Apple of My Eye (20 page)

Two days later Mrs Pembroke’s lawyer, Andrew Bishop, came to the house to explain the provisions of her will. He sat at Charles’s desk. A tall, plumpish man with a round face and grey eyes who had been a regular visitor to the house in previous months.

‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,’ he told Anna.

‘You haven’t.’

‘How is your son? Ronnie, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. He’s well, thank you. And your stepdaughter, Susan?’

‘She’s well too.’

‘I often see her walking by the river. She’s very beautiful, but I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that.’

‘Just as long as you don’t tell Susan. Her mother and I don’t want her growing big-headed.’ He laughed, looking suddenly uncomfortable. ‘And so to the will. It’s a simple document. The bulk of the estate goes to Mrs Pembroke’s son, Charles. However, there are also several generous legacies. One to the Sandersons, whom I believe you know. Others to her cook, her cleaner and gardener.’

‘And to me.’

He rubbed his nose. ‘That’s the thing.’

‘What do you mean?’

He cleared his throat. ‘To Anna Sidney, my loyal companion and friend, I leave nothing because I believe others will provide for her.’

For a moment she was so shocked she couldn’t speak.

‘I know this must be upsetting. I think …’

She found her voice. ‘That’s not possible.’

‘I’m afraid it is.’

‘No! It’s not possible! She would never have done this to me!’

He continued to speak but she could no longer hear him. A thundering in her head drowned out all sound. Leaning across the desk, she snatched the document from him, telling herself that he had misread the provision.

But he hadn’t. There it was in cold, hard type. A single sentence that destroyed all her hopes and dreams.

Half an hour later she was walking by the river.

It was raining. A harsh wind blew across the water.
She had no coat but did not feel the cold. Too stunned by her employer’s betrayal to register anything else.

Eventually she took shelter under a tree, leaning against the rough bark, her arms wrapped around herself, trying to comprehend how this could have happened.

And what she and Ronnie were going to do.

She would have to start again. But how? The last six years of her life had been wasted on hollow promises and she was drained. Too tired even to cry.

‘Anna.’

Charles stood near by, under a huge umbrella, holding her coat. ‘Put this on. You’ll catch cold.’

‘How could she do this to me? I don’t understand.’

He looked down at the ground. ‘I think I do. She was trying to help me. A misguided way of making up for the past.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Haven’t you guessed?’

‘Guessed what?’

‘That I love you.’

He looked up again. His eyes were frightened. Vulnerable. Like those of a child.

‘I love you, Anna. I love everything about you. Your smile. Your voice. The way you laugh at my terrible jokes. The way you fiddle with your left ear when you’re nervous. The way your face lights up when you talk about Ronnie. The way you manage to bring him into every conversation you have. The way that when we walk together by the water you have to describe
every bird and every plant and the shape of every single bloody cloud as if it’s the first time you’ve ever seen one. I love you more than I have ever loved anyone in my life and if I could call you my wife I would be the happiest man in the world.’

The ground felt unsteady beneath her feet. She pressed herself against the tree while the wind whipped at her skirt like a rogue hand.

‘And this is how you do it?’

‘Do you think I wanted this? If I’d known what she was going to do I would have stopped her. You must believe that.’

They stared at each other. He was her friend. She wanted to trust him. But she had trusted his mother too.

‘What choice do I have?’

‘You have two choices.’

‘Marry you or back to Hepton. That’s no choice.’

He shook his head.

‘Then what?’

‘The first choice
is
to marry me. We could live together here. Ronnie would join us and I would do my utmost to be a good father to him. I know you don’t love me but you might grow to in time. Love can grow out of friendship.’

‘And the other?’

‘That I give you everything my mother has left me.’ For the second time that day she was unable to speak.

‘The money and the house. They’d both be yours.’

‘You can’t do that.’

‘I have money of my own. I don’t need hers.’

‘But what would you do?’

‘Return to America, perhaps. I’m sure my old college would welcome me back.’ He smiled. ‘Provided I went on a handwriting course and promised not to fall asleep while giving any more lectures.’

She burst into tears.

‘Anna …’

‘I don’t want you to go.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because …’

‘Because?’

‘You’re my friend.’ She wiped her eyes. ‘A real one. Someone who’s never judged me or tried to make me feel ashamed. There haven’t been many people like that in my life.’

‘I’ll always be your friend. Don’t you realize that? I know you won’t marry me. You’re young and lovely and deserve better than someone as old and ugly as I am. I accept that. But you have to accept that I will always love you and will always be your friend. Wherever I am in the world I will always think of you, and if you ever need me I will be here for you.’

She looked out at the river. A swan was moving across its surface, flapping its wings, rising majestically into the air.

He held out her coat. This time she put it on. ‘Come back to the house,’ he said.

‘Not yet. I need to be on my own. To think. You understand, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank you.’

She walked on down the river, staring up at the grey sky, watching the swan as it flew away.

April. Hepton High Street was crowded. Fifteen-year-old Catherine Meadows, home from boarding school for the holidays, studied her reflection in a shop window and smiled because no one could tell.

She was slim and dainty, dressed in a blouse, cardigan and knee-length skirt, her blonde hair held back with a band. She was pretty with big blue eyes and soft, delicate features. She looked like a girl who worked hard at school. A girl who had nice friends and no time for unsuitable boys. A girl who would never be a worry to her parents.

A girl, in fact, who never thought about sex.

But she did. Constantly. Her virginity had been lost the previous summer to a boy she had met on holiday who had written her poetry and said that he loved her. But she hadn’t wanted love, just a physical experience, and once the act was over she had walked away without even a backward glance.

There had been two others since, both married. A friend of her father’s whom she had known since childhood, and a handyman at her school whom she would meet on Sunday afternoons in a shed outside the grounds. Each had been chosen carefully. Older men with enough experience to make the act pleasurable and too much at stake to risk bragging of encounters
with a girl still below the age of consent. Particularly a girl who projected so perfect a façade of respectability. Boys of her own age were of no interest. Too clumsy to be satisfying and too boastful to be safe. She would not waste time on any of them.

Except one.

Ronnie Sidney sat alone in the Amalfi café reading a letter. She walked inside, bought a cup of tea and went to join him. On the next table boys in leather jackets with Brylcreemed hair talked of a pop group they wanted to form. One of them winked at her. She turned away. He laughed, clearly thinking her intimidated. A frightened virgin who would scream if he so much as touched her hand. Inside she was laughing too.

Ronnie wore a grey jumper. His hair was neatly combed. A handsome, dignified-looking boy. Someone of whom her parents and grandmother would approve. All three complained constantly about the youth of today, their raucous music, flamboyant clothes and general rudeness. But Ronnie would have reassured them. Just as she did.

He looked up as she sat down. His grey-green eyes were far from welcoming. She felt a thrill in the pit of her stomach. He had always fascinated her. Even as a small child she would watch their teacher hold him up as an example of industry and courtesy and sense the danger that lay beneath the perfect exterior. Like a beautiful chocolate filled with acid.

‘What do you want?’ he asked.

‘That’s not much of a welcome.’ She pointed to the letter. ‘Is that from your mother?’

‘Yes.’

‘What does she say?’

‘That she’s coming to see me next week.’

‘You don’t sound very pleased. Don’t you want to see her?’

‘She’s bringing a man with her.’

‘Oh.’

His eyes returned to the letter. She watched him while the boys at the next table argued about whose turn it was to put money in the jukebox.

‘It had to happen one day, Ronnie. She’s still young and a son is only so much comfort.’

He looked up again, his face angry. ‘What do you know about it?’

‘More than you think.’

‘You don’t know anything.’

She smiled. ‘I know about you. Good, sweet, clever Ronnie Sidney. That’s what people think. But there’s more to you than that.’

‘Not according to my mother.’

‘But she doesn’t understand you.’

‘And you do?’

She nodded. ‘We’re the same, you and me. My parents think I’m perfect but they don’t know me at all. If they knew who I really was they’d disown me.’

‘So who are you really?’

His hand was on the table. She covered it with her own. A chaste gesture to anyone watching. Like a girl
with her brother. They couldn’t see her thumb caress his palm.

‘Come home with me and I’ll tell you all my secrets.’

He didn’t answer. Just stared at her.

‘I think you’re special, Ronnie. I always have. Come home with me. Let me show you who I really am.’

For a moment he didn’t react. She carried on stroking his palm.

‘I’d like that,’ he said.

They rose to their feet. The boy who had winked now sneered. ‘Off to do your homework?’

‘Biology,’ she told him, and led Ronnie outside.

Fifteen minutes later they sat together on a sofa in her parents’ living room.

The decor was soft and feminine. Pastel colours and ornaments littering each surface. A large glass cabinet held rows of Victorian china painstakingly collected over many years. Most evenings during her holidays Catherine would sit on the same sofa, watching television and listening to her parents congratulate themselves on having produced such a model child while longing to tell them things that would wipe the self-satisfied smiles from their faces.

‘I hate this room,’ she told Ronnie. ‘It sums my mother up. All pretty and sweet and nice. Everything she thinks I am but I’m not. I’m like you.’ She stroked his chin. Still smooth. No beard yet. ‘We even look alike. You could be my twin. Would you like that?’

‘Maybe.’

‘I wouldn’t. Twins can’t do this.’ She leant forward, cupping his face in her hands, kissing him on the lips. His response was clumsy. His tongue too eager, his mouth too hard. Perhaps she was the first girl he had ever kissed. She found the idea exciting. Her fingers slid down his chest and belly towards the swelling in his groin, squeezing it gently and hearing him sigh. She bit down on his lip, then moved on to nibble at his ear.

‘I understand you, Ronnie,’ she whispered. ‘What you are. What you need.’

‘What am I, then?’ he whispered back.

‘You’re bad. That’s what makes you special. That’s why I want you.’

‘Why am I bad?’

She didn’t answer. Too busy teasing his neck with her teeth.

He leant back. ‘Why am I bad?’

‘You just are. Like me.’ She edged forward, eager to kiss him again.

He kept his distance. ‘And why are you bad?’

‘We can talk afterwards. Come on, Ronnie.’

‘Why?’

Playfully she blew in his face. He kept his distance. ‘Why? Because I won’t be the first person you’ve had sex with? Is that the only secret you’ve got to tell me?’

‘Isn’t that enough?’

‘No.’

‘Yes it is.’ She began to giggle. ‘If my parents knew what we were going to do …’

‘It’s not bad. Not compared to what I could tell you. It’s just … nothing.’

Her fingers crept back to his groin. ‘This isn’t nothing. You want me, don’t you?’

‘I want you to understand me.’

‘I do.’ Again she tried to pull him towards her.

He shoved her backwards, staring into her eyes. His were unblinking and so intense that for a moment she felt as if he were looking through her skin and inside her head.

‘No you don’t.’

‘Ronnie …’

He rose to his feet. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come here.’

‘You can’t go!’

‘Yes I can.’

‘Ronnie!’

He walked out of the room.

‘Queer! Pansy! Fairy! You’ll be sorry for this, Ronnie Sidney. I’m going to tell everyone what a little queer you are!’

No answer. Just the sound of footsteps, then the front door opening and shutting.

Frustrated, bewildered and hurt, she burst into tears.

Sunday lunchtime. Anna sat in the restaurant of the Cumberland Hotel with Charles and Ronnie.

The Cumberland was in Lytton. There were no decent restaurants in Hepton. As waiters and waitresses
slid between the tables, Anna sipped her wine and listened to the conversation between her companions.

It was going well. Charles was being charming; asking Ronnie about school, finding out his favourite periods of history. Occasionally he tried to bring her into the conversation but she preferred to keep silent and observe.

‘How is your beef?’ he asked her.

‘Lovely, thank you, Charles.’ She controlled the urge to call him Mr Pembroke. It felt strange to be using his first name.

Ronnie was also charming. To Charles at least. To her he was polite but distant. Dressed in his school uniform, he looked handsome and very grown up. She watched him with a mixture of pride and apprehension.

They finished their main courses. A waitress approached with the sweet trolley. Charles rose to his feet. ‘I’ll go outside and smoke my pipe. Give you two a chance to talk.’