On Monday evening when Joyce brought Jenny home, I was in the bathroom, and by the time I came out, Jenny had already disappeared into her room. Stephen and Joyce were standing in the hall. Under the bare light Joyce's hair looked almost white, and this made her face appear unusually girlish. I kissed her warm cheek.
“Let me take your jacket,” said Stephen. “Come and have a drink.”
“I ought to get back.”
“You can't stay to supper?” I asked. “We could eat early. It's almost ready.”
She looked at her watch and shook her head. “I have a meeting to go to at nine, and I left Edward in charge of two pork chops, but thank you anyway.”
“Thank you for having Jenny. I hope she wasn't too much trouble,” Stephen said.
“She was no trouble at all; she was as good as gold. You'll have to get her to tell you about the pony trekking. She and Raven put me to shame. I hope you two lovebirds enjoyed yourselves.” She smiled from Stephen to me. There was a slight rustling behind us. The door of Jenny's room was ajar, and I was sure that she was listening to every word.
Stephen put his arm round me. “We didn't do anything very special, but it was nice not to have to worry about baby-sitters and arrangements.”
“Well, anytime,” said Joyce. “It was a pleasure for us.” She
shifted her keys from hand to hand and took a step in the direction of the door.
“Jenny, come and say goodbye. Joyce is leaving,” Stephen called.
She shot out of her room like a jack-in-the box. “I thought you were staying,” she exclaimed. She ran over and flung her arms around Joyce.
Joyce reached down to embrace her. “Thank you for coming to visit. You were the perfect guest, and I hope you'll come again soon.”
Jenny did not release her, and after a slight pause Joyce gently loosened her grip and turned to leave. Stephen opened the front door. “Don't come out. It's chilly,” Joyce said, but Jenny clung to her. While Stephen and I remained on the doorstep, she walked with Joyce to her car.
“She always claims that Edward is perfectly competent in the kitchen, but she doesn't really trust him,” Stephen remarked.
From the street came the sounds of departure, the car door opening and closing, the engine catching. The car drove away, and Jenny reappeared. She paused at the garden gate, staring at us where we stood in the lighted doorway; her pale face glimmered in the twilight. Then she walked slowly down the path towards us. “Are you going to unpack?” asked Stephen, as she brushed past.
“I already have,” she said. “I'm going to feed Selina.”
At supper Jenny answered her father's questions in a subdued manner. Stephen asked what she had done, how was Raven, what was the name of the pony she had ridden. Several times he began remarks with phrases like “Next time we're there” or “When we go in the spring,” as if he were determined to demonstrate at every possible opportunity that Jenny could look forward to a secure future with him. I felt in comparison the futility of the assurances he gave to me.
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Next morning Suzie summoned me to her office. “Did you have anything to do with this?” she asked, gesturing towards the pages laid out across her drafting table: “Fowler and Hayes:
Industrial England.”
“No. It's one of Clare's projects.”
Suzie was pointing to a poorly drawn sketch of a small boy; he had enormous eyelashes and a rosebud mouth. One hand rested negligently on a dark mass of machinery. “They decided to do the illustrations themselves, and this is the result,” she said.
I turned over a few pages. The justice of her complaints was all too apparent. “But why would they do their own illustrations?” I asked.
“Art has always been a hobby of hers, so she thought she'd have a go. She's going to make a tremendous fuss when we tell her these are unusable.” Suzie snorted impatiently. “Well, how was the romantic weekend?”
“Okay.”
“That's not exactly a glowing report.” She put aside the manuscript and turned to look at me.
I moved towards the door, rubbing my eyes as if there was something in them. “I don't know. It was lovely to have the house to ourselves. I found it hard when she came home.”
“Has she calmed down about Christmas?”
“She hasn't said anything, but who knows what that means. It's never easy to know how she feels.”
“Poor kid,” said Suzie, shaking her head. “Why don't you send her to Paris for a weekend? I bet there are cheap fares for children.”
“That's a brilliant idea!” I exclaimed. I clasped my hands together, almost as if applauding. Then I rushed over and hugged her.
“You'd think you were the one going.” She laughed.
At my desk I called a travel agent. It seemed remarkably
easy to fly to Paris and not as expensive as I had feared. I made a list of times and prices to give to Stephen.
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Outside Jenny's school the orange beacons of the zebra crossing shone like Halloween lanterns in the late afternoon. As I pulled up at the curb I spotted Jenny. She was standing between two much taller girls, a little apart from the main crowd. One of them, a brawny girl wearing a very short skirt, was holding Jenny's arm. She said something; Jenny shook her head, pulled away and ran over to the car.
“Who were those girls?” I asked.
“They're in my class.”
She did up her seat belt, then stared out of the window. I did not press her further. I turned around and drove back towards the main road. I had grown accustomed to thinking of Jenny as the aggressor, but now it occurred to me that her life at school might be the complete reverse of her life at home. I remembered how the girls in my class had gone through a phase when during lunch hour or break they would gang up on someone. Four or five of them would sit on top of the luckless girl and tickle her mercilessly, then strip her to her underwear, even beyond. Afterwards the victim, flushed, disheveled, often looked pleased, as if the ordeal survived conferred some odd kind of favour. To my heartfelt relief, I was never singled out in this way. I tried to recall at what age this behaviour had taken place; it seemed to me that we had been a couple of years older than Jenny, but children were more precocious nowadays, I thought.
We stopped at the corner shop to buy chocolate biscuits. “How was school today?” asked Mr. Murgatee.
“Okay,” said Jenny.
“What did you learn?”
“We learned a poem: âThe Charge of the Light Brigade.'”
“Good,” said Mr. Murgatee, smiling. He turned to me.
“Every day I ask my daughter what she's learned. After all, that is what school is for.”
I held out a pound for the biscuits. As we drove down the street, I congratulated Jenny on being so quick to answer him. “I wouldn't have known what to say,” I said.
She smiled. “I made it up. Actually we did that weeks ago.”
Over tea she told me that they had had a visit from a career counsellor.
“A career counsellor,” I exclaimed. “Isn't it a bit soon to be thinking about your career?”
“Not really,” said Jenny, taking a bite of her toast and jam. “She asked everyone what they wanted to do. Anna said that she wanted to be a doctor. Rita and Joan both said they wanted to get married and have children.”
“What did you say?”
“I never want to get married.” She licked her finger and ran it round the rim of her plate to catch up the crumbs.
“Don't you want children?”
“No,” she said with agonised vehemence. “Never.” She looked at me, as if challenging me to admit that I did not understand.
“Why not?” I asked gently.
“Because.”
I would have liked to mention the possibility of her going to Paris, but I did not dare. Instead I offered some vague platitude about how she would change her mind as she grew older. Jenny shrugged and changed the subject by asking if I wanted more toast. We passed the evening quietly. As soon as she had finished her homework, Jenny curled up on the sofa and read her Chalet school book at a tremendous rate.
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I was convinced that Suzie's suggestion, so obvious and so surprising, could be our salvation. Everything was arranged with amazing speed. When I spoke to Stephen, he seized upon the idea with gratitude. He telephoned Helen next day. Apparently
she too was delighted, and there was no need for Stephen to offer to pay for the ticket; I had said to him that perhaps it could be part of our Christmas present to Jenny. In truth I would happily have borne the entire expense myself.
Jenny was grating the cheese for macaroni cheese when Stephen told her about the plan. “So you'll go tomorrow afternoon after school. I've already spoken to the headmistress, and then you'll come back on Sunday evening.”
I was sitting at the dining room table. I knew at once from the long silence that all was not well. She should have been squealing with pleasure. I moved to the other side of the table, in order to be able to see into the kitchen. Jenny was standing next to the fridge. “Do I have to go?” she said at last in a small voice.
“You don't have to, but don't you want to see Helen? She really wants you to come. She misses you a lot. It's still nearly a month until Christmas.”
Now Jenny was crying openly. “I don't want to go. I want to stay here with you,” she kept saying over and over again between her sobs.
Stephen knelt down beside her. He took the grater out of her hands and drew her to him. “Don't cry,” he said. “There's nothing to cry about. Nobody's trying to force you. Listen, you don't have to decide this minute. Why don't you think about it and see how you feel in a few days. You could go the weekend after this one. Come on, stop crying.”
“Promise you won't send me away,” she said. “Promise.”
“I promise,” said Stephen. He patted her cheeks with the dish towel.
As she exhorted Stephen, Jenny looked at me, and I knew that she meant his answer for my ears. When he straightened up from drying her face, she was still staring at me; I understood that nothing would help, no amount of cajoling, or pleading, or reasoning.
After supper the three of us played Cludo in front of the
living room fire. I had last played the game with my parents, when I was about Jenny's age. While I plodded along, trying to ascertain whether Colonel Mustard could have done it in the library with the revolver, they had joked around, making inspired guesses. In Jenny I saw a reflection of my youthful seriousness, although she took greater risks than I had done. She was sitting on the floor in her dressing gown, and I noticed her smooth, bare legs. I thought of how much time I spent plucking and shaving, trying to return myself to such a soft, hairless state. For months after the first dark hairs had appeared on my body, I had shaved them off with my father's razor every time I took a bath. My mother's cheerful descriptions of puberty had in no way prepared me for this transformation.
“I suspect Miss Scarlet in the conservatory with the revolver,” said Jenny.
Stephen showed her a card. I stared blankly at the pile of tiny murder weaponsâthe inch of lead pipe, the doll's-size noose. I could not keep my mind on the game, and Stephen too seemed absent-minded. Jenny won every round, correctly attributing murder and method to Miss Scarlet and Mr. Plum.
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That night I dreamed that Jenny was in our room, that while Stephen and I lay sleeping, she had come in to get something, I did not know what. In the morning the conviction of her presence lingered. Casually I mentioned my dream at breakfast. Jenny said nothing, and Stephen made a joke about the effects of Cludo.
I was too preoccupied with Jenny's reaction to the invitation to Paris to give the matter another thought. Given her love for Helen, there was something sinister and unnatural about her adamant refusal. I could not understand what would motivate her. Was it possible that she was so angry with Helen that she wanted to punish her?
Then I thought that perhaps I was looking at things the
wrong way round. It was not that Jenny did not want to go to Paris, but rather that she was determined to remain in Edinburgh. It was as if I had drawn a knife from its sheath. The idea lay before me, hypnotic in its gleaming sharpness; I shrank from touching it, even as I reached towards it. If it was true, then what I had taken for peace was merely an armed truce. But what harm could she do? I was determined not to come between Stephen and her, and if she wanted to ride roughshod over my clothes and belongings, I would endure in silence. I would not let possessions damn me. All day I searched my mind from attic to cellar, and I came to the conclusion that without my collaboration there was no way Jenny could hurt me. As long as I remained aloof, she was helpless.