Sofka Zinovieff - Putney

‘Janey, there’s something I wanted to ask you.’

‘Fire away.’

‘It’s something to do with Libby. Or no, actually I think it’s more to do with Ralph.’

Jane stiffened. ‘Has Ralph done something with Libby?’

‘No, no. God. No.’ Her wide-eyed shock relaxed into a faint smile at the absurdity. ‘No, I haven’t even seen Ralph for ages – years. No, it’s more something inside me that changed. As if I suddenly saw all the same experiences differently. Like when you walk up a hill and understand the shape of a landscape you’ve been lost in. I realised I’d been remembering my thing with Ralph from a child’s point of view. I mean, I know he wasn’t a paedophile or anything. He wasn’t chasing around molesting little kids. But the truth is, it looks different from a parent’s perspective.’

It was tempting to yell, ‘Finally! Why did it take you so bloody long?’ but Jane gathered her composure. ‘Do you know what changed that?’ she asked neutrally.

‘Yeah, it’s funny really, or maybe it’s obvious.’ Daphne’s brow contracted. ‘It might sound silly but it all started with Libby and her friend Paige dancing.’ She smiled at the incongruity. ‘Just before she went away to Greece.’ She flicked a glance at Jane and then away again across the water that was pushing its way upriver with the incoming tide. ‘They were all done-up, with heels and tarty make-up, and then they started dancing – lots of thrusting and pouting. I suppose it might have been funny if it wasn’t grotesque. They seemed to understand what they were doing while not really understanding. Does that make sense?’

‘Completely.’ Jane remembered the ugly mess of teenage years, when none of them really knew what they were doing.

‘And then I saw the peculiar disconnect that happens when young girls play with sexiness. I do realise it’s normal – what they all do – what we all did. But it’s like a game, like practising before the real thing. And I thought about me at eleven or twelve and about Ralph. And sleeping with him when I was only thirteen. And it was like being punched in the stomach. I mean, Libby’s going to be thirteen soon.’ She shook her head and the clip holding her hair fell on to the ground, provoking a spill of Medusa-wild locks. Gathering up her curls and fixing them in place once more, she continued, ‘It was such a strange sort of shock – the sort you’ve known about all along but haven’t understood.’

Jane remained silent.

‘I thought that if an older man did to Libby what Ralph did to me, I’d…’ Daphne stopped and then said very simply, ‘I’d kill him.’

The flood of relief was like bathing in warm water. Warm, scented water that relaxed and invigorated. Like a hot tub! After all these years, all the recent waiting and hating and hopes for justice, and finally Daphne could see things as they really were. Randy Ralph, the old perv, the self-righteous, rapist arsehole was going to pay for his crimes.

A shot of milky sunshine penetrated the clouds before a startlingly loud clap of thunder sounded and the sky turned graphite grey. It felt appropriate.

‘I think it often takes a long time for people to realise they’ve been abused,’ said Jane carefully. She’d been reading up and knew the terminology now. ‘It’s a process. And when you’ve been in denial, then it’s a different sort of trauma.’

Daphne’s eyes went distant with the vacancy of someone who’d witnessed a fatal accident and couldn’t accept what they’d seen. ‘You know that, for me, the time with Ralph was always like a romantic secret. Roses and moonlight stuff. It felt like love – first love. And now it’s something else. Something horrible, even though nothing has changed. So bizarre. Do you remember that Oscar Wilde thing Ed always said? “We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.” I think I’ve turned face down in the gutter.’

‘You’re not, Daphne. It was him in the gutter all the time, never you.’

‘Oh fuck it, Jane. When I think of all that emotion spilled out over him.’ It started raining. Large, isolated drops to begin with, but increasing so their clothes were quickly mottled with dark spots. There was no obvious cover in sight and they moved over to the nearest plane tree as lightning streaked across the sky.

‘We shouldn’t stop here,’ said Jane. ‘It’s dangerous.’

‘Yeah, what the hell. Let’s get soaked. I don’t care. We can change at home.’ They set off towards the park gate, grinning at the drama of the drenching, as rain coursed down their faces, half blinding them. When they got to the train-bridge, it was too tempting to resist the shelter offered underneath it on the road.

‘You know, it was hard for me then. All that emotion, and he was bloody married.’ Daphne wiped her wet face with her hands. There were beads of water on her eyelashes.

‘I got so worried about you when he went to America and you got terribly skinny and anaemic and had to have vitamin injections.’

‘Yes, that was really crap. I was heartbroken. After he left, I burned myself with matches. Look, I’ve still got the marks.’ Daphne pulled up her soaking sleeve and Jane saw a cluster of small white scars below the elbow.

‘He was ruthless,’ said Jane. ‘Ruthless about leaving you, and about being with you. You know, I think you should talk to someone – a specialist, a counsellor. It’s the right time now.’

Daphne shook her head and more drips fell from her hair. ‘But if I talked to a counsellor, won’t it get taken out of my hands? Wouldn’t they report him to the police? I think maybe I’ll write to Ralph and see how he responds. I’d like some answers. I don’t want him arrested.’

It mystified her that Daphne could be so short-sighted when it came to the man who trampled all over her childhood, but she replied cautiously, wringing out the lower sections of her jacket. ‘It’s your choice, but you know what I think. There are laws and what he did is illegal. You were a child.’

‘But he didn’t force me to do anything. Ever. I did love him.’

Jane couldn’t bear to hear Daphne mention love again. ‘That’s completely irrelevant.’ She didn’t want to sound severe, but it needed to be said. ‘I think you’re missing something, Daphne. What he did is called grooming. That’s illegal – you can go to prison for it. You can’t ever say an adult having sex with a child is OK. So it’s pointless to talk about the emotions. “Love” makes no difference.’

The rain stopped and a raw, burning sun lit up the wet pavements of Barnabas Road. They walked slowly back across the bridge, not saying much, their damp clothes almost steaming. At her flat, Daphne lent Jane a dry top and skirt.

‘I’m there with you, Daphne. Anything you need. I know of someone you can talk to. Can I put you in touch?’

She nodded and held on to Jane’s arm. ‘Thank you, Janey. You’re such a darling. I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t helping me through this. I’d be so alone.’

He enjoyed arriving home in a taxi with the chuckling luxury of the diesel engine singing a song of comfort, abundance and tradition. The driver rushed them up the side of Primrose Hill and then stopped before his house – brightly painted like its neighbours and sporting window boxes planted with red geraniums. The warm summer morning made him feel that the entire street was smiling and he tipped the driver generously. The magnolia he and Nina had planted on moving there over twenty years earlier now reached the first-floor windows.

He was relieved to be back after the five days in Berlin, though the trip had gone far better than anticipated. The invitation was to conduct a performance of Songs of Innocence and Experience and he was worried he wouldn’t be strong enough after his gruelling treatments. In the event, he amazed himself with a surge of strength. He was feted as never before in Germany. Parties were held in his honour, he gave television and press interviews, and they put him up in a magnificent suite at the Ritz Carlton in Potsdamer Platz. Fearing his vigour might not last, and with the air of a condemned man, he ordered outrageous breakfasts in bed. When tiring of eggs, ham and sausages after the first few days, he progressed to fish, cheeses, waffles and pastries. Best of all, he received a standing ovation at the concert and was laden with bouquets. Nothing like a bit of straightforward adulation for raising the spirits.