Apple of My Eye (7 page)

The police were angry. ‘You’ve been a very stupid young man. Wasting our time and upsetting everybody.’ Vera was beside herself. ‘I don’t know whether to kiss you or kill you!’ In the end she did the former, lavishing Thomas with cake and lemonade. Peter, indignant, announced that he was going to run away too if this was the outcome and received a clout from Stan for upsetting his mother.

Anna, almost as relieved as Vera, hugged Ronnie to her. ‘You must never frighten me like that, Ronnie. I
couldn’t bear to think of something bad happening to you.’

He hugged her back. ‘I never will, Mum. I promise.’

December. Two days before the start of the Christmas holidays. Mrs Jennings finished reading the class a revenge story about a man called Horatio who had been robbed for his money and left for dead. After years of searching, Horatio had tracked down the culprit and killed him in a duel. Her colleague Miss Sims had expressed concern at the darkness of the subject matter but in Mrs Jennings’ experience, even the most angelic of children liked their stories laced with gore.

‘Did you all enjoy that?’ she asked.

A chorus of yeses and nodded heads. Alan Deakins suggested that Horatio should have boiled the robber in oil and Catherine Meadows told him not to be horrid.

‘Horatio had his revenge, Alan. That’s the important thing.’ Mrs Jennings closed her book. ‘Now …’

‘No he didn’t,’ said Ronnie Sidney.

‘Yes he did, Ronnie. He killed Sir Neville.’

‘Duh!’ said Alan Deakins. A few children laughed.

Ronnie shook his head. ‘Sir Neville was married. He loved his wife. Horatio should have killed her. That would have hurt Sir Neville more and been better revenge.’

Mrs Jennings was taken aback. ‘Well, I don’t know about that, Ronnie …’

‘It would.’

Alan blew a raspberry. More giggling. Catherine told him to be quiet.

‘Yes, well, perhaps you’re right, Ronnie. Now for the rest of the lesson I want you all to draw pictures of Sir Neville’s castle.’

Five minutes later all heads were bent over pieces of paper, Ronnie Sidney’s included. Mrs Jennings watched him. His comments had taken her aback but perhaps it wasn’t really so surprising. She knew he read a lot with his mother. Perhaps they had started looking at Shakespeare. The tragedies, possibly. Though Ronnie was too young to really appreciate it he would have understood something. He was a bright boy, after all, who learned his lessons well.

She began to think about what she would cook for supper.

September 1954.

‘Anna,’ said June Sanderson, ‘there’s something we need to discuss.’

‘Have I done something wrong?’

‘Far from it. I have a proposal to put to you.’

The two of them sat in June’s kitchen. Albert was upstairs, showing Ronnie recent additions to his stamp collection.

‘I have a cousin. Barbara Pembroke. I think I’ve mentioned her.’

‘The one who’s moved to Oxfordshire?’

‘That’s right. A town called Kendleton. She has a house by the river.’

Anna nodded.

‘I’ve told Barbara about you. About how highly Albert and I think of you. Barbara’s an old lady. Her health isn’t good. She has a weak heart and doesn’t have long to live.’

Another nod. The eyes were confused.

‘And she’s lonely. She has no family near by. Her only son is working in America and she’s looking for someone to act as a companion. Live in the house with her. Just keep her company. There’d be a little housework, but not much. She’s a wealthy woman who already has a cook and a cleaner. A gardener too. There’s even a nurse who visits her regularly. It’s companionship she’s after.’

‘And you thought of me?’

‘She’d pay well, Anna. Very well for the right person. She’s a good woman. A little set in her ways perhaps, but kind. And …’ June hesitated, choosing her words carefully. ‘And generous. A woman who would remember a good companion in her will.’

‘I see.’

‘I know you want to get away from here. Build a new life for yourself. Have a home of your own. This could be the means to achieve that.’

Anna put down the tray she had been polishing. ‘Do you think she’d want me?’

‘You’d need to meet her, of course. But I’m sure she would. As I said, I’ve told her all about you. Sung your praises.’ Another laugh. ‘Cutting off my nose to spite my face, really, as the last thing I want is to lose you.’

Anna’s expression became wistful. ‘When I was a child, just before the war, my parents took my brother and me for a holiday on a narrow boat. We went through the London canals and out into the country. It was a wonderful holiday. The weather was glorious and we helped to work the lock gates. We passed through Oxfordshire and it was beautiful.’

‘It still is. The Chilterns. The Goring Gap. Oxford itself. Home of the best university in the country.’

‘Better than Cambridge?’

June looked indignant. ‘A thousand times better.’ Then she smiled. ‘But my brother and Albert were at the same Oxford college. The two of them became friends and that’s how we met, so perhaps I can be allowed a little bias.’

Anna smiled too. ‘I think so.’

‘It’s a very different world from here.’

Anna’s eyes began to shine. ‘The sort of world I want for Ronnie. Somewhere green and beautiful. What are the schools like in Kendleton?’

June felt a tightening in her stomach. ‘There’s a catch, Anna. Barbara needs peace and her doctor is adamant that she mustn’t have a child living in the house. Ronnie would have to stay with Stan and Vera.’

The smile faded as quickly as it had come. ‘Then she’ll have to find someone else.’

‘But …’

‘No.’

‘Anna, think …’

‘No! Absolutely not. Ronnie’s all I have. I could
never leave him. Never!’ Anna flushed, her voice softened. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude. You’ve always been kind to us and I’m grateful but this isn’t possible.’

Anna picked up the tray and continued her work. Upstairs June could hear Albert laughing at something Ronnie had said. On the far wall was a picture of the Tower of London. Another of Ronnie’s efforts. Exceptional for a boy of not quite nine.

‘It wouldn’t be for ever, Anna. A few years, maybe less. You could come and visit. Kendleton’s not that far away. Albert and I would keep an eye on Ronnie. He could visit us whenever he wanted. You know how fond we are of him. Please don’t just dismiss the idea. Promise me you’ll think about it.’

Silence. Upstairs the laughter continued.

‘What’s the matter, Mum?’

‘Nothing, Ronnie.’

‘Yes there is.’

They sat in the window of the Amalfi café. Ronnie had moved on from dissecting jam tarts and now ate chocolate éclairs. The café was crowded, the buzz of conversation almost drowning out the Alma Cogan record playing on the newly installed jukebox.

She told him what June Sanderson had said. ‘Will you go?’ he asked when she had finished.

‘No. I told Mrs Sanderson that her cousin would have to find someone else.’

He nodded.

‘Which she will.’

‘They won’t be as nice as you.’

‘Thank you, Ronnie.’ Anna sipped her tea. At a nearby table Emily Hopkins, sister of her one-time suitor, Harry, talked with a younger woman called Peggy. Both kept looking over, making Anna feel uncomfortable. Harry had married Peggy the previous year and they were expecting their first child at Christmas. Peggy had dull hair and a mean mouth. Anna’s friend, Kate, thought that Harry was a fool. That Peggy didn’t have Anna’s looks or sweet nature. But she didn’t have an illegitimate child either.

Ronnie was staring at her. His eyes were troubled. Now it was her turn to be concerned. ‘What is it?’

He didn’t answer.

‘Ronnie?’

He swallowed. ‘You should go.’

She put down her cup. ‘Do you want me to?’

‘No. But …’ He didn’t finish his sentence. There was no need. She knew what he was thinking. What she was thinking herself.

‘I don’t want to leave you, Ronnie.’

‘I’ll be all right. I’m not a baby.’

There was cream on his lip. She reached out and wiped it away. ‘No, you’re not,’ she said softly. ‘You’re my big, clever, grown-up boy, aren’t you.’

Emily and Peggy were still glancing over. Uncharacteristically Ronnie made a face at them. Both quickly looked away. Anna suppressed the urge to laugh. ‘That was naughty,’ she told him. ‘I’m very angry.’

He made a face at her too. A nice one this time. She thought of what she would have gained through marrying Harry. A decent, hard-working husband. A home of her own. Respectability. More children perhaps. The only price losing Ronnie for ever.

His hand was on the table. She gave it a squeeze. He squeezed back.

‘I love you, Ronnie Sunshine. More than anything in the world.’

‘I love you too, Mum. I don’t want you to go away. But if you do I’ll be all right.’

‘Finish your éclair. We’ll talk about this another time.’

He took a bite. Made a display of eating. But when they left the café half the éclair still remained on his plate.

October. While her husband snored in front of a quiz show on their new television set, Mrs Fletcher studied entries for a picture competition she had set the fourth-year class. The theme was ‘An Important Person in My Life’. The winner was to receive five shillings and have their picture displayed on the school noticeboard for a week.

Most of the children had drawn their mothers. Naughty Alan Deakins had drawn that tart Marilyn Monroe, but Alan’s mother looked like a tart so that was rather appropriate. Stuart Hooper, bottom of the class and eager to curry favour, had drawn what was supposed to be a flattering portrait of herself resembling a gargoyle. Some had drawn their fathers. Patriotic
Catherine Meadows had drawn the Queen. Archie Clark had drawn his cat.

But one entry stood head and shoulders above the rest. Ronnie Sidney’s drawing of his cousin Thomas.

It was an unusual drawing. Thomas himself did not appear. Ronnie had drawn a graveyard; at its centre a tombstone guarded by a stone angel with its wings spread out and its hands clasped in prayer. On the stone was carved: ‘
Thomas Stanley Finnegan. Born 12 November 1940. Died 7 October 1953
’.

Mrs Fletcher thought back to the previous October when Thomas had gone missing. Her colleague, Mrs Jennings had told her how the whole class had prayed for Thomas’s safety and of how worried Ronnie had been. Scared that Thomas might be dead. Fortunately it had all worked out well.

But it could have been so different. That was what the drawing showed.

It was clever. Imaginative. Like Ronnie himself.

But it was also disturbing. Not the sort of thing to be displayed on a noticeboard. It might give the first-years nightmares.

She decided to award the prize to another child. There would be other competitions for Ronnie to win.

January 1955.

Ronnie stood on a platform at Paddington Station, talking to his mother at the window of her train. Uncle Stan and Peter, who had helped carry her luggage, waited near by.

‘I’ll write every day,’ she told him. ‘Tell me if you can’t stand it. I can come back. I don’t have to stay.’

‘Don’t worry, Mum.’ He gave her his best Ronnie Sunshine smile. ‘I’ll be all right.’

The guard blew his whistle. It was time. She leant through the window. Hugged him as best she could while late arrivals pushed past trying to find seats.

The train began to move, sending clouds of white steam into the air. She remained at the window, waving. He waved back, fighting the urge to run after her and beg her to stay.

Then he walked back towards the others.

‘All well, then, Ronnie,’ said Uncle Stan in a tone of forced joviality.

He nodded.

‘Let’s have a plate of chips somewhere. I’m sure your aunt won’t mind this once.’

‘Thanks, Uncle Stan.’

‘You two wait here for a minute. I need to get some cigarettes.’

‘Aren’t you going to cry?’ demanded Peter once they were alone.

‘No.’

‘Yes you are. Come, on cry-baby bastard. Start blubbing for your mummy.’

Ronnie shook his head.

‘You’re only staying with us because Dad told Mum it would look bad if we didn’t keep you. Otherwise you’d be in the orphanage with all the other bastards.’

A lump was growing in Ronnie’s throat. The tears he
had been battling against all day were very close. Peter’s eyes shone as if sensing this. As Ronnie looked into them he remembered Auntie Vera lying on the kitchen floor. He imagined Peter lying there instead; screaming as boiling chip fat ate away his face.

Laughter bubbled up inside him, melting the lump into nothing.

Peter’s smile faded, replaced by confusion. ‘Cry!’

‘Or what? Going to leave one of your roller skates for me to fall over?’

Peter flushed. ‘Cunt!’ He went to join his father.

Ronnie turned, wanting a last glimpse of his mother’s train. But the platform was empty and she was gone.