Apple of My Eye
Page 1
Patrick Redmond was born in Essex in 1966. After attending school in Essex and the Channel Islands he completed a Law degree at Leicester University and then a Masters at University of British Columbia in Vancouver. He spent ten years working in the City of London specialising in Commercial and EU law, before leaving to become a full time writer.
His first novel, The Wishing Game, hit the bestseller lists in the UK, Germany and Italy. He has published three novels since, which together have been translated into fifteen languages. His latest novel, The Replacement, is due out in 2014. Patrick lives in West London.
www.patrickredmond.co.uk
Novels by Patrick Redmond
The Wishing Game
The Puppet Show
Apple of My Eye
All She Ever Wanted
Praise for Patrick Redmond’s books:
The Wishing Game
‘The setting is genuinely chilling, and the atmosphere of menace and sterility riveting’ – Daily Express
‘Patrick Redmond’s chilling debut novel is a first-rate page-turner’ – Daily Mirror
‘The repressive world of single-sex boarding schools is a fertile ground for novelists, and Redmond grasps every opportunity for delineating the resulting psychological deformations with relish … Such is the hard-edged skill of Redmond’s writing that the carefully structured revelations about the past have a bitter and compelling power’ – Times Literary Supplement
‘Assured writing sets up evil to overcome the weak in this deft, Hitchcockian portrayal of a malevolent microcosm of warped power’ – Publishing News
‘The Wishing Game is dark and gripping, like an anaconda. I could not pull myself away: an astonishing debut’ – Tim Rice
‘Thanks to Redmond’s masterfully subtle fore-shadowing, a brooding sense of impending disaster is maintained throughout his gripping suspense thriller’ – Publishers Weekly
‘Redmond has a way of making individuals seem both more human and more vile as new levels of detail are unearthed. Even his villains manage to become more understandable, vulnerable and complex as the book marches on … An impressive debut’ – Washington Post
The Puppet Show
‘Redmond marries a sure grasp of psychology with a beguiling narrative that allows its series of revelations to unfold in a totally organic fashion … But his principal gift, as in The Wishing Game, is an effortless grasp of narrative texture, and multiple levels of sympathetic insight into his brilliantly drawn characters – Crime Time
‘A highly successful thriller: a page-turner, certainly, but also original, well-constructed and intelligent’ – Spectator
‘As dark psychological thrillers go, this is dark … A good read’ – Maxim
‘His style is strictly no frills – simple, sparse and straightforward … but he does have a way of making you gag to know what happens next’ – Daily Mirror
‘A mesmerising narrative, plainly but urgently told. Redmond’s particular talent lies in the book’s careful structure, its plotting and steadily accelerating pace – and in the psychological veracity that made the previous book a stunner … An excellent novel: clearly a talent to watch’ – Tangled Web
Apple of My Eye
‘A dark and bloody tale which keeps the tension going right until the last page … A superb, intelligent read’ – Joanne Harris
‘A compelling novel that draws you deep into the world of children at the mercy of the dangerous adults. Disturbing and gripping’ – Natasha Cooper
‘An intense, gripping read’ – Heat
All She Ever Wanted
‘The lurking tension and twisting cruelty in Redmond’s writing and plotting make for a hypnotic, compelling read’ – The Bookseller
‘The ghastliness of the English class system lies at the heart of Redmond’s creepy psychological thriller … Du Maurier meets Patrick Hamilton’ – Guardian
Copyright
Published by Sphere
ISBN: 978-0-7515-5478-6
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2003 by Patrick Redmond
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
Sphere
Little, Brown Book Group
100 VictoriaEmbankment
London, EC4Y 0DY
www.littlebrown.co.uk
www.hachette.co.uk
Contents
About the Author
Novels by Patrick Redmond
Praise for Patrick Redmond’s books
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Part 1
Hepton: 1950
Part 2
Oxfordshire: 1952
Part 3
Part 4
Kendleton: 1959
Part 5
Kendleton: September 1961
To Mike
Acknowledgements
As always, my thanks go to my mother, Mary Redmond, for being the first person who encouraged me to write.
Secondly, my thanks go to my cousin, Anthony Webb, and to my friends who all offered encouragement, advice and patient good humour whilst suffering heavy doses of my so-called creative angst. A big thank you to David Bullen, Emile Farhi, Paula Hardgrave, Simon Howitt, Iandra MacCallum, Rebecca Owen, Lesley Sims, Gillian Sproul, Russell Vallance and last but not least, Gerard Hopkins, for serving an exceedingly good curry.
Thirdly, my thanks to my agent, Patrick Walsh for all his efforts on my behalf, and to my editor, Kate Lyall Grant for her ongoing faith in my work.
Finally, my thanks to Ian Chapman, Suzanne Baboneau and all the team at Simon & Schuster.
Prologue
Hepton, Greater London: 1945
A late afternoon in June. In the stuffy office with grey walls the doctor cleared his throat and prepared to act out the scene he knew by heart.
‘There’s no doubt. You are pregnant. About five months, I’d say.’
The girl made no answer. But then it could hardly have come as a surprise.
‘So no more starving yourself. You need to keep your strength up. After all, you’re eating for two.’
Still no answer. He sat back in his chair and studied her. She was a pretty thing; strawberry blonde hair, delicate features, pale blue eyes and no wedding ring. A small hand rubbed at a lower lip. The white blouse and knee-length skirt made her look like the child she still was. Her name was Anna Sidney and she was three months short of her seventeenth birthday. He had read that in her file. And he had read some other stuff too.
‘Is the father a soldier?’
A nod.
‘Is he still here?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know where he is?’
A pause. The hand continued to rub at the lip. ‘No.’
He shook his head, having seen it all before. Naive, romance-starved girl meets libidinous, silver-tongued soldier and is charmed into losing her virginity and much else besides. Someone had told him once that a woman learned to desire the man she loved while a man learned to love the woman he desired. Only some men were very bad learners.
But that was just the way of the world. He was old and tired and there was nothing he could do about it.
He picked up his pen. ‘You need more vitamins. I’ll give you a prescr
iption.’ His tone was brusque and businesslike. ‘And you’ll have …’
‘He will come back.’ Her voice was soft as a whisper. ‘I know he will.’
‘No he won’t. They never do. Not in real life. Only in films.’ He carried on writing, trying to be quick. Longing to get home to his supper and bed. In the street outside a man walked by, singing loudly. It was only a month since VE Day and the sense of euphoria was everywhere. Peace after six long years.
The nib of his pen scratched on the paper. A drop of ink fell on to his desk. He looked up, searching for some blotting paper, and saw that she was crying. He remembered her file. What he had read.
And felt suddenly ashamed.
He put down his pen. She was wiping her eyes with her fingers. There was a clean handkerchief in his drawer. ‘Here,’ he said gently. ‘Use this.’
‘Thank you. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. Forgive me if I sounded harsh. I didn’t mean to. Life should be like the pictures, only most of the time it’s not.’
‘He told me that he loved me. That he’d send for me. That we’d be married.’
Of course. That was what they all said. But perhaps the words had been meant.
‘Do you like the pictures, Anna?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who’s your idol? Clark Gable? Errol Flynn?’
‘Ronald Colman.’
‘My wife and I enjoy his films. The characters he plays. Kind and honourable. There isn’t enough of that in the world.’
‘He looks like my father.’
Again he thought of her file. Thought of the hard road she had travelled and the harder one that lay ahead. There was little comfort he could offer but still he felt the need to try.
‘Anna, people are going to try and make you feel ashamed. Don’t let them. A new life is growing inside you and that is a wonderful thing. My wife and I wanted a child of our own more than anything but we were never blessed. And that’s what it is, Anna. A blessing. No matter what anyone says to you, never lose sight of that.’
She looked up. Her tears were slowing. ‘I won’t,’ she said, and suddenly there was a world of dignity in her voice. ‘Because he meant what he said. He loves me and now the war is over we will be together.’
‘I hope so.’
‘I know it.’
That evening, after supper, Anna told Stan and Vera.
The three of them sat at the kitchen table of the house in Baxter Road. The window was open, looking out on to the tiny back yard that Vera insisted on referring to as a garden. The breeze, tinged with the scent of a hundred meals being cooked in neighbouring houses, never quite dispelled the smell of stale chip fat that hung in the air like invisible fog.
‘I knew it,’ Vera announced. ‘I said something was up.’
Stan nodded. He was a cousin of Anna’s father. A tall, thin man with receding hair, slack chin and asthma, who worked in a can factory two streets away.
‘I’m sorry, Stan,’ Anna whispered.
A sigh. ‘Well, I suppose these things do happen.’ His expression was sympathetic. Though a weak man, he tried to be a good one.
But it was not his reaction which mattered.
‘Not in my house they don’t.’ Vera’s small mouth was set in an ominous line. She was tall, like her husband, but twice as wide. ‘How could you do this to us after all we’ve done for you?’
Anna stared down at the tablecloth. From the living room came excited squeals as four-year-old Thomas and two-year-old Peter raced toy cars across the floor.
‘You had nothing. We took you in. We gave you a home and family and you repay us by acting like some tart.’
‘It wasn’t like that.’
‘How did it happen, then? An immaculate conception?’
‘We love each other.’ Emotion rose up in her. She fought against it, not wanting to seem weak. Not now.
‘So where is he? This knight in shining armour.’
‘I don’t know.’
A snort. ‘You don’t know anything about him!’
But that wasn’t true. She knew his name was Edward. That he was twenty-five and nearly six foot tall. That he was not classically handsome but had beautiful grey-green eyes and a smile that could release a million butterflies in her stomach. That he had a small birthmark on his neck which he called his little map of England. That he spoke with the faintest trace of a lisp. That he was clever, funny and kind. And that they loved each other.
‘You fool! You don’t have the brains you were born with.’
‘Don’t be too hard on her,’ said Stan suddenly. ‘She hasn’t had it easy.’
‘None of us have had it easy, Stan Finnegan, but we don’t all spread our legs the first time some squaddie gives us a smile. We’ve done everything for this girl and this is how she repays us. We gave her a home …’
And so it went on. The anger, the contempt and the constant reminders of all she owed them. She sat in silence, feeling as empty and afraid as she had on the day three years earlier when she had returned home after spending the night with a friend and discovered that a German bomb had destroyed her house and the lives of her parents and younger brother.
Stan and Vera had taken her in. Given her somewhere to live. But it was not a home and they were not her family. She was an outsider. Tolerated but unwanted. And sometimes at night, in her bed in the tiny room at the back of the house, she felt so alone that she wished the bomb had killed her too.
‘Well, you can forget about keeping the baby. You’re having it adopted and that’s that. The last thing we need is another mouth to feed. Particularly not some squaddie’s bastard.’
A lump was forming in her throat. She swallowed it down, determined to be strong. Not to let Vera win. To hold on to some last vestige of pride. Closing her eyes, she strained to hear the voice in her head that had once been as loud as thunder but now grew fainter with each passing day.
He loves me. He will take me away from this and we will be happy for ever.
He loves me and he will come and save me. I know he will come.
He has to come …
October.
Nurse Jane Smith looked about the maternity ward. Visiting hour was well under way and combinations of proud parents, happy husbands and curious children sat around every bed, clucking over the screaming bundle that the tired mother held in her arms.
Every bed except the one that contained the pretty girl with the strawberry-blonde hair.
The crib at the foot of the bed was empty. The baby had been born the previous day after a hard labour. It had been a boy. Seven pounds, nine ounces and perfect in every way. A baby of whom any mother would be proud. A baby who would be loved by his adoptive parents as soon as he was handed over to them.
He was being kept in a separate room. The adoption papers were being signed the following day. Then it would be final. Signed, sealed and delivered. Those whom the legal profession has joined let no natural mother set asunder.
The table beside the bed was bare of flowers and cards. Just as the left hand was bare of a wedding ring. There had been no visitors. No telephone calls. No sign of anyone who cared.
The girl sat staring into space. Her skin was ashen; her expression numb. On the wall behind her head faded bunting still hung. A remnant of the celebrations that had greeted VE Day. In this atmosphere of joy and rejoicing she looked completely out of place. A small, broken creature, totally alone.
Jane knew that it was none of her concern. Decisions had been made, forces set in motion. She had no right to interfere.
But she was a mother herself. One who had lost her husband on a French battlefield four years earlier, and with him her will to live. Until that day, three months later, when their newborn daughter had given it back to her.
And that gave her every right.
Five minutes later she approached the bed, walking through air that was thick with laughter and the smell of excrement and warm milk. In her arms was a crying baby boy. Seven pounds,
nine ounces. Perfect in every way.
‘Anna.’
No answer. The eyes remained focused on the far wall.
‘Look, Anna. Please.’
Still no response. The arms hung limply by the sides. Gently, Jane placed the baby in them, bending the elbows, massaging them into a makeshift cradle. Then she stood back and waited.
The baby wriggled, clearly not comfortable. The mother’s face remained impassive.
Then, suddenly, the baby quietened and lay still.
‘He knows you, Anna. He knows who you are.’
Slowly the eyes turned downwards. The baby began to gurgle, stretching up one arm.
‘He’s saying hello. He wants you to like him.’
More gurgles. The tiny face formed itself into a smile. The doctors would have dismissed it as a contortion of the features. Perhaps they were right. But every new mother in the world would have known different.
‘He’s perfect, Anna. Perfect in every way. And he needs you. You need each other.’
The eyes remained focused on the baby. The numbness was fading, replaced by wonder, together with the first traces of a reciprocal smile.
‘But if you want him adopted that’s your choice. No one can stop you. Give him to me now. Let me take him back.’
She waited for the protest. None came. But no relinquishment either.
‘Is that what you want, Anna? For me to take him away? To never see him again?’
Silence. A single moment that seemed to last an age.
Then a soft whisper. ‘No.’
The smile remained. One finger slid around the outstretched arm.
‘He’s yours, Anna. No one can take him from you. Not if you don’t let them. Fight for him. He is worth it.’
She slipped away, back into the bustle of the ward, leaving mother and son to become acquainted.