Apple of My Eye (4 page)

Margaret Fisher in the third row stifled a yawn. A round, vacuous face that showed no interest in her new surroundings. Secondary school material without doubt.

In the second row Ronald Sidney stared solemnly at her. An attractive boy with lovely wide-spaced eyes. A contrast to his unprepossessing Finnegan cousins, who had both passed through her class. Peter, like Alan, had been a troublemaker, and Thomas, due to sit the examination this year, fitted squarely in the Margaret mould, as his results would likely prove.

Ronald responded to her gaze with a smile that lit up his whole face. His eyes were shining, as if excited at the prospect of learning.

Oh yes, a future grammar school boy for sure.

Smiling back, she thought,
I’m going to enjoy teaching you.

She posed an arithmetic problem. Most of the class looked blank but a few hands rose into the air. One of them belonged to Ronald Sidney.

Each Friday Anna paid part of her salary into a savings account.

It was a very small part. Most of her money went to Vera for rent and keep, and what was left barely covered necessities and the occasional treat for Ronnie.

The girl behind the desk stared at her post office book. ‘Sidney,’ she said, pointing to the name on the front page. ‘Are you Ronnie’s mother?’

‘Yes.’

‘He’s in my aunt’s class. Miss Sims. She’s always talking about him. Says he’s bright as a button.’

‘Thank you.’ Anna smiled. ‘Ronnie talks about your aunt all the time too.’

Actually that wasn’t true. Ronnie rarely talked about his teacher or the other children in his class. Not that he was unhappy at school. It was just that the people he met there seemed to make little impression on him.

He was learning so quickly. Each day his knowledge grew. Rarely did he need her help when reading and his mental arithmetic was almost better than her own. Having little in the way of brains herself, it was wonderful to have a child who was so obviously intelligent.

The girl returned her book. She looked at the new balance. Still paltry. Not enough to buy a carriage clock, let alone a big house. Perhaps it never would be.

But she couldn’t afford to think like that. Not even for a moment.

She walked out into the High Street. The drab centre of a drab town. A wind was rising so she fastened her coat. The sky was heavy and grey. Everything around her was grey in this soulless outpost in a constantly expanding London.

She wanted to escape from here. Get away from Vera and her contempt and all the others who judged her even if they didn’t mean to. Go somewhere new. Somewhere green and beautiful where she and Ronnie could start again. Where Ronnie would have everything she had always promised him.

One day she would make it happen. But how?

December 1951. Ronnie’s first report.

‘… a joy
to teach! An exceptionally bright boy who is also hard working and beautifully mannered. A perfect little gentleman, in fact, and a huge credit to his family
.’

Christmas Day. Ronnie sat with his family in the living room. A tiny Christmas tree stood in the corner, covered with the decorations Auntie Vera kept in a box in the attic. Auntie Vera had decorated the tree herself. Ronnie had offered to help but she had told him he would only break something and sent him away.

It was early afternoon. They had just finished a meal of turkey with roast potatoes, peas, carrots and stuffing balls, all cooked by his mother. Last year they could only afford beef. Auntie Vera had made a point of telling all her new friends that they were having turkey.

Ronnie sat on the floor, next to his mother’s chair, looking at the present she had bought him. A box of paints and two small brushes. ‘Do you like it?’ she asked anxiously. He allowed his smile to answer for him.

‘He’d better not make a mess with those,’ said Auntie Vera from the sofa by the fire. Auntie Vera and Uncle Stan had given Ronnie a scarf.

‘He won’t.’

‘He’d better not.’ Auntie Vera’s tone was belligerent. She and Uncle Stan had been drinking beer since their return from church that morning. Uncle Stan snored beside her on the sofa. Thomas lay in front of the fire, absorbed in his new comic book, while outside Peter struggled to master new roller skates.

Ronnie reached behind the bookcase for the envelope he had hidden there. A card he had made at school, decorated with a drawing of a beautiful house coloured like a rainbow. Inside was written ‘Merry Xmas Mum. Love from Ronnie Sunshine’. All his class had made cards for their mothers. Miss Sims had told him that his was the best and he had told her that it was because he had the best mother.

Now it was her turn to smile. ‘It’s the loveliest present I’ve ever had.’

He pointed to the front of the card. ‘That’s our house. The one you’re going to buy.’

‘What house?’ demanded Auntie Vera.

‘Mum’s going to buy us a big house.’

‘And how is she going to do that?’

‘By saving lots of money. And when she’s bought the house my dad is going to come and live with us.’

Auntie Vera took a sip of beer then put it back on the table, next to a bottle of expensive perfume that Uncle Stan had given her. The same perfume Mrs Brown wore. The shape of the bottle reminded Ronnie of something but he couldn’t think what.

‘You’re a clever boy, aren’t you, Ronnie? That’s what your report said, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, Auntie Vera.’

‘Then here’s a lesson for you. Your mother’s an idiot who’s never going to buy you anything. Do yourself a favour and learn it well.’

‘My mum’s not an idiot.’

‘Then let’s write a letter to your daddy. Come on, Anna. What’s his address?’

‘Don’t, Vera …’ began Ronnie’s mother.

‘Or what? What will you do? Leave? Why don’t you? Let’s see how long you and Ronnie survive without us.’

‘My mum’s not an idiot!’

Auntie Vera began to laugh. Ronnie’s mother put her hand on his shoulder. ‘Auntie Vera’s just teasing you.’

A lump of coal fell from the fire, waking Uncle Stan.

Thomas looked up from his comic book. ‘You snore like a hog, Dad.’ Uncle Stan shrugged, then returned to sleep. Auntie Vera drank more beer. As he watched her, Ronnie realized that the perfume resembled a potion bottle he had seen in a book at school. A wicked witch had given the potion to a beautiful woman, who thought it would keep her young for ever. Instead it had turned to fire inside her stomach and burned her to ash.

He imagined Auntie Vera drinking from the perfume bottle by mistake. Just one sip. Then a scream as she clawed at her throat.

Auntie Vera was still laughing. He began to do the same. A look of confusion came into his mother’s face. ‘Hush, Ronnie,’ she said quickly.

Biting his lip, he smothered the sound.

January 1952.

Anna sat on Ronnie’s bed, listening to him read from a library book about a little girl whose magic ring gave her seven wishes. She had worried that it might be too difficult for him but he was managing it effortlessly. The previous evening he had been totally absorbed in the story but now he seemed distracted.

‘What is it, Ronnie?’

‘When is Dad coming?’

She felt a dull ache. The residue of a pain that had once been intolerable. ‘I told you, darling, he may not come. You mustn’t expect him.’

‘I want him to come.’

‘I know you do but we don’t know where he is. He might be in heaven.’

The little jaw was set. ‘He’s not in heaven. He’s going to come and help me.’

‘Help you what?’

‘Look after you.’

Outside it was raining. A stormy winter’s night. Though the room was cold his words were like a gust of warm air. She took his hand and pressed it against her cheek. ‘You don’t need any help, Ronnie. You do a perfect job on your own. Now let’s finish the story. Jemima’s only got one wish left. What would you wish for if you were her?’

‘That Auntie Vera was in heaven.’

She released his hand. ‘Ronnie, that’s a wicked thing to say!’

He stared down at the page while water pounded the window.

‘You mustn’t say things like that. Not ever. I know Auntie Vera gets angry sometimes but that’s just her way. She and Uncle Stan have been good to us. They’ve given us a home.’

Silence. His pyjamas were striped and too big for him. Handed down from Peter, as so many of his clothes were. A train raced past in the darkness. Even though the window was closed the sound still filled the room.

‘Ronnie?’

He looked up. ‘We’ll have our own house soon. You’re going to buy it. Then it won’t matter if Auntie Vera’s in heaven.’

Troubled, she shook her head. ‘Ronnie, it’s wrong to talk like that. You mustn’t do it any more. You’ll upset me if you do.’

Another silence. He stared at her with eyes that seemed suddenly like those of a stranger.

Then he smiled. The little Ronnie Sunshine smile that could lift her darkest mood.

‘I’m sorry, Mum. I love you.’ He continued to read.

Lunchtime. In the shadow of the grim Victorian school building the playground swarmed with life. Boys chased footballs or each other. Girls twirled skipping ropes, jumped hopscotch squares or played little mother over dolls.

Catherine Meadows, bored with skipping, watched Ronnie Sidney sitting by himself.

He was drawing. Just as he always was. Miss Sims said that he was very talented. Miss Sims liked Ronnie. When Miss Sims wasn’t there, Alan Deakins called Ronnie and Archie Clark teacher’s pets and Archie cried and everyone laughed, but Ronnie just shrugged and carried on with whatever he was doing until Alan grew bored and started teasing someone else.

She walked over. ‘What are you drawing?’

Ronnie didn’t answer. She leaned over to see but he pressed the paper to his chest and hid the image.

‘Are you drawing me?’

‘No.’

Catherine sighed. Her friends Phyllis and Jean thought Alan was the best-looking boy in class but
Ronnie was Catherine’s favourite. Sometimes she tried to talk to him but he never seemed interested, which was strange because she was pretty and her father was important and everyone else wanted to be her friend.

She stood, waiting, but Ronnie just ignored her. Catherine wasn’t used to being ignored so she stuck out her tongue then went to rejoin the skipping game.

Ten minutes later the lesson bell rang. A groan echoed around the playground. Ronnie stood up, looking at the picture he had drawn, his expression thoughtful. Crushing the paper into a ball, he dropped it into the bin and followed the other children indoors.

Catherine walked over to the bin and removed the paper, hoping to see an image of herself. Instead she saw two separate drawings of a fat woman with an angry face standing in a garden behind a railway line. In the first drawing the woman was shouting at a small boy, unaware of the bomber plane flying overhead. In the second drawing a bomb had blown the woman into pieces and the little boy was waving to the pilot while twirling her severed head by the hair.

Disappointed, Catherine put the drawing back in the bin.

Summer 1952.

‘… an
excellent year. The sky’s the limit for a boy with Ronnie’s brains and application. I predict great things for him
.’

*

November. Ronnie sat at the kitchen table with Peter. Though the living-room door was closed it could not block out the sound of Auntie Vera’s voice.

‘Stan had to plead for you! He might have lost his job, and why? Because you’re too stupid to do your own!’

Silence. Ronnie willed his mother to shout back but she said nothing.

‘But stupid’s your middle name, isn’t it?’

Ronnie struggled to understand what had happened. His mother had made some mistake at work. Something about a lost order. She had nearly lost her job over it.

‘Look at Ronnie. Anyone with a brain would have had him adopted. Given him a decent start in life. You still could but you won’t because you’re too stupid!’

A chill ran through Ronnie. Beside him Peter began to giggle. Thomas was away, visiting a friend from his new secondary school.

At last his mother spoke. ‘Leave Ronnie out of this.’

‘Why? It’s true. Not content with ruining your own life, you want to ruin his too!’

Peter kicked Ronnie under the table. ‘No one would adopt you. They’ll put you in an orphanage with all the other bastards.’

‘That’s enough, Vera.’ Uncle Stan entered the fray.

‘Why? It’s what everyone around here thinks. And why are you sticking up for her? Just for once give me some bloody support!’

Peter prodded Ronnie with his finger. ‘You’re going to the orphanage, bastard.’

The arguing continued. Then there was the sound of foosteps. Ronnie’s mother running upstairs. Auntie Vera appeared in the kitchen, her face flushed and angry. ‘Looks like I’m making supper then. You two make yourselves useful. Peter, peel the potatoes. Ronnie, lay the table. And what are those roller skates doing on the floor? Put them outside.’

Peter jumped to his feet. Ronnie did too but made for the kitchen door, where a troubled-looking Uncle Stan was standing.

‘And where do you think you’re going?’ demanded Auntie Vera.

‘To see my mum.’

‘Do what you’re told. Lay the table.’

‘I want to see my mum.’

‘Let him go, Vera.’ Another weak interjection from Uncle Stan.

Auntie Vera folded her arms. ‘Lay the table, Ronnie.’

Ronnie shook his head.

‘Now!’

For a moment he stood his ground. His hands were clenched into fists. In the background Peter was giggling again.

Then his hands relaxed. He smiled. A soft, sweet gesture of submission.

‘Yes, Auntie Vera. Sorry, Auntie Vera.’

Meekly he went about his task.

Anna sat on her bed, staring down at the silver band she wore on her finger.

It had been a thirteenth birthday present from her parents. The last birthday she had celebrated with them before the fatal air raid. She had nothing else to remember them by. No photographs. No other mementoes or keepsakes. Everything of emotional value had been destroyed by the bomb.

All except her memories. Her father’s voice. Her mother’s smile. Her brother’s laugh as he told her a joke or teased her about a film-star crush. Faint echoes of a time when she had not been frightened of the future. When she had known what it was to feel secure and safe.