She's Leaving Home (67 page)

And if her guess were right about the father of Colette’s baby – the horror of it was beyond imagination. What were the correct terms? Incest, yes, and rape, for certain. Repeated rape, over and over again – Helen felt sure it had not been a single isolated incident. No wonder Colette could unburden herself to nobody. That was not a criticism of Helen as a friend; that was a simple matter of fact. Ah, poor girl: what she must have gone through. Maybe after such cruel torture the leap from the balcony was a blessed relief.

Helen shook herself. Colette was not the type to fling herself to her death. Suicide? No, never. She would have considered the baby. She would not have wanted to kill him too. Nor was there a note, nor any evidence that the balance of her mind was disturbed. But what if she were under attack and her escape route barred – what if no other way out existed? That made more sense. But it also meant that Colette had stopped fighting. The girl had given up. Maybe for a brief instant, but that was enough.

The car nudged into the narrow driveway. The garage doors were opened, their edges trailing and grating on the path. It was not yet dark: this was an unusual time for her father to come home. What had her mother said – that he wanted a chat? How peculiar. Not like him at all.

Perhaps this would be his last attempt to persuade her to give up too. To stay put, not to abandon them and their ways. It was with considerable unease that Helen picked up the hairbrush and brushed her hair.

The garden outside her window seemed unduly noisy. A struggle was under way for the best spots under the eaves; the trees, nearly leafless, offered the birds little shelter. A big seagull flapped
angrily a few feet from the glass as if demanding entry, then circled away with discordant cries. Nasty beasts, seagulls. They devoured the eggs of smaller birds, snatched rubbish from dustbins and dumps, lived off other creatures’ weakness. Survival of the fittest, Darwin dubbed it. No wonder he tried to suppress the knowledge once he had it.

Ignorance would not hold her. Once a person had eaten of the tree of knowledge, he could not be divested of what he knew. That was the essence of the Genesis story. Armed with knowledge Adam and Eve had had to leave the garden where innocence had been their sole raiment. A parable for adolescence itself: out into the world, aware and ashamed. But
not alone
. Armed with some knowledge and, far more importantly, with the fruit of that other tree in Eden – the understanding of the distinction between good and evil, which enabled the race of men to rival the gods.

‘Helen! You up there? Come down a minute.’

He was in the parlour, the front room. The television was off. ‘Sit down. I want to talk to you.’

Her father had a preoccupied air. The aspirin still made her feel fuzzy as if she were covered by gauze. She slid into an armchair and cudgelled her brain to concentrate.

‘Your mother said you had some bad news at school today. One of your pals died?’

‘Yes. We don’t know what happened. An accident.’ The phrases were automatic already. A year ago had such a thing occurred she could have shared her turmoil with him, but not now. Their assumptions would have been contradictory, their attitudes at cross-purposes.

He waited, then said simply, ‘Well, I’m sorry about her. You all right, apart from that?’

‘Yes, Dad. Thank you. What is it you wanted to talk about?’

‘No news from Cambridge yet?’ His voice was unnaturally bright.

‘No. Nothing. Miss Plumb says it could be later this week.’

‘Ah.’ Daniel did not know where to begin: that much was obvious to his daughter. The headache was threatening to return and she yearned for some fresh air.

‘Is that all, Dad? Or is there something else you wanted to discuss?’

‘Well – yes. You, actually. I hear you’ve been seeing a boy from the USAF base. Is that true?’

She did not answer, but opened her mouth and breathed through it, made her lungs work, her eyes fixed on the blank television screen. If she did not breathe deeply she would faint.

‘Who told you that?’ A whisper.

‘Never mind.’ He drew himself up to his full height, his back to the fireplace. ‘It’s common knowledge. Several people have mentioned it to us. If you wanted to keep it a secret you’ve been a bit careless.’

Helen said nothing but kept her head turned away. Daniel repositioned himself into her line of sight.

‘It was that young man in the leather jacket I saw on Rosh Hashanah, wasn’t it? I should have known. And what I’d like to know now is why you should want to keep secrets from us, your parents? What’s going on, please?’

‘Nothing’s going on.’ This was delivered in a low voice but was so patently untrue that Daniel began to remonstrate.

Woodenly Helen rose and moved away. A distant part of her brain noted that it was fortunate that there was no instrument in the room which could cause injury, like Colette’s knife. Whatever took place in the next few moments, whatever mortal damage was inflicted on this home, it would most likely be verbal in nature not physical. That was a blessing, given the mixture of bitterness and animosity that darkened her father’s face.

‘You’re going out with some bloke we’ve never met, some foreigner, an American with his pockets stuffed with dollars I expect, and you tell me nothing’s going on? You’ve made your mother
and me the laughing stock of the entire community. Nobody was talking about anything else this weekend. I wasn’t born yesterday, my girl. Now will you tell me or do I have to drag it out of you?’

‘You aren’t a laughing stock, Dad,’ she protested wearily. ‘Or at least, not for anything I’ve done.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘He phoned here. Yesterday. When you and your mother were out. Did you know? Wouldn’t leave a name. Wouldn’t speak to me – oh no, your father wasn’t good enough for him. So who is he, this – this Chuck, or Bud, or whatever his name is?’

Her father’s face had gone crimson and he had begun to pant.

‘Michael.’

‘What?’

‘His name’s Michael. Not Bud or Chuck. He comes from a New England family and his father’s a colonel in Washington. You’d like him.’

‘I might. I might indeed. So why haven’t you brought him home? Come on, why? Why?’

They both knew the answer. For a split second a look passed between father and daughter, a look of love and of the highest regard, which cut through the hatred and malice of accumulated centuries, through the fog of furious rivalry between generations. In a sudden flash Daniel saw how like Mary his daughter was, and how she resembled her mother at her best twenty years before; and he knew that he worshipped his daughter exactly as she was, wilful, honest and pure. Her free spirit above all endeared her to him and rendered her irreplaceable.

In that same instant Helen saw how Daniel alone would be the model for any man she would ever care for, how in his younger days he must have been much as Michael was now, and how her future husband, whatever his name or country, the father of her children, would have to measure up to this man her father, or be forever found wanting.

‘Because he’s not Jewish, Dad,’ she replied quietly.

Then Daniel came up to her and she thought he would cry out: but she stood her ground and faced him, cool, sad and determined.

‘So. You going to get engaged, or what?’

‘I don’t know. Not yet, certainly. I must finish my education first.’

‘And then? Will you marry out – after everything we’ve taught you? Is that it?’

‘I told you, Dad, I don’t know. It’s too far ahead. University first.’

‘Pah! I thought to hear better from my own flesh and blood. You’re ashamed of us, that’s what you are. We brought you up properly and you reject us.’

‘No, it’s not like that. He’s OK, Dad. You’d like him. You’ve taught me wonderful values. I wouldn’t get involved with somebody you and Mum wouldn’t like, except –’

‘Except. That we would never receive him as a son-in-law, never. Till eternity. And you knew that all along. You’ve always known it. You defied us deliberately. You knew what you were doing.’

‘I didn’t, as it happens. Not at first. I thought he was Jewish because of his name and only found out later. But it makes no difference to me. You’re well aware, Dad, that I can’t accept that. We’re all equal. He’s as fine a man as anybody. I won’t make that distinction between one person and another. I won’t.’

‘My God! As long as you live in this household, you will. As long as you carry my name. This is an Orthodox Jewish home. That is how you were brought up, and our ancestors before us for thousands of years. It is a gift and a burden. It means a huge amount, Helen. It is an obligation I accepted when I married your mother. If I could accept it, so can you. You have to carry it on. You especially.’

‘I won’t be made captive like that. It’s racialist, and I won’t do it.’

‘Racialist? How dare you!’ Daniel swung round, face distorted and purple. ‘What are you accusing me of – your own father? The Nazis were racialist. They tried to wipe us out and nearly
succeeded. How can you say such things?’

Helen was conscious of the solemnity of the moment. She spoke slowly and coolly. ‘Because it’s true, Dad. If I select my future partner on the basis of his race – if I pledged only to marry another Jew – then I’d be working on much the same lines as the Nazis did. Or any other anti-Semites. Don’t you see – you can’t condemn racial separation
and
selection when it functions against us, only to apply it to
other people
.’ She raised her eyes to him. ‘I know you can see that. And I won’t do it. I refuse. I don’t know whether I’ll marry Michael or not or anybody else, but I will
not
make my choice the way you insist. I won’t do it. I won’t.’

He came to her then, up very close, raised his left hand and slapped her hard across the mouth.

‘Don’t be disgusting. That’s for calling me a Nazi. I am appalled. I don’t know what to say. Get out of my sight.’

Her mouth stinging, Helen fled from the room into the hallway. She could taste her own blood, licked it, swallowed. She would not give in. She would not.

Annie jumped back from the door where she had been hovering. ‘What did he say?’ she hissed, but her daughter started to push past her towards the empty kitchen.

Her lips throbbed. In a moment they would swell; her father had hit her with the full force of his arm. She sucked at the wound inside her cheek, where the flesh had caught a tooth. The slight salt taste, the warmth of the blood was almost soothing. It was as if she had deserved the blow. Catharsis, not nemesis. She had not merely provoked her father but had confronted him with his own intolerance. She had cut him to the quick, of that she was fully aware. He had no defence. That was why he had hit her.

The glass of water used for the aspirins was still on the sink unit, half-full. She reached for it, her hand shaky and began to sip. Noises jangled loudly in her head. She felt dazed and battered, but her mind was at last as clear as ever in her entire life.

Her mother’s voice came to her from the hall. ‘Helen! Come back. Don’t be stupid. There’s a phone call for you.’

Phone call? Might it be Michael again? The girl turned and virtually ran to where the handset rested by the receiver. In the parlour she could see her father seated on the sofa in the gloom, head bowed, his cigarettes unopened before him, hands clasped together as if in prayer.

‘Yes?’ She was breathless, disordered.

The voice at the other end was disappointingly Scouse, a woman’s voice, elaborate and affected.

‘Hello? Is this Miss Helen Majinsky?’

‘Yes. I’m Helen. Who is this?’

‘Operator speaking, Liverpool Central exchange. I have a telegram for you. Shall I read it out?’

‘What? Oh, yes.’ Maybe Michael had despaired of finding any other means of communication. She would call him tonight, somehow.

‘Are you ready? It’s from Lady Donington, St Margaret’s College, Cambridge. That mean anything to you?’

‘What? Oh. Yes. Please go on.’

The operator cleared her throat as if about to read the lesson in church.

‘
Delighted offer you place St Margaret’s stop subject to two As and a B in A levels stop plus scholarship worth two hundred fifty pounds a year stop letter follows please confirm.
How nice. Do I say congratulations?’

‘Read it again.’ Helen rubbed a hand over her eyes and pleaded with her mind to steady. The operator re-read the telegram, emphasising the scholarship and the money with a distinct smacking of
the lips.

‘Thanks,’ Helen muttered and replaced the receiver.

It was over.

Whatever else she might do in her life, the battle at home was finished. And she had won.

To Annie’s queries she murmured, ‘I got in, Mum. I’m off to Cambridge in October.’ No sound came from the lounge. Annie would inform him and he would know he had been defeated. No joy would come of that. There would be no celebrations.

Helen walked quietly into the kitchen and through the back door. Out in the garden she turned her hot face to the violet sky. It was dusk, almost dark, though the outlines of nearby roofs and telegraph poles were visible. In one house the television was on for children’s programmes: the blue flicker lit up the garden fence. Lights came on in lounges. The odours of a cooked meal at Mrs Williams’ house floated tantalisingly through an open grille. Meat they would eat, as every night, followed by prunes and custard then tea, gallons of it. No nonsense about not mixing meat and milk. They had other shibboleths but not those which had so chafed Helen. Which she could discard in totality at Cambridge and which would never hamper her again.

How she wished she could tell Colette about her good fortune. Michael would be thrilled, though he might also guess that her success meant she would stay in Britain, at least for the next three years. They would keep in touch, they would see each other, they would write marvellous letters. She might save part of the scholarship money to visit him in America, or in Germany were he to be posted there. Further afield, though, would be beyond her reach. She hoped he would not be sent to Viet Nam as his father predicted.

Helen remembered Meg and Brenda. In the morning at school she would discover whether they had been lucky too, or whether the parting of the ways had come as they headed instead for provincial universities or London.