Fearful Symmetries (26 page)

The nursery at Exley Hall was turned into a little classroom. All the toys and games were put away each morning before lessons started; for a few hours, at least, this was to be a place of learning. Susan directed most of her classes towards Clara in particular; Edwin was not exactly bad mannered, but he made it clear he wasn’t much interested, and any attention he gave was bestowed upon his teacher as if it were a great gift for which she should be grateful. He was not very good at mathematics, he enjoyed history only when it was something he’d already heard about from his father. He discovered he had an aptitude for Latin which delighted him, and his face lit up like a little boy when Susan complimented him upon it.

Both Clara and Edwin would listen when their teacher told them ancient stories of heroism and derring-do. Edwin liked the tales of King Arthur, but only when there were quests and fighting; he didn’t like Guinevere or Lancelot, he didn’t want to bother with all that mushy stuff.

One night Susan couldn’t sleep, and she went downstairs to Mr. Exley’s study. It was even better furnished with books than her father’s, and she thought something to read would help her rest. She was surprised to find a light burning. There on the floor was Edwin, and all about him were texts he had taken from the shelves. He started when he realised Susan was there.

“Don’t tell my father,” he said.

“Your father wouldn’t mind,” Susan told him. “He’d be pleased you want to learn things!”

“No,” said Edwin. “He wouldn’t.”

Susan often found Edwin in the study at night times. They never discussed their secret rendezvous during the day, and Susan tried not to go down there too often—maybe no more than once, say twice, a week. Edwin would show her new books he had found; sometimes they were geography, and as he enthused about Africa and the colonies she rather got the impression that he was teaching her. He was taller than she was, he had no problem reaching the higher shelves. And he had no fear of the stepladder, he’d race up to the very top of it to fetch books that were brushing at the ceiling, with a fearless speed that sometimes made Susan’s heart stop.

She showed him some poetry. He was resistant at first. She made him read it out loud to her, and he began to like it more, he began to enjoy the rhythm of it.

On his birthday she bought him a little notebook in which he could write his own poetry. She bought him a sketchpad, so that he could draw.

One day Mr. Exley put down his newspaper at the breakfast table, and the rare act of that caused his wife to stop her chatter. Mr. Exley said to Susan, “And how are the children getting on? Learning things, are they?”

Susan told him they were both doing admirably.

Mr. Exley nodded at this. “That’s good,” he said. “What they learn now, they’ll never forget. I’ve got such stuff in my head, all the kings and queens from William the Conqueror, times tables, things like that. Useless, of course, but it’s nice to have.”

Mrs. Exley said that the children seemed very happy.

Mr. Exley said, “We should have a demonstration some evening. Nothing too fancy. Just you and the children, showing us what they’ve learned.” Mrs. Exley looked quite excited by that. Susan told them she’d make preparations.

Edwin could soon list all the kings and queens, just like his father, and as an added bonus Susan felt he should also indicate the dates of famous battles they had fought; Hastings, Agincourt, the Boyne. Clara could read some poetry; for all her shyness and plain features she had such a sweet voice. And both children could conclude with a recitation of their times tables, five, six, seven and eight, all the way to a hundred.

The evening went very well. Both the parents looked proud and indulgent as their children stood tall and parroted out all the facts they knew. Clara read three poems; one by Keats, one by Shelley; the final one was by Edwin Exley, although the author’s name was not mentioned, Susan thought it would be a charming little secret. It wasn’t necessarily a very good poem, and was rather cruelly exposed beside the Victorian Romantics that had inspired it, but Mr. and Mrs. Exley couldn’t tell the difference.

Mr. Exley gave the children a round of applause, and a shilling each, and told Susan that they would have to have a similar soiree at some point. Maybe at Christmas, when all their friends were there?

That night Susan visited Edwin in the study.

“I love you,” said Edwin, suddenly.

“Well, I love you too.” Susan thought nothing of this: Clara was always telling Susan she loved her, and putting her arms around her, she was such a needy girl. And Edwin was studying a book at the time, he wasn’t even looking at her.

“Will you marry me one day?”

Susan laughed. “Oh, I shouldn’t have thought so!”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re a little boy.”

“I won’t be a little boy forever. I’ll get older soon. And I’ll go and fight. I’ll be brave and defend my country, and I’ll never be afraid. Do you believe me?”

“Yes. Yes, I believe you.”

“I’ll be fighting for
you
.” Edwin had put aside the book now, he had abandoned cover, and he was staring at Susan, and he was beginning to cry, but he didn’t seem sad, he seemed fierce.

Susan didn’t know what to say. “You’ll marry someone else, Eddie. You’ll see. Someone better than me.”

“And when I do, will you come to my wedding?”

“Of course I will!”

“Good. I want you there. I want you to see my bride. I want you to know that I shan’t love her. That I’m marrying her out of spite. That I’ll be cruel to her, and punish her, because she’ll never be you. I want you to know it’ll be your fault.”

“That’s a wicked thing to say,” said Susan. Edwin didn’t care. He shrugged.

“I pray to God each night that you’ll love me,” he said.

“God can’t answer prayers like that.”

“Not the God of
Jesus
,” he sneered. “There are older gods. The things I’ve read. The things that are in the books on the top shelf.”

Christmas Day, Mr. Exley said, would be for the family alone. Cook and the two maids were given time off. Susan was put right at the heart of the celebrations, and it was tacit proof of acceptance that she found very touching. Mrs. Exley gave her as a present a pink dress—“You don’t seem to have anything nice, my dear,” she said, and the dress fitted perfectly. Clara gave Susan a piece of embroidery she had stitched herself. Edwin didn’t give Susan anything, but he was a boy.

And in the evening they all went to a carol service at the church, and sang hymns together. Mr. Exley sang with particular gusto. Edwin sat at the end of the pew, away from Susan, and barely even mouthed any of the hallelujahs to Christ.

On Boxing Day Cook and the maids came back, and everyone prepared for the party. Lots of Mr. Exley’s old friends came with their twittering wives, and in honour of this Mr. Exley wore his regimental uniform. There was a turkey dinner, and crackers, and cigars, and a game of charades: Susan didn’t join in, but she enjoyed watching all the grown-ups play. Before the children’s bedtime they were presented, newly dressed in smart clothes; the Exleys said Clara and Edwin would perform for them. Edwin stiffly recited the crowned heads of England once more, and the men especially gave hearty applause. Clara performed from memory a short poem by Keats. As a grand finale, the children would chant the seven times table.

It began well enough. Everyone looked on kindly, knowing that it would all be at an end soon, and they could get back to their sherries and jokes and fun. No one even appeared to notice how Edwin’s delivery was somewhat forced and sarcastic; Clara, at least, was a perfect angel.

Somewhere in the middle Edwin broke rank, and began to deliver a poem of his own. Clara didn’t know what to do, she floundered on for one more calculation, then came to a stop, and stared at her brother open-mouthed and dumb.

It wasn’t a love poem. That was the first thing to say. There was really very little about love in it.

It was a wonder Edwin got as far through it as he managed. He told, in doggerel verse, how he and his governess would meet regularly at night and have sex in his father’s study. There was nothing tender to it. It was blunt and pornographic.

And it was something more too. There was something
animal
about it. Not merely the sex itself, as rough and primal as it was. But a suggestion too in the act of congress, that as Edwin performed acts he should not have known about, and that surely most humans weren’t even
capable
of, there was something monstrous being born, that these writhing creatures were no longer simply boy and woman but something not of this world; there were beaks, and scales, and talons, and tongues that were impossibly, terrifyingly, long.

Mrs. Exley just said, “No, no, no,” over and over again, as if her quiet denial of it could really matter a jot. Mr. Exley roared at his son to stop, and when he didn’t, he got up, marched over to him, and clipped him hard around the head. At that point only did Edwin fall silent; he glared at his father, glared at the room, and glared at Susan most particularly. Then he ran from the room.

Susan ran too. She didn’t know where to go. She went to her room. She sat on the bed, numbed. She wasn’t there for long. Mr. Exley banged upon the door, told her to get out, and come with him.

She had never been to Edwin’s room before. Now she saw that all over his bed were pages and pages of scribbled verse, ripped out of the notebook she’d bought him, and sketchpad drawings. The drawings were of her, she recognised herself at once. In most she’d been given claws and wings, it was her head on the body of wild beasts—lions, dogs, birds. In all she was naked. Human breasts, obscenely large, grew out from trunks of fur and scales, and dangled.

Edwin stood there, frightened, but acting brave, acting like a man.

Mr. Exley picked up some of the writings, looked them over briefly. Threw them on the floor. “Filth,” he said.

He turned to Susan. “I do not believe. I cannot believe. Any of the things he writes here are
true
.”

“No,” she said. “No.”

“But how,” he said. “How?” And in that moment he looked at her so imploringly, like a little child himself, begging her to make things all right again. The face clouded; his teeth clenched; he was an adult once more. He said to Susan, “I want you to beat him. You must beat him. To within an inch of his life.”

And she saw then that in his hand, lying almost nonchalantly against the seam of his regimental uniform trouser leg, was a cane. “No,” she said.

“If you don’t beat him, I will,” said Exley. “And it will be easier on him if it’s you.”

“I can’t. I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Very well. But you will watch.”

She did watch. And just before Edwin bent over there was still something of the man in him, staring down his father defiantly, staring down the world. But it didn’t last long. And as he struck his son, again, and again, and again, Mr. Exley would glance at Susan to check she was still watching, to check she appreciated what her bad teaching had forced a loving father to do—and she could see that he wished he could beat her as well, that he could put her over his knee and beat her senseless.

Susan left Exley Hall the first thing the next morning. She left behind the pink dress, taking it now seemed wrong. She didn’t see any of the family. It was one of the maids who saw her off. She’d never really spoken to the maids, but this one was kindly enough.

“And Miss Clara still hasn’t spoken,” she said. “Not a single word, though they do try and coax ’em out. Shock, I shouldn’t wonder.”

A taxi took her to the nearest railway station. Because it was Christmas, she had to wait some hours for a train, and she was cold.

She found in her coat pocket a letter.
Miss Cowley
, it said on the envelope, and she recognised the handwriting as Edwin’s. She opened it with strange excitement. She didn’t know what to expect. An apology. Or some words of new tenderness?

Inside there were just two words.
Something’s coming.

In her dreams, the rain stopped. Or, rather, in her dreams she could make it stop. If she only gave up struggling. If she just let things be.

But when she woke to her second day at H___ Priory, the rain was still battering hard against the windows. Even Valerie took no pleasure in it today, and when they ran for the school they were drenched from head to foot in an instant.

The children in the class were neat and dry, of course. And Susan feared that they would laugh at her when she came into the room looking like a drowned rat. Not a bit of it; and if they harboured any grudge towards her for what had happened yesterday, there was no indication of it at all. They stood to attention when she addressed them; one of them had even left an apple on her desk.

“Where is the little girl from yesterday?” Susan asked. She didn’t know what she wanted to say to her. She knew she mustn’t apologise, or show weakness. The little girl wasn’t there. No one seemed to know where she might be, or gave her answer at any rate. Perhaps it was just as well.

For the morning they drew pictures and sang roundelays. Before lunch she told them another Arthurian legend; Edwin might have thought that Guinevere and Lancelot was mush, but it was a lovely story, and Susan saw to her satisfaction that even some of the boys’ eyes watered at the telling.

She knew she could not avoid the matter forever. And in the afternoon she fetched from the cupboard all the abacuses they had, and distributed them liberally about the room.

“Mathematics,” she said.

That was all it took.

Some boy, some wag, suddenly piped up with the seven times table. He sang it out, bold and confident. Susan opened her mouth to stop him, and then decided she’d have more power if she let him proceed. If only for a little while.

Maybe if she’d spoken up then she could have stopped it. Maybe she missed her chance. But as the numbers grew bigger, so more of the children picked up the mantra. By the time they reached fifty-six, all of the boys were at it—by the time they reached ninety-eight, all the girls were at it too.