Apple of My Eye (14 page)

July. Summer had arrived in Hepton and heat covered Moreton Street like a blanket. In the front bedroom he shared with Peter, Ronnie sat by the window finishing his homework.

It wasn’t easy. Peter lay on his bed, singing along to an Eddie Cochrane record. They had shared for three years, ever since Thomas had demanded a room of his own, and Peter’s greatest delight was disturbing Ronnie’s work.

The window was open. A group of small boys played cricket in the street, using an old crate as a wicket. ‘I’m Freddie Trueman,’ shouted the bowler, hurling the ball at the head of the batsman, who ducked to avoid concussion while a woman bellowed at them to keep the noise down.

It was quarter to six. The end of the working day. Stan and Thomas approached the house. Thomas, nearly eighteen and as tall, thin and asthmatic as his father, had worked in the factory since leaving school. The two of them stopped to chat with a neighbour, Stan puffing on the cigarette he was forbidden from smoking in the house.

Ronnie’s eyes returned to the essay he was writing.
An account of the unification of Italy. Textbooks covered the desk. The history prize had yet to be awarded and he had no intention of falling at the last hurdle.

The record ended. Peter put it on again then went to study himself in the mirror on the inside of the wardrobe. Just sixteen, he had his father’s height and mother’s heavy build. His dark hair, worn in a lavish quiff, shone with Brylcreem. Picking up a dumb-bell, he worked on his biceps, admiring the powerful physique his white vest revealed. His half of the room was covered with pictures of singers and bodybuilders. Ronnie’s was decorated with his own drawings. In the first months of sharing Peter had enjoyed defacing them and it was not until Ronnie had ‘accidentally’ smashed Peter’s favourite record that a truce had been called.

Eddie Cochrane sang about the Summertime Blues. Ronnie had them now, trying to concentrate. Putting his essay to one side he began to reread his mother’s most recent letter. Peter noticed what he was doing. ‘And what does Mummy say?’

‘None of your business.’

‘Is she proud of her little Ronnie?’

‘At least I give my mother something to be proud of.’

Peter, about to join his father and brother in the factory, adopted a sneer. ‘What? Some stupid prizes. They won’t get you anywhere in the real world.’

‘They’ll get me farther than big muscles and greasy hair will get you.’

‘I’ll do better in life than you.’

‘Of course. Soon you’ll be the new Charles Atlas. You’ve certainly got the brains.’

‘Least I’m not queer. Only queers like art.’

Ronnie continued reading. Peter, denied a reaction, resumed work on his biceps.

Five minutes passed. Ronnie stared out of the window. Thomas was saying goodbye to the neighbour while Stan finished his cigarette.

‘Looking for your dad, Ronnie? He’s never coming. He doesn’t even know you exist.’

Ronnie’s eyes remained fixed on the street. The cricket game was breaking up amid accusations of cheating.

‘And even if he did he wouldn’t come. Who’d want some bastard queer as a son?’

‘He’d be prouder of me than he would of you.’

‘Least I know where my father is
and
that he wanted me. Two things you’ll never know.’

The front door opened. Stan called out a greeting. ‘Hello, Dad,’ yelled Peter, placing emphasis on the second word. ‘So win all the prizes you can, little Ronnie, but you’ll still be the bastard queer of a stupid slut and a squaddie who was too drunk to remember her name.’ Then he left the room.

Ronnie remained at his desk. To his left was a small photograph of his mother. He took it out of its frame to see the even tinier snapshot of his father hidden behind. His parents. A stupid slut and a drunken squaddie. Peter had Vera and Stan. A mother who
didn’t work miles away and a father who had always been there.

But he knew which set he would have chosen.

After kissing both pictures he continued with his work.

There were five for supper that evening: Peter’s girlfriend Jane, a redhead of fifteen with a large bust and a taste for tight tops, took the place of Thomas, who was out with Sandra.

Vera served sausages and chips. Two sausages per person. Peter complained that it wasn’t enough and Vera told him they weren’t made of money.

‘We are when it suits you. The Browns had steak when they came last week.’

‘They were our guests.’

‘Jane’s a guest, too.’

Vera frowned. Her heavy face now played host to a double chin. ‘Your guest, Peter, and when you’re contributing to the family budget you can give her steak.’

‘In the meantime I’ll have his chips,’ said Jane, spearing some with her fork. Vera’s frown intensified. Vera did not like Jane.

‘I’ll be contributing soon enough, unlike someone else I could mention.’

‘My mother contributes for me,’ said Ronnie. ‘And when I’m helping in the shop I can contribute too.’

‘What are the Coopers paying you?’ asked Vera.

He told her. Immediately she claimed the lion’s share
for housekeeping. ‘That’s a bit steep, Vera,’ said Stan. ‘Leave him something to spend.’

‘It’s perfectly reasonable. Do you know what it costs to keep him over the holidays?’

‘I don’t mind,’ said Ronnie, who was being paid more than he’d said.

‘How’s your mother?’ asked Stan. ‘I saw you got a letter today.’

‘Fine, thanks.’

‘I should think so,’ observed Vera. ‘Cushy job like that.’

Ronnie swallowed a mouthful of sausage. Overcooked, as Vera’s food generally was. ‘It’s not cushy. She works hard.’

Peter nodded. ‘It’s tough being a skivvy.’

‘She’s not a skivvy. She’s a companion.’

Vera snorted. ‘That’s not a real job.’

‘Yes it is. And she does it well. Mrs Pembroke thinks the world of her.’

‘Well, your mother would say that, wouldn’t she?’

‘Actually Mrs Sanderson said it and she’s Mrs Pembroke’s cousin so she should know.’

‘Don’t play the smart alec with me, Ronald Sidney.’

‘I’m not being a smart alec, Auntie Vera. I’m just saying …’

He stopped suddenly, his voice having shot up an octave. ‘Little Ronnie’s voice is breaking,’ jeered Peter.

‘Pity we can’t say the same about your brain,’ retorted Ronnie before he could stop himself.

Vera’s face darkened. Fortunately Jane laughed,
drawing maternal fury on to herself. ‘We don’t laugh at personal remarks in this house, miss.’

‘Well, you should. That one was funny.’

‘Whose side are you on?’ demanded Peter.

Jane tapped him on the nose with a chip. Vera, scowling, complained to Stan about her latest essay assignment. Ronnie continued eating. Jane began whispering to Peter, who had a dopey expression on his face. Peter was always boasting to his friends that Jane was putty in his hands but Ronnie knew the opposite was true. Vera did too. As she ranted at Stan she kept looking daggers at Jane. Though it was a warm evening the sleeves of her blouse were pulled down, concealing the damaged skin on her left arm.

‘Do you have a girlfriend, Ronnie?’ asked Jane.

‘No.’

‘Little Ronnie doesn’t like girls,’ Peter told her.

‘I bet they like him though. He’s good-looking.’ Peter flexed his bicep. ‘Not as much as me.’

Jane licked Peter’s cheek. He licked hers back. Vera’s mouth was a thin line. ‘There’s a place for that sort of behaviour.’

‘We’re not doing anything, Mrs Finnegan,’ said Jane breezily. Her eyes returned to Ronnie. ‘You look like your mum, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘She must be pretty. Does she have a boyfriend?’

‘No.’

‘Do you think she’d tell you if she had?’

‘She doesn’t need a boyfriend. She’s got me.’

Jane smiled. ‘That’s sweet.’

‘What’s the matter, little Ronnie?’ asked Peter. ‘Scared Mummy might love someone more than she loves you?’

‘That’s enough, Pete,’ said Stan.

‘Yes, don’t be horrid,’ added Jane. ‘Or I’ll hate you.’ She grabbed Peter’s hair, pulled his face towards hers and bit him on the lip.

‘That’s enough!’ snapped Vera. ‘What would the Browns think if they were here?’

‘Where are our steaks?’ asked Jane.

Vera lost her temper completely. Ronnie, following Stan’s example, finished his meal in silence.

Later, as Peter played records for Jane in their bedroom and Vera complained about her to Stan in the living room, Ronnie went for a walk.

Boys were playing football in the tiny park on the corner, preening for the girls, who stood in groups, giggling and gossiping. Alan Deakins, the troublemaker from his primary school class, entertained one group with jokes. Ronnie recognized Catherine Meadows, another old classmate. She called for him to join them. He waved but did not stop.

The railway line ran along the far edge of the park. Climbing on to the ridge, he began to dig at the dry earth with a stick. A train rattled by, filling the air with smoke and noise. Once he had stood at his bedroom window, watching the trains and longing for the day when his father would come and take him and his mother far away. Now his mother
was
far away while
his father remained nothing but an old snapshot. A dream that grew fainter with each passing year until eventually it would vanish altogether.

But not yet. Not when dreams were sometimes the only thing to make life bearable.

Catherine Meadows approached. For the last two years she had attended a boarding school in Berkshire, only coming back to Hepton in the holidays.

‘Hello, Ronnie. My term ended yesterday. You haven’t broken up yet, have you?’

‘No.’

She sat down beside him. Her hair was blonde, her eyes pale blue. ‘Do you still visit the Sandersons?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘You can visit me too if you like. We live at number twenty-five. I’ll be here all summer except for a week in Devon with my grandparents. Have you been to Devon? It’s boring.’

‘It can’t be as boring as here.’ He carried on digging. Two footballers squared up to each other after an aggressive tackle. The other players separated them and the game resumed.

‘Alan’s still a show-off,’ she told him. ‘He says he’s had sex with a girl in Southend. I don’t believe him, though. I think if a girl wanted to have sex with him he’d be scared.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Would you be scared, Ronnie?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I bet you wouldn’t.’

Another train raced by, drowning out her voice. She continued to mouth words, gesticulating with her hands like a silent film actress. It made him smile.

‘How’s your mum?’ she asked when the train had passed.

‘Fine.’

‘You must miss her. I miss my family when I’m at school but when I’m at home they drive me mad.’

‘At least you’ve got a family.’

They stared at each other. He imagined his mother sitting by the river in Oxfordshire with a man she liked. A man who might one day mean more to her than her own son.

But that would never happen. Could never happen.

Could it?

‘Do you think I’m pretty?’

He nodded. All girls who looked like his mother were pretty.

‘Do you want to kiss me?’

‘No.’

‘You will one day. Goodbye, Ronnie.’

‘Goodbye.’

She returned to her group. He remained alone, hacking at the ground while the sun slid beneath the horizon, dragging the last drops of heat from the sky.

A wet afternoon in August. Anna poured tea for Mrs Pembroke and her guests.

Of all the grand houses in The Avenue, Riverdale
was the most splendid. A red-brick Victorian mansion with oak-panelled rooms, a wide central staircase and a dozen chimneys. The furnishings, largely Victorian too, were ornate but comfortable, creating an atmosphere of affluent informality.

On this particular afternoon Mrs Wetherby sat on a sofa in front of the bay window that looked out on to the back garden and the river, flanked by her children, Alice and Edward. Mrs Pembroke was in her usual chair by the fireplace while Anna perched on a stool, ready to offer food and drink whenever the need arose.

Mrs Wetherby, a tall, raw-boned chain-smoker, was complaining about French hotels. Mrs Pembroke sipped her tea. Wrapped in a blanket, she looked as small and delicate as a bird. ‘And how are things at school?’ she asked the children.

‘Edward was captain of his cricket team,’ Mrs Wetherby told her, ‘and Alice won her year’s English prize and had two poems published in the school magazine.’

Edward nodded. At fifteen he resembled his mother, whose cigarettes he eyed enviously. Anna had seen him and his friends in Market Court, all smoking furiously with their collars turned up, trying to look like middle England’s answer to James Dean. Alice smiled. At thirteen she was exceptionally pretty with long blonde hair, a doll-like face and predatory eyes, so immaculately dressed that she looked as if she’d been ironed. Both attended Heathcote, the expensive day school on the outskirts of town.

Mrs Pembroke offered congratulations. Mrs Wetherby looked smug. ‘I’m lucky to have such talented children.’

‘Anna’s son, Ronnie, is talented too. He won four prizes this year.’

Mrs Wetherby’s eyes widened. She nodded but made no comment. Alice, however, looked curious. ‘Ronnie’s my age, isn’t he, Mrs Sidney? What prizes did he win?’

‘Maths, history and art. His year prize too.’

‘Given,’ added Mrs Pembroke, ‘to the boy with the best overall exam results.’

‘That’s only three prizes,’ said Edward. ‘Art doesn’t count.’

Anna was taken aback. ‘It does.’

‘At
his
school, maybe. My school doesn’t give prizes for non-academic subjects.’

‘Well, perhaps they should,’ suggested Mrs Pembroke. Edward shrugged. Anna, keeping her anger in check, offered round a sponge cake.

‘And how is Charles?’ asked Mrs Wetherby. ‘Mrs Pembroke’s son is a history professor at an American university,’ she told her children. Alice expressed interest while Edward continued to gaze longingly at the cigarettes.

‘Not for much longer,’ Mrs Pembroke told her. ‘He’s returning to England and will be living here for a while.’

‘How lovely. He must come for dinner when he arrives.’