Apple of My Eye (18 page)

Later he sat on the beach, drawing pad in front of him, watching parents play with small children and elderly couples loll in deckchairs frowning at teenagers who lay on towels listening to rock ’n’ roll on transistor radios. A father and son built a giant sandcastle. He began to draw it, embellishing its simple design with flourishes of his own, giving it ramparts, turrets, statues of dragons, a drawbridge and moat. Turning it into his own version of Camelot with the man and boy as medieval knights.

Three girls sat near by, all about sixteen and wearing one-piece bathing costumes, watching as a pair of slightly older boys arm-wrestled each other in an attempt to appear manly without damaging their carefully styled hair.

One of the girls noticed him drawing. She came to look, sitting down beside him in the sand. ‘My name’s Sally. What’s yours?’

He told her. She had brown hair, large breasts and a sensual mouth. ‘May I draw you?’ he asked.

She nodded. Her gaze was direct and confident. ‘You may.’

Her friends came to join them. One of them said he looked like Billy Fury. The other agreed.

In the end he drew all three while they asked him questions and talked about a party on the beach the following evening. Sally kept staring at him. ‘You must come,’ she said, her eyes warm and inviting. He stared into them, sensing her desire and feeling the sudden, unexpected heat of his own.

‘I’ll try,’ he said.

The friends giggled, while in the background the older boys muttered to each other and the turning tide sent waves to besiege the castle and dissolve it into nothing.

The next morning the heavens opened. A summer storm blown out of nowhere and destined to vanish as quickly as it had come. Ronnie prowled from shop to shop waiting for the sun to return.

Eventually he entered a gentlemen’s outfitters in the central square.

It was a large shop. Assistants hurried about, serving customers. He stood by the tie rack, gazing out of the window. The rain seemed to be slowing.

‘Can I help you?’ A middle-aged assistant had appeared by his side.

‘I need a new tie.’

‘For a particular occasion?’

‘My cousin’s wedding.’ Again he glanced out of the window. The rain was definitely easing. In the background a heavily overweight man complained that tailors were making trousers much tighter these days while his equally overweight wife rolled her eyes.

‘Do you see any you like?’

He pointed one out.

‘Would you like to try it on. There’s a full-length mirror you can use.’

The rain was almost completely gone now. He decided to leave. There were other places to buy ties.

Then he saw the two boys from the beach.

They were standing by the fountain, their arms folded, looking bored and restless.

One of them noticed him in the window and nudged the other. Their faces darkened.

‘All right, then.’

‘The mirror’s in that alcove.’

He turned in the direction indicated.

And heard a voice inside his head. A sudden bolt of pure instinct.

Leave. Leave now. Leave this place and never come back.

But he couldn’t leave. Not yet.

And what was there to fear? What could happen to him here in this public place?

Moments later he stood in front of the mirror, staring down at shoes which were still damp from the rain. His hair was damp too. A drop of water slid down his forehead and on towards the floor. He watched it fall.

There were footsteps behind him. Quick and purposeful. A hand came to rest upon his shoulder.

He looked up into the mirror.

Mr Clark checked his watch.

He was sitting in a café, waiting for Ronnie. They had agreed to meet for lunch at one o’clock and it was now a quarter past.

Anxiety stirred in him. Had Ronnie got himself into some sort of trouble?

But then it subsided. Ronnie was a sensible boy who would never do anything reckless. He had just lost track of time. That was all.

Beckoning to a waitress, he prepared to order.

From that day onwards his offers of lunchtime meetings were politely but firmly declined. ‘It’s very kind of you, Mr Clark, but I don’t want to disrupt your day.’ For the rest of the holiday he saw Ronnie only at breakfast and bedtime.

Except once. On a perfect summer afternoon, three days after the storm. While walking past The Terrace he noticed Ronnie sitting on the green, drawing pad on knee and pencil in hand, staring fixedly in front of him.

He decided against going over for fear of spoiling Ronnie’s concentration. Instead he continued on his way.

*

Little Ronnie Sunshine, fourteen and restless.

Little Ronnie Sunshine, ready to leave childish things behind.

Little Ronnie Sunshine, alone in a new town, listening to the music inside himself.

During those long days of summer the jumbled sequence of notes at last took shape.

Allowing the first masterpiece to be heard.

October. Charles Pembroke drove Anna to the railway station.

It was raining heavily. The windscreen wipers swept sheets of water on to the road. As he drove she told him a story that her lock-keeper friend had told her. Something about a boat coming loose from its overnight moorings and drifting a mile downriver. Her voice was tight with excitement. The way it always was when she was going to see Ronnie.

It was warm in the car. He opened his window an inch, feeling a blast of cold air and the sting of raindrops on his cheek. ‘Do you mind?’ he asked, knowing that she would not. Not when she was going to see Ronnie.

She was wearing a blue dress; neat, simple and slightly old-fashioned. She spent little on clothes, preferring to save her money for Ronnie.

But it didn’t matter. She could have worn a potato sack and would still have looked lovely.

Her story reached its end. ‘I bet you’ll be glad to escape my prattling.’

‘The rare luxury of a peaceful office.’ He smiled to show he was joking while thinking of just how empty it would seem without her.

They reached the station. The rain was still heavy and she had no umbrella. He handed her his newspaper. ‘Use this.’

‘You haven’t done the crossword yet.’

‘There’s no point. With you gone who can I swear at when I’m stuck on the last clue?’

She laughed. Her face was devoid of make-up. Not even lipstick. Ronnie didn’t like it. Ronnie had told her she didn’t need make-up to be beautiful.

He wished he could tell her too.

Instead he wished her a safe journey and a lovely break.

As she hurried across the station forecourt a youth on a motorcyle raced by, spraying her with water without stopping to apologize. He felt an urge to leap from the car, drag the cyclist from the bike and knock him to the ground.

But she didn’t even notice. Too excited at the prospect of seeing Ronnie.

On reaching the entrance she turned back. A slim, pretty woman in a cheap blue dress, covering her head with a soggy newspaper. A woman who had experienced the full savagery of life but not become embittered. A woman with little in the way of education but who possessed a warmth that could fill a palace, let alone a book-lined study overlooking the river.

He gave her a wave, while feeling a raw ache in his heart.

I love that woman. I love her more than I have ever loved anyone in my life.

She waved back and then was gone.

Saturday lunchtime. Anna sat at the kitchen table with Ronnie, Vera, Stan, Peter and Jane, eating a chicken stew she had made. Her visits were always spent cooking. And cleaning. Doing all the jobs that Vera could possibly delegate.

Vera was griping about their new neighbours. Mr Jackson had moved away, leaving Mr and Mrs Smith to take his place. Though Vera had not liked Mr Jackson she had never complained about him as vehemently as she did about the Smiths. But then, Mr Jackson had not been black.

‘It lowers the tone of the neighbourhood.’

‘I don’t think it does, dear,’ said Stan soothingly.

‘It does. Their sort always do. Mrs Brown thinks the same.’

‘She wouldn’t think so if Sammy Davis Junior moved in next door,’ Peter told her. ‘She’d be fighting to lead the welcome wagon.’

Vera frowned. ‘What do you know about it?’

Peter began to whistle ‘Old Man River’, nudging Jane, clearly wanting her to join in. Jane smiled but kept silent. Anna knew that Jane enjoyed baiting Vera but on this occasion she seemed preoccupied.

As did Ronnie. He sat beside her, eating slowly, saying nothing.

‘Is the stew all right?’ she asked.

He nodded. She gave him a smile. He smiled back; a quick gesture that barely reached his eyes. ‘It’s lovely, Mum. Thanks.’

She told herself that he was just bored. Perhaps he was.

But he had been the same on her last visit. For Thomas and Sandra’s wedding at the end of August. Just after his holiday in Waltringham.

Vera was still complaining, growing increasingly shrill while a weary-sounding Stan tried to soothe her. It was a scene Anna knew by heart. As did Ronnie. Again she caught his gaze. Gave him a conspiratorial wink. This time he didn’t respond.

The meal continued. Ronnie and Jane picked at their food while Peter and Stan had second helpings. So, in spite of her mental anguish, did Vera. ‘I’ve nothing against the Smiths, personally,’ she said between mouthfuls. ‘They just don’t belong round here.’

‘So where do they belong, Auntie Vera?’ asked Ronnie suddenly.

‘Back where they came from.’

‘And where is that exactly?’

‘Well, I don’t know the precise place.’

‘But somewhere in Africa.’

‘Yes.’

‘Kingston, actually.’

Vera, now chewing hard, just nodded.

‘Which is the capital of Jamaica. Which is in the West Indies. Which is even farther from Africa than Hepton is.’

Stan cringed. Anna felt herself tense.

Vera swallowed. ‘Are you trying to be clever, Ronnie?’

‘No, Auntie Vera. I just thought you’d like to know more about the Smiths. After all, they are your relatives.’

Vera put down her fork. ‘My what?’

‘Relatives.’

‘I’m not related to coloureds!’

‘Yes you are. Distantly at least. Your ancestors came from Africa, just as theirs did. They may even have lived in neighbouring mud huts for all we know.’

‘My ancestors came from Lancashire!’

‘Is that near Kingston?’ asked Jane sweetly. Peter burst out laughing, spraying food across the table.

‘All life started in Africa, Auntie Vera. I’m surprised you didn’t know that because to hear you talk, anyone would think you knew all there was to know about everything.’

‘That’s enough, Ronnie,’ said Anna quickly.

He turned towards her. ‘Why?’

‘Ronnie …’

‘Why? Because it might rock the boat? Then I stand corrected. Kingston is in Africa and all life started in the Garden of Eden, except presumably for dirty niggers like the Smiths. Auntie Vera says so and who are we to argue with that?’

‘Ronnie!’

‘Look, let’s all calm down …’ began Stan.

Vera’s face was crimson. ‘I think that a certain person has forgotten what he and his mother owe Stan and me. He forgets that if it wasn’t for our generosity
he wouldn’t have a home and his mother wouldn’t have her job and they’d both be living in some refuge for mothers and bastards. I think that a certain person would do very well to remember that.’

Stan continued to call for calm. Peter was sniggering.

Ronnie’s eyes remained fixed upon Anna. They were ice cold. Like those of a stranger. Silently she beseeched him with her own.

Don’t do this, Ronnie. Please, please don’t do this.

Then he turned towards Vera, his shoulders sagging, neck bent and eyes downcast. A flawless physical display of submission. And when he spoke his tone was submissive too.

‘You’re right, Auntie Vera. I was trying to be clever. I know how much Mum and I owe you and Uncle Stan and I am grateful.’

‘Get out,’ Vera told him. ‘I don’t want to look at you for the rest of the meal.’

‘Who’s a stupid little bastard, then?’ jeered Peter. ‘That’s enough, Pete,’ said Stan.

‘Yes, shut up, Pete,’ snapped Jane suddenly. ‘Just shut up!’

Under the table Anna reached for Ronnie’s hand. Pushing it away, he rose to his feet and left the room.

‘You mustn’t do that.’

It was later that afternoon. Anna sat with Ronnie in the Amalfi café.

He didn’t answer. Just slouched in his chair, watching steam rise from his teacup.

‘Ronnie?’

‘Do what?’ His tone was irritable.

‘Make Vera look stupid.’

‘Why not? Are you jealous?’

‘Jealous?’

‘It takes brains to make someone else look stupid. Even Auntie Vera. You’ve never been able to do it. I could do it when I was seven.’

His words, cruel and out of character, felt like a slap. ‘Ronnie, that was a vicious thing to say.’

‘And what about the things you say?’

‘What things?’

‘It won’t be long. You said that when you went away. I was nine then. I’ll be fifteen in a week and I’m still here. How much longer do I have to wait?’

‘Not much.’

‘What does that mean? Ten years? Twenty?’

‘I know it’s not easy for you …’

‘No you don’t. You’re not the one stuck here having to listen to Auntie Vera and Peter say things about your mother all the time. And about you. Don’t get above yourself, Ronnie. Don’t forget who you are. Don’t forget
what
you are. And I have to sit there and smile and say yes, Auntie Vera, of course, Auntie Vera, three fucking bags full, Auntie Vera!’

He began to make patterns in the steam with his fingers. She watched him, frightened by this unexpected display of anger and resentment.

‘We’ll be together soon, Ronnie. I promise.’

‘Those are just words. They don’t mean anything.’

‘Yes they do.’

‘Is that what my father told you?’

‘What do you mean?’

He began to laugh. ‘I love you, Anna. I think you’re special. I promise I’ll always be there for you. And you were stupid enough to believe him. You let him get you pregnant and then he couldn’t get away fast enough.’