly rasping sound. Jenny stood before me. Her head was level with my chest, her face was pale and smooth as an unwritten sheet of paper. Without looking at me, she went back to her desk and sat down.
“Stand up.”
She got to her feet immediately. This was the ultimate act of disobedience: to go through the motions in everything save what mattered. I knelt in front of her and ran my hands up and down her arms and legs, over her front and back.
“Go and stand there.”
She went meekly to the corner by the window and leaned against the wall. I riffled through the papers on her desk, throwing them onto the floor. Nothing. I felt her eyes on me, and although her expression did not change, I could imagine the pleasure my frantic helplessness gave her.
It was stupid of me to have gone out and left her the leisure to find a secure hiding place, but I had to give her a chance to return the bracelet. I wanted Stephen to know that I had dealt fairly with his daughter. In fact, because of her age, it had to be more than fair.
Jenny picked up a book that lay near her on the floor and bent her head over the pages. I began to search her room. I no longer cared how much mess I made. I tipped all the dresser drawers out on the bed, then I sorted through the mass of
clothes, tossing them onto the floor. I moved the dresser and looked under it. I stripped the bed and found nothing but a sock and a stuffed animal. I ransacked the bookcase, piling the books onto the floor. And Jenny stood there, with a small smile on her face, looking at the book: she even turned a page. It was intolerable that the one thing I needed to know was sitting in her head, like an egg in a nest.
I was working on the bottom shelf of the bookcase, when I heard the front door open. Jenny dropped the book and, before I could stop her, darted out into the hall.
“Daddy,” I heard her say. “Celia's lost her bracelet, and she's very upset.”
“It can't be far away. Would you give me a hand with this?”
At the sound of their voices, chiming one against the other, I saw what I had done. The room was in chaos, the floor strewn with Jenny's books and toys and clothes. In my determination to find the bracelet, I had lost sight of the fact that Stephen could return at any moment. I had believed that the bracelet, which had been his first gift to me, would save us from Jenny; that it would provide the incontrovertible proof necessary to convince him. His voice shattered the illusion. There was no reason why he should believe me; how could the loss of the bracelet prove to him Jenny's malice when even the sight of my contact lens case filled with vinegar had failed to do so?
I pushed the dresser back against the wall and crammed the clothes into the drawers, managing to get them all smoothly shut. I seized the books and placed them higgledy-piggledy on the shelves. I scooped all the papers off the floor and onto the desk. When Stephen came in I was gathering up an armful of sheets. “Jenny told me you'd lost your bracelet.”
“It disappeared. Maybe later you could help me look. I thought I'd do a load of sheets.”
“It just started to rain.”
“It'll probably clear up. I've been saying that I'd do them for a week.” Jenny was standing in the shadows behind him, and I could not judge her expression.
“This would be a good chance to clean your room,” Stephen said to her. “If you pick everything up off the floor, I'll fetch the Hoover.”
“I was doing my homework.”
“This won't take more than fifteen minutes. Come on, if Celia can be bothered to wash your sheets, you can surely tidy up.”
While Stephen spoke I had been slowly putting the blankets on the end of the bed. Now I moved towards the door, where Jenny stood. At this moment, she and I were infinitely closer to each other than to Stephen; our secret knowledge linked us as surely as it excluded him. He was the outsider whose innocence we prized. As I passed with her sheets in my arms, Jenny and I exchanged glances; such was the intimacy between us that we were almost smiling.