Jennie Ensor - The Girl in His Eyes

Outside, street lights came on. The contents of a lit room in the house opposite were clearly visible. A figure moved inside it – the old man who used to leave notes on her father’s windscreen, complaining about him taking up too much space when parking.

Laura listened to the carriage clock ticking on the mantelpiece. Each tick was louder than the last and seemed slower coming. A kind of helpless resignation came over her. Neither she nor her father had spoken for a while. Somehow, she was incapable of speaking. Even now, all these years later, he was controlling her.

Suddenly, her father leaned forward and placed his hands onto the arms of his chair, palms facing down. Her heart raced. He was going to get up and come over. Any second now, he’d be sitting beside her. There’d be that distant look on his face, as if his usual self had shut down.

Don’t be so stupid . Of course he’s not going to do anything .

No, she was twenty-two years old, not a child. What was the matter with her? She should just say something to break the silence.

With a small groan, her father pushed himself up off the chair. Her breath stopped. He walked over to the window and reached up. He was going to close the curtains. The curtains… Deep inside her brain, a switch flicked on. He was going to close the curtains, just as he used to, before coming over to sit beside her. Even when it was still light outside, he’d draw the curtains. After that first time.

She shivered. It had happened in the garden. She’d not thought of it for years. She’d pushed it deep inside her brain where it would be safe, where she’d never be able to find it again. But the memory sneaked up on her, without warning.

She’s in her swimsuit, lying on her side on a towel on the lawn. Her back is warm from the sun. A book is open in front of her. It’s a Saturday or Sunday, just after the start of the school holidays. Her mother has gone out to see a friend. Her brother is away somewhere too.

Her father comes over and sits down beside her on the grass. She glances up, thinking he’s going to talk to her. But his face is closed down, a mask hiding his normal face.

He begins to stroke the back of her thigh. Gently, not like when he used to tickle her. She looks up from her book, confused.

‘What are you doing?’

He doesn’t reply. Instead, he slips the strap of her swimming costume off her shoulder and clamps his hand over the small mound of her breast. She is cold. She can’t move her tongue. It’s stuck inside her mouth, useless. Her heart hardens in her chest like a big stone. He explores her breast with his fingers, as if it belongs to him.

‘Dad, stop it.’

It is as if she hasn’t spoken.

Silently, she prays for him to stop. If only she could get up and run away. But she is unable to move. Her entire body has turned to stone.

Then she remembers the sex education class, what they are supposed to say if they ever get unwanted sexual attention.

‘Please, leave me alone. I don’t want you to do that.’

He doesn’t seem to hear, he is so absorbed in his task. He lowers his head and his tongue is rough and hot on the sensitive tip of her breast.

At last, he puts the strap of her costume back on her shoulder.

‘Did you like that?’

His voice is shaky and higher than usual. She shakes her head.

‘You will, sweetie, I promise.’

She stares at him.

‘You mustn’t talk about this to anyone,’ he says. ‘And you must never tell your mother. If she finds out, it will kill her.’

When she has sworn not to tell, he leaves her alone. Alone except for the strange tingling sensation, and a certainty that everything will be different from now on. Something has been taken from her that she’ll never get back.

When her mother gets home, he goes back to being the father she used to have. He tells her in a cross voice to go and tidy her room, as if nothing has happened.

In the long hours before she succumbs to sleep that night, shame and confusion take over. Why did she let him touch her like that? Why didn’t she stop him? What had made him do such a thing?

After that first time, he does it again. Always when he is alone with her. Usually in the living room. Touching her body with his fingers, his lips. He talks to her like she is his girlfriend, his lover. Sometimes he holds her hand, squeezes it hard. Sometimes he kisses her on the mouth. She hates it, tries to turn away her head. He tells her he adores her, he needs to be with her like this. She’s becoming a woman now. She turns him on so much, he can’t help himself.

No one ever sees him do these things. Occasionally, her mother comes in when he isn’t expecting it – she gets back early from visiting a friend, or a yoga class. But he’s too quick. He just moves away and pretends to be watching TV or reading the newspaper.

She never says anything to her mother. She behaves as if her father is the same man he’s always been, because she has no choice. Because she knows perfectly well, without him telling her, what would happen if she told: it would break up her family and ruin all of their lives. And maybe what her father told her is true, maybe it really would kill her mother if she ever found out. How could she be responsible for such a thing?

She knows she can’t stop her father from doing what he does. He is the man who makes everyone do whatever he wants them to. He is the head of the family, the one who sets the rules. She is his daughter, not yet twelve, who must follow the rules. Most of all, she knows she should have said something the first time, and now it is too late.

The three of them clustered in the hall. Her father held out her coat.

‘You’ll come over again soon, won’t you, sweetie? Are you sure you don’t want me to run you home?’

‘No, really, I’m happy to get the train. I’d like to get some fresh air – thanks, anyway.’

If she stayed here any longer, she’d suffocate.

Her father went into the kitchen and returned with a foil package. ‘Here, put this in your bag. I wrapped some birthday cake for you, in case you’re hungry when you get home.’

‘Thanks, Dad.’

A sudden rush of affection overcame her, some remnant of her childish love for her father. She swallowed to clear the tightness in her throat.

‘Cheerio, sweetie. Safe journey.’ He put his arms around her, awkwardly. She froze as he made contact. ‘See you again soon, I hope.’

Her mother hugged her tightly, holding on for a long time.

‘Promise you’ll phone soon – to let me know how you are.’

Laura sat on the District Line train, opposite a short-skirted, ponytailed girl, and a middle-aged man. He was the girl’s father, clearly.

The girl chattered non-stop, her shining eyes darting around the compartment and beyond the window, but always returning to the face of the man beside her. What was it about her? She seemed so innocent, so vulnerable. She must be eleven or twelve – the age she herself had been when her father began to see her differently. Emma’s age.

Laura stared out of the window, not seeing the houses hurrying past.

He wouldn’t think of doing anything to Emma – would he?

The thought wedged in her brain, blocking out everything else. Small hairs stirred on the back of her neck.

It had never occurred to her before, that her father might do the same things to another girl. He had done those things to her because… What? She was special, he’d told her. There’d been something about her, something he couldn’t resist.