The main problem was, and remained for some time, that she was so infinitely obliging and obedient. When I got up in the morning she was already up, dressed in one of her neat little dresses, the clothes of a good child whose mother needs her children to be well dressed, even remarkably so. Her hair was brushed. Her teeth were cleaned. She was waiting for me in the living-room, with her Hugo, and instantly she began chattering, offering this or that to me, how she had slept marvellously, or how she had dreamed, or how she had had this amusing or foolish or valuable thought — and all in a rushing almost frantic way of forestalling some demand or criticism from me. And then she began about breakfast, how she would 'adore' to cook it — 'oh, she would simply love to, please', for really she was ever so handy and capable. And so she and I would go into the kitchen, the beast padding behind us, and I and Hugo sat watching her preparations. And she was, indeed, competent and nifty. And then we ate whatever it was, Hugo's head at her waist-level, his eyes calmly watching her, me, our hands, our faces, and when he was offered a bit of food he took it delicately, like a cat. Then she would offer to wash up. 'No, no, I love washing-up, incredible as it might seem, but I really do!' And she washed up and made the kitchen neat. Her bedroom had been tidied already, but not her bed, which was always a nest or womb of coiled blankets and pillows. I never reproved her for this; on the contrary, I was delighted that there was one place she felt was her own, that she could make her refuge, where she could hide away from this really awful need always to be so bright and good. Sometimes, unpredictably, during the day, she went to her room — abruptly, as if something had been too much. She shut the door and, I knew, crawled into the heap of disorder and there she lay and recovered… but from what? In the living-room she sat on my old sofa, her legs curled up, in a pose which was as much an offering to what might be expected of her as was her maimer, her obedience. She watched me, as if anticipating commands or needs, or she might read. Her taste in reading was adult: seeing her there, with what she had chosen, made her bright child's manner even more impossible, almost as if she were deliberately insulting me. Or she would sit with her arm round the yellow beast, and he licked her hand, and put his cat's face on her arm and purred, a sound which rumbled through the rooms of my flat.
Had she been some kind of a prisoner?
I did not ask. I never, not once, asked her a question. And she did not volunteer information. Meanwhile my heart ached for her, recognising her manner for what it was; and, at the same time, while I was really quite soft and ridiculous with pity for her, I was in a frenzy of irritation, because of my inability ever, even for a moment, to get behind the guard she had set up. There she was, the solemn, serious little girl, in her good little girl's dress, showing every mark of the solitary child, all self-consciousness and observation, and then off she'd go, chattering and rattling, being 'amusing', offering me little skills and capacities as a return for — but what? I did not feel myself to be so formidable. I almost felt myself not to exist, in my own right. I was a continuation, for her, of parents, or a parent, a guardian, foster-parents. And when we left here, presumably I would hand her over to someone else? The man who had given her into my care would come to take her back? Her parents would arrive? Otherwise, what was I going to do with her? When I started my travels north or west, joining the general movement of the population away from the southern and eastern parts of the country, what would I be moving into? What sort of life? I did not know. But I had not envisaged a child, never a responsibility of such a total sort… and besides, even in the few days she had been here she had changed. Her breasts were shaping, pushing out the child's bodice. Her round face with its attractive dark eyes needed very little to shape it into a young girl's face. A 'little' girl was one thing, and bad enough — 'child with her pet'… but the 'young girl' would be quite another, and particularly in these times.
It will sound contradictory when I say that another thing that bothered me was her indolence. Of course there wasn't very much to do in my flat. She sat for hours at my window and watched, absorbed, everything that went on. She entertained me with comment: this was a deliberate and measured offering; she had been known, it was clear, for her 'amusing' comments. Here again I did not know quite what it was I had to reckon with, for these were certainly not a little girl's perceptions. Or perhaps I was out of date, and this was what one had to expect in this time, for what strains and stresses did children now not have to accept and make part of themselves?
Professor White would come out of the lobby and down the steps, and then stop, looking up and down the street, almost in a military way: Who goes there! Then, reassured, he stood for a moment: almost he could be imagined pulling on a pair of gloves, adjusting a hat. He was a slight man, young for a professor, still in his thirties; a precise, an ashy, man with everything in his life in its proper place. On to Emily's face would come a smile as she watched him, a sour little smile, as if she was thinking: I've got you, you can't escape me! And over her attendant animal's pricked yellow ears she would say: 'He looks as if he was pulling on a pair of gloves!' (Yes, this was her observation.) And then: 'He must have a terrible temper!' 'But why? Why do you think so?' 'Why? Well, of course, all that control, everything so neat and clean, he must burst out somewhere.' And, once, 'If he has a mistress…' — the use of the old-fashioned word was deliberate, part of the act — 'then she would have to be someone with a bad reputation, someone rather awful, or he would have to think she was, or other people would have to think so even if he didn't. Because he would have to feel wicked, don't you see?' Well, of course she was right.
I found myself making excuses to sit there, to hear what she would come out with. But I was reluctant too, watching the knife being slipped in so neatly, so precisely, and again and again.
Of Janet White, a girl of about her age: 'She'll spend her life looking for someone like Daddy, but where will she find him. I mean now, he won't exist.' She meant, of course, the general break-up of things, times which were not conducive to the production of professors with very clean white shirts and a secret passion for the unrespectable — since respectability itself was sentenced to death, and with it the distinctions his secret needs must feed on. The professor she called The White Rabbit. His daughter she called Daddy's Girl, making the point that in doing so she was of course describing herself: 'What else, after all?' When I suggested that she might enjoy making a friend of Janet, she said: 'What, me and her?'
There she sat, most of the day, lolling in a large chair that she pulled up for the purpose: a child, presenting herself as one. One could almost see the white socks on her plump well — turned legs, the bow in her hair. But what one really did see was different. She wore jeans and a shirt she had ironed that morning whose top two buttons were undone. Her hair was now parted in the middle, and at a stroke she was turned into a young beauty: yes, already, there she was.