Apple of My Eye

by Patrick Redmond

  Midnight.

  The ward was quieter now. One baby cried; an exhuasted mother snored. All else was still.

  Anna Sidney gazed down at her newborn son.

  He was sleeping. Earlier she had fed him for the first time. In spite of her anxiety it had gone better than she had dared hope. As if he had sensed her nervousness and wanted to make it easy for her.

  His forehead was covered in lines. Nurse Smith had told her that all newborn babies looked like old men for the first few days. Then the skin smoothed out and they became beautiful.

  But he was beautiful now.

  She traced the lines with her finger, remembering a similar pattern on the forehead of her father. His name had been Ronald. Like her idol Ronald Colman. It was a name she had always loved.

  The baby stirred and half opened his eyes. The corners of the mouth stretched upwards. A weary smile.

  ‘Hello, my darling. My angel.’

  Hello, Ronnie.

  Rocking him in her arms, she began to sing:

  You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.

  You make me happy when skies are grey.

  You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you.

  Please don’t take my sunshine away.

  The eyes closed again. He drifted back into sleep. A crinkled Buddha, wrapped in a blanket, lost in a world of dreams.

  She wondered whether his father would ever see him. It had been five months since the declaration of peace in Europe and still she had heard nothing. Perhaps he was dead. Perhaps he had just forgotten her, his declarations of love as hollow as a drum.

  But it didn’t matter. Not now.

  Who will you look like, little Ronnie? Your father? My parents or my brother John? The only four people in this world I’ve ever loved.

  All were lost to her now. But when she gazed down at her child she felt as if she had found them again.

  No one would take him from her. She would kill anyone who tried. Vera would be furious; perhaps try to order her from the house. But she would stand her ground and fight back. And she would win. A strength was building inside her. One she had never known before. She had Ronnie to take care of and she would die for him if necessary.

  There was movement near by. The woman four beds along had risen and was checking on her daughter, Clara. Clara was a foul-tempered baby with a face like a bulldog who did nothing but feed, scream and vomit. Clara wasn’t beautiful. Clara wasn’t perfect.

  Clara wasn’t Ronnie.

  He stirred in sleep but did not wake. Safe within her arms. The two of them bound together for ever.

  Sleep well, my darling. My angel. My little ray of sunshine. My little Ronnie.

  Little Ronald Sidney.

  Little Ronnie Sunshine.

  Part 1

  Hepton: 1950

  A slow Saturday in May. At the counter of the Moreton Street corner shop, Mabel Cooper read a magazine article about Elizabeth Taylor’s recent wedding. Nicky Hilton looked very handsome, and the writer of the article was sure that Elizabeth had found a love that would last for ever. Mabel was sure of it too.

  Footsteps signalled the presence of customers. Her forced smile became genuine when she saw the pretty young woman who led a little boy by the hand.

  ‘Hello, Anna.’

  ‘Hello, Mrs Cooper. How are you?’

  ‘All the happier for seeing you and Ronnie.’

  ‘Is your sister feeling better?’

  ‘She is, dear. Bless you for asking. And how are you today, Ronnie?’

  Ronnie looked thoughtful. ‘I am very well today, Mrs Cooper,’ he said, speaking slowly and deliberately, as if considering each word before it was uttered. Though not yet five, he had an old-fashioned dignity of manner that Mabel found enchanting. He was the image of his mother. The only difference was in the colour of the eyes. Hers were blue, his grey-green.

  Mabel folded her arms and pretended to frown. ‘Ronnie, what are you to call me?’

  The solemn expression became a smile. ‘Auntie Mabel.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Mabel smiled too. ‘And what can I get you today, Anna?’

  A special look passed between Anna and Ronnie, just as it did every Saturday. Mabel reached under the counter and produced a small notepad and a new pencil. Ronnie’s smile became radiant.

  ‘He’s already filled the last one,’ said Anna, her voice swelling with pride. ‘A different picture on every page and all of them wonderful.’

  ‘Next time you must bring some to show me. Will you do that, Ronnie?’

  ‘Yes, Auntie Mabel.’

  Mabel’s husband Bill appeared from the back room, crumpled after his nap and bringing with him the rich scent of pipe tobacco. ‘Hello, Anna. Hello, Ronnie.’

  ‘Hello, Mr Cooper.’

  ‘Ronnie, what are you to call me?’

  ‘Uncle Bill.’

  Bill handed Ronnie a chocolate bar. Anna looked anxious. ‘I don’t have any coupons.’

  ‘That can be our secret.’ Bill gave Ronnie a conspiratorial wink which he returned.

  ‘You start school next year, Ronnie. Are you excited?’

  ‘Yes, Auntie Mabel.’

  ‘Are you going to work hard and make your mother proud?’

  ‘Yes, Uncle Bill.’

  ‘Good boy.’

  Anna paid for the notepad and pencil. ‘Thank you for the chocolate. You’re both so kind.’

  ‘A pleasure,’ Mabel told her. ‘Take care, dear. Look after your mother, Ronnie.’

  ‘I will, Auntie Mabel. Goodbye, Uncle Bill.’

  ‘Goodbye, Ronnie.’

  ‘Poor girl,’ said Bill once Anna and Ronnie had left. ‘Can’t be easy for her.’

  ‘Especially living with that awful Vera Finnegan.’ Mabel shook her head. ‘I’m just thankful the father wasn’t a Negro. Imagine if Ronnie had been coloured like Elsie Baxter’s friend’s baby. Yesterday Elsie was telling me …’

  ‘You spend too much time gossiping with Elsie Baxter.’

  ‘That’s because it’s more fun than gossiping with you, Mr Keep-your-nose-out-of-other-people’s-business.’ Mabel’s expression became thoughtful. ‘I don’t think Anna would change anything, though. She absolutely adores that boy.’

  ‘He’s a good lad. Mark my words, he’ll make her proud one day.’

  Friday evening. Anna followed the other secretaries out of the typing pool and into the yard of Hodgsons can factory.

  It was full of men, smoking, laughing and radiating the good cheer that came with the end of the working week. Some wolf-whistled as the more attractive secretaries approached. Judy Bates, a lively blonde of eighteen, blew them a kiss. Ellen Hayes, an older secretary, shook her head disapprovingly. Ellen thought Judy the sort of girl who would land herself in trouble. She had once said this to Anna over a cup of tea before realizing to whom she was talking and hastily changing the subject.

  Anna walked with Kate Brennan, a cheerful girl the same age as herself. As they crossed the yard Kate was hailed by Mickey Lee, a machine operator. Kate touched Anna’s arm. ‘Have a nice weekend. Give Ronnie a kiss from me.’

  ‘I will. You have a nice weekend too.’

  Kate hurried towards Mickey, her slim figure giving no indication of the baby she had borne five years ago. An illegitimate girl, fathered by a soldier just as Ronnie had been. The child had been adopted and Kate never talked about her now. Acted as if she had never existed. But sometimes Kate would stare at the tiny picture of Ronnie that Anna kept on her desk and a troubled look would come into her eyes. There for a moment and then gone, replaced by a smile and a joke about nothing in particular.

  As they approached the gate, Anna saw Harry Hopkins, a small, serious man of about thirty. Three years earlier Harry had started taking her out, and after six months had asked her to marry him. Though not in love, she had been fond of Harry and willing to build a future with him. Until that moment when he had said, very gently, that it wasn’t too late to have Ronnie adopted …
/>   Their eyes met as she passed. Each smiled, then looked quickly away.

  Stan stood at the gate, wearing the suit that hung much less comfortably than the overalls he had once worn. He had a minor managerial role now and sat behind a desk all day. Anna knew that he would be happier back on the factory floor but neither hell nor high water could have persuaded Vera to renounce her new status as a manager’s wife.

  Together they passed through the gates and up the road towards Hesketh junction. To the right was Baxter Road and the other narrow streets full of tiny houses with outside toilets, packed in together like sardines. Until last year that would have been their route. Now they turned left, towards Moreton Street and the more prosperous area occupied by the aspiring middle classes of the town.

  Stan told her about the events of his day, trying to make them amusing. He was no comedian but she laughed to make him happy. Five years ago it had been Stan who had supported her decision to keep Ronnie, refusing to throw her out of the house in spite of Vera’s demands. It was the one time she had seen him stand up to his wife.

  They entered Moreton Street: a nondescript road of semi-detached houses, built in the 1930s. Their house was on the right-hand side, backing on to the railway line that carried trains from London to East Anglia. At the corner of the street was a tiny park where a group of boys played football. Nine-year-old Thomas stood by a makeshift goal, talking to Johnny Scott, whose elder brother Jimmy had already been in court for theft. Vera did not approve of the Scotts and Thomas was forbidden to associate with Johnny, but Stan hadn’t noticed them together and Anna was not one to tell tales.

  Half a dozen smaller boys played football in the street. Seven-year-old Peter scored a goal and was congratulated by his teammates. Mabel Cooper stood outside her shop, talking to Emily Hopkins. Mabel gave Anna a cheerful wave. Emily did not. She was Harry’s sister and had opposed his involvement with Anna from the start.

  As she walked on, Anna thought of Kate and Mickey spending their evening watching a Robert Mitchum picture before eating fish and chips on the way home. Hers would be spent making the supper and doing whatever chores Vera decreed.

  But that was how things were. She had made her bed. It could not be unmade now.

  A cry disturbed her thoughts. Ronnie was running down the street, his feet moving so fast they barely touched the ground. His shorts, handed down from Peter, were still too big for him. His socks hung around his ankles. Flinging his arms around her, he began to tell her about his day; words pouring out of him like a torrent so that she could barely make sense of them while Stan stood by, watching them both with a smile.

  As she gazed down at him love consumed her, burning away regret like a blast furnace devouring a sheet of paper.

  On Saturday evening Ronnie knew it was his turn to have a bath.

  Each member of the household had an allocated bath night. Auntie Vera bathed on Monday, Uncle Stan on Tuesday, Thomas on Wednesday, Peter on Thursday, Ronnie’s mother on Friday and Ronnie on Saturday. On Sunday the bath remained empty because even though the house in Moreton Street was bigger than the one they had left in Baxter Road and Uncle Stan was earning more now, Auntie Vera didn’t believe in wasting money on hot water if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.

  There was a red line drawn on the side of the bath. A limit on the level to which it could be filled. Ronnie wished he could fill his bath right to the top but on this, as with everything else in 41 Moreton Street, Auntie Vera’s word was law.

  His mother knelt by the side of the bath, measuring out shampoo. Only half a lidful per head. Yet another rule. ‘Shut your eyes, darling,’ she told him before massaging it into his hair. He lay back in the water while she washed it out, then sat up again.

  ‘Did Ophelia have dirty hair?’ he asked.

  ‘Ophelia?’

  ‘In the picture book.’ One that she had borrowed from the library about famous painters. A man called Millais had painted a girl called Ophelia lying in the water with her hair spread out like a halo. That was the picture he had liked best.

  ‘Probably, but not as dirty as yours.’

  He climbed out of the tub. ‘Who’s a clean boy now?’ she asked, while drying him with a towel.

  ‘I am,’ he replied. Her hands were soft and gentle.

  After he had cleaned his teeth, using the ordained amount of toothpaste, she led him across the hallway to the back bedroom they shared. From downstairs came the sound of Thomas and Peter arguing while Auntie Vera shouted for quiet so she could hear her big band programme on the wireless.

  It was the smallest bedroom in the house, though bigger than the one they had shared in Baxter Road. His mother had a single bed by the door while he had a camp bed by the window that looked out on to the back garden and the ridge that led up to the railway line. Kneeling beside it, he said the prayer she had taught him.

  ‘God bless Mum and Auntie Vera, Uncle Stan, Thomas and Peter. God bless Granny Mary, Grandpa Ronald and Uncle John in heaven. God bless my dad and keep him safe wherever he is. Thank you for my lovely day. Amen.’

  He climbed into bed. She plumped up his pillow. ‘Tell me about our house,’ he said.

  ‘One day, when I’ve saved enough money, I’ll buy us a lovely house of our own. You’ll have a big room and can cover all the walls with your pictures. We’ll have a garden so huge it will take a man a whole day to cut the grass. And you’ll have a dog and …’

  He watched her face. Though she was smiling, her eyes were sad. She worked as a secretary at Uncle Stan’s factory but wasn’t very good. That was what Uncle Stan told Auntie Vera. Sometimes Mrs Tanner, who ran the typing pool, shouted at his mother. Auntie Vera said that his mother was lazy but that wasn’t true. She did her best and one day he would go and shout at Mrs Tanner and see how she liked it.

  ‘When I’m bigger,’ he told her, ‘I’m going to help you with your work.’

  She stroked his cheek. ‘Of course you will.’

  ‘And then, when we’ve got our house, my dad can come and live with us.’

  Momentarily her smile faded. ‘Perhaps. But if he can’t we’ll still be happy, won’t we.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What shall we do tomorrow? Go to the park and play on the swings?’

  ‘I’m going to draw you another picture.’

  ‘I’ll take it to work and hang it on the wall and when people ask who did it I’ll say that it was my son Ronald Sidney and one day he’s going to be a famous artist and everyone in the world will know his name.’

  She bent down to hug him. Her skin smelled of soap and flowers. He hugged her back as hard as he could. Once Peter had twisted his arm to make him say that he wished Auntie Vera was his mother. He had said it but his fingers had been crossed. He wouldn’t change his mother for a hundred Auntie Veras.

  When she had gone he opened the curtains and stared out at the summer evening. It was still light and in the next door garden Mr Jackson sat in a chair, reading the paper. Auntie Vera said Mr Jackson gambled on horses. Auntie Vera thought gambling was bad.

  Soon it would be dark and the moon would slide across the sky. It was just a thin sliver but in time it would grow as fat and round as the apples Mrs Cooper sold in her shop. His mother had taught him about moons and the constellations of stars. Auntie Vera probably thought moons and constellations were bad too.

  A train rattled past, pumping clouds of steam into the air as it left London for the country. It was full of people. A woman saw him at the window and waved. He waved back.

  One day he and his mother would be on that train. His father would come and take them away to a beautiful house of their own, and Auntie Vera and her rules would be left far, far behind.

  April 1951.

  ‘Bastard,’ whispered Peter.

  Ronnie shook his head. The two of them were sitting under the kitchen table playing with Peter’s toy soldiers. Ronnie thought soldiers were boring but none of Peter’s friends was around so he had been dragooned into tak
ing their place.

  ‘It’s true,’ continued Peter. ‘Everyone knows.’

  Ronnie wasn’t sure what a bastard was but he knew it was something bad. More importantly he knew that it meant something bad about his mother, so he stuck out his chin and said, ‘It’s not true.’

  Peter grinned. He had his mother’s heavy build and bad temper. ‘Where’s your father, then?’

  ‘He’s been fighting the war in his plane but he’ll be here soon.’ Ronnie was sure this was true. His mother had told him his father might be in heaven but he didn’t believe that. At Sunday school he had been taught that God was kind and generous. Granny Mary, Grandpa Ronald and Uncle John were already in heaven and Ronnie was sure that a kind and generous God wouldn’t be so greedy.

  ‘The war finished years ago, stupid.’ Peter began to chant under his breath. ‘Stupid bastard Ronnie. Stupid bastard Ronnie.’

  It was five o’clock. Uncle Stan and his mother were still at work. Thomas was upstairs doing his homework and Auntie Vera was in the living room talking to her friend Mrs Brown. When they had lived in Baxter Road they had been allowed to play in the living room because the floor was covered only in a rug. But the new room was carpeted and Auntie Vera was terrified of marks and stains.

  ‘Stupid little cry-baby bastard,’ continued Peter, punching Ronnie on the arm. Peter liked making Ronnie cry. A year ago it had been easy to do but Ronnie was five and a half now and learning to fight back.

  ‘What’s seven times four?’

  Peter looked blank. Ronnie smiled. His mother was teaching him his tables. They had actually gone as far as the six times table but he was keeping that in reserve.

  ‘Maths is for girls,’ Peter told him. Peter who hated school and whose reports made Uncle Stan sigh and Auntie Vera shout.

  ‘It’s twenty-eight. I’m younger than you so who’s stupid now?’ Ronnie began to mimic Peter’s chant. ‘Stupid ugly Peter. Stupid ugly Peter.’

  Peter punched Ronnie even harder than before. ‘Least I’m not a bastard,’ he hissed before sliding from under the table and going out into the garden, inadvertently treading on some of his soldiers as he did so.