Jennie Ensor - The Girl in His Eyes

‘Laura, are you alright?’

‘He used to impersonate people, didn’t he? Uncle Richard. I remember him talking like Patrick Moore, wiggling his eyebrows.’

‘Oh, his Patrick Moore was unbelievable. He’d have me and Irene in stitches.’ Tears shone in her mother’s eyes. ‘How I wish he were still around.’ She dabbed at them with a tissue. ‘I’m glad I’ve told you all this – I don’t like having things we can’t talk about. I’ve wanted to, but I was worried how you might react. I didn’t want you to think your mother was some sort of fruit-loop.’

‘Come on, Mum, you’ve had such a lot to deal with, that’s all. Your dad dying suddenly when you were so young.’ She thought of her own father, and her innermost wish when she was growing up – that he would disappear.

‘I suppose certain things can affect you more than you’d ever imagine,’ her mother replied.

Laura looked at her mother’s hand, resting on the table. Her skin was thinner than it used to be, strung with blue veins. It was odd, she thought, how they had both been keeping secrets, waiting for the right time to reveal them. Only her mother had got there first. She put her hand over her mother’s.

‘Do you think you could have another breakdown, Mum? If something like that happened again?’

‘Someone dying, you mean? No, I don’t think so.’ A frown. ‘You mustn’t worry about that, darling. I’ve talked things through ad infinitum with the therapist. I’m much stronger than I used to be.’

Her mother sounded a little too certain. Was it true, or was it only meant to reassure? Mum was a lot chirpier these days than back then, when she and Daniel had lived at home. Laura felt a growing impatience with herself. Now was the time. She had something to share too. Why not just spit it out and be done with it? Her mother would have to find out sooner or later, wouldn’t she?

She got up and took their bowls into the kitchen, then put her head around the door to ask if her mother wanted coffee. She was fiddling with something in her bag. Her stash of pills. She popped a pale blue one into her mouth.

No, she couldn’t do this. Not yet. How much could her mother have changed from the woman she’d been twelve years ago? How would her mother handle the truth about Dad? It would be such a terrible shock. Worse, even, than a death. How would she cope with losing her husband, on top of losing her brother?

Laura put down her cup of coffee. ‘How’s Dad? Is he taking Emma swimming on Saturday?’

‘He was supposed to be, but Jane cancelled. Emma wants to see a friend instead that day, and from the following week on she’s got netball practice every Saturday.’

‘So, he’s not taking Emma to the pool anymore?’

‘That’s right.’ Her mother’s voice sharpened a fraction. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Oh, no reason. I just wondered.’

Her mother said she’d better be going, there was a man coming to the house to fix the gutter.

Laura kissed her goodbye. She promised to phone soon.

She slumped on the sofa. The room slowly became quiet, except for occasional doors slamming on the landing and the faint whoosh of passing cars. Images came to her, fragments of early memories.

Sitting in Uncle Rich’s garden, listening to him put on the voices of celebrities and politicians, her mother teary from laughing. Standing in the kitchen waiting for her mother to let her lick the cake mixture spoon, or press the cutter into the pastry. Watching Mum expertly toss an omelette, shake the stir-fry pan, or blend the perfect strawberry smoothie. Back then the kitchen was the centre of the universe, her mother a warm, reassuring presence, always around on weekends and after school, the bright star beside her father’s uneven light.

Until Uncle Rich died.

It’s her first funeral. They’re standing by his grave, stiff and silent, she and her brother, Mum and Dad. A man is speaking to the clump of people around them. Everyone’s in black despite the bright flowers and the hot sunshine. Everyone looks sad, dabbing at shiny eyes. Except Mum, who seems beyond sad. Her eyes are dry and empty.

‘Can I take this off now?’ she asks, when the man stops speaking and everyone starts to move away.

But her mother ignores her, not noticing, even when she tugs on her sleeve and asks a second time. Her brother rushes off to the toilet. Her father takes her hand and walks with her, leaving Mum behind, staring at nothing.

Eventually they got back to normal, more or less. But her mother faded. She spent less time in the kitchen or the garden and more time upstairs. And she stopped noticing things. Mum would let her go to school without her hair tied back, or with a stain on her tie, and would forget when she needed a clean PE kit.

Not long after that, her father started to notice her in ways he hadn’t before.

Laura got up from the sofa and went to the window. Her spirits lifted as she watched the distant green spaces under the open sky, the last minutes of sunshine colouring in low ribbons of cloud.

Her thoughts turned back to her father. She tried to decide what to do about him. Now she knew what he’d said about her mother’s breakdown was true, didn’t it change things? And there was even less reason to say anything to Mum, now she knew her father wasn’t going to take Emma swimming anymore. But maybe she should warn Jane, just in case he had another chance to get to Emma.

It was hard to imagine that her father would ever be desperate enough to pursue Emma, or any other girl. Why would he take such a risk? He had everything to lose. And how would he get close enough to do anything to Emma, even if he wanted to? As his daughter, trusting him and loving him, living in the same house day after day, she’d been an easy target. Other girls, even the ones he knew already, would be far more difficult. They were constantly warned by their parents and teachers about the dangers of paedophiles. She’d met Emma a few times, years back. The girl had been a feisty thing, seemingly quite able to stand up for herself. Surely, even if her father did see Emma again, she’d never let him do anything.

But what if he did do something to harm her? How would she be able to live with that?

Laura reached out to ring the doorbell then lowered her arm. From inside, raised voices. A boy and a girl, arguing. The boy’s voice wobbled with suppressed tears. The girl’s was sarcasm-inflected, bored. Clearly, Jane wasn’t in – or was she in another part of the house?

She scanned the front of the modest semi. It was the same as she remembered. Its modernish, bland exterior matched all the others in the street, though the paintwork looked fresh and the windows boasted wooden blinds, not net curtains. She pressed the bell, which set off a loud electronic chime. The voices carried on. She pressed the bell again, for twice as long this time.

Silence, then the hurried thump of feet. Emma opened the door.

‘Hello?’ She wore her school blouse and skirt. She had grown half a foot, into a skinny teen. A sullen line of lips had replaced the eager-to-please smile.

‘Hi, Emma, I’m Laura. My mum is friends with yours—’

‘I remember.’ Emma’s expression didn’t alter. ‘Hi there.’ Her voice was flat.

‘I’m really sorry to disturb you, but I wanted to speak to your mum.’ Laura paused, hoping for Jane’s voice to intervene. ‘Is she in?’

‘She’s at work. She won’t be in till seven thirty, maybe eight.’

She hesitated, checking her watch. It was only 6.45pm now. For some reason, she hadn’t considered that Jane might be out. ‘Can I come in and wait for her?’