Ronnie remained where he was, rubbing his arm, while in the living room Auntie Vera laughed at something Mrs Brown had said. The soldiers lay scattered. They were kept in a tin box. Auntie Vera did not allow toys to be left lying out so he began to put them away.
Peter’s favourite soldier was a Napoleonic grenadier. It was lucky for Peter that it had not been broken in the scuffle. But Peter didn’t know that so Ronnie snapped it in two before closing the lid.
Auntie Vera’s hobby was reading. ‘I love Dickens and those wonderful Bronte sisters,’ she announced to her new friends in Moreton Street. Perhaps she did, but Ronnie’s mother told him that Auntie Vera much preferred the cheap romance novels with shiny covers that Uncle Stan brought her from Boots and which she hid in a kitchen drawer when any of her new friends came to visit.
But Auntie Vera’s real hobby was shouting. When in a bad mood, which was most of the time, any family member was fair game, but because Ronnie was alone with Auntie Vera when the others were at work or school he was the one she shouted at most.
It wasn’t easy being alone with Auntie Vera. Of all the rules he had to live by, the most important was that when in Auntie Vera’s care he was not to bother her with anything. Instead he was to play silently in his room or in the garden. At noon she would leave him a sandwich and a glass of milk on the kitchen table and he had to eat and drink in silence too before washing his plate and cup in the sink and returning to his solitary games.
When Auntie Vera had guests Ronnie was under strict instructions to stay in his room, but on this particular afternoon thirst drove him downstairs. The kitchen could only be reached through the living room. Auntie Vera was sitting on the sofa, drinking tea with Mrs Brown. She was wearing a short sleeved blouse, revealing arms that were fleshy and covered in freckles. ‘What is it, Ronnie?’ she asked, adopting an exaggerated smile and speaking in the careful, clipped voice she always used when one of her new friends was visiting.
‘Please may I have a drink of water?’
‘Of course you may.’ Auntie Vera gestured towards the kitchen.
Mrs Brown put down her teacup. ‘How are you, Ronnie?’
‘Very well, thank you, Mrs Brown.’
She offered him her cheek. He brushed it with his lips, holding his breath to avoid the smell of stale perfume. She was older than Auntie Vera and buried her wrinkles beneath heavy make-up. Her husband was a deputy bank manager and she lived on the other side of the street where the houses were bigger and the noise of the trains less intrusive. Auntie Vera was proud to have a deputy bank manager’s wife as a friend.
As he filled his cup, he heard them discuss him.
‘Nice manners,’ said Mrs Brown.
‘I insist on them. After all, manners maketh man.’
‘Nice looking too. Takes after his mother.’
‘As long as he doesn’t take after her in brains and morals.’
He gulped down his water. Mrs Brown was smoking a cigarette. Auntie Vera did not like the smell of cigarettes and Uncle Stan had to smoke in the garden even if it was raining. But Uncle Stan was not the wife of a deputy bank manager.
‘She’s lucky to have relatives as understanding as you and Stan. My cousin’s daughter fell pregnant to a soldier and he threw her out of the house.’
‘Stan wanted to do the same but I wouldn’t let him. After all, she is family.’
‘You’re a good woman, Vera Finnegan.’
‘I try to be.’
‘Perhaps she’ll get married one day.’
‘I doubt it. There aren’t many men who’d want to raise another man’s bastard.’
Ronnie rinsed his mug and put it back in the cupboard. Mrs Brown said that she had to leave. Auntie Vera said that she was going to treat herself to another chapter of a book by someone called Jane Austen.
Back in his room he opened the drawer of his mother’s bedside table and took out the photograph she kept there. A tiny black-and-white snapshot of a man in a pilot’s uniform. A man with a strong jaw, a handsome face and a birthmark on his neck. His father.
His mother told him that he was her sunshine. Her little Ronnie Sunshine who made her happy when skies were grey. He wanted her to be happy always but sometimes, in spite of her smiles, he knew that she was sad. He wished his father were here to help make her happy. He hated it when she was sad.
The front door closed with a bang. Mrs Brown had left and Auntie Vera was summoning him downstairs. The clipped tone was gone now. Her voice was harsh and angry.
Before obeying, he stared out of the window. Above the railway line the sky was a beautiful blue. In his head he saw his father, sitting in a shining plane, carrying bombs to drop on Auntie Vera’s head.
September. In a crowded classroom, Miss Sims studied the rows of five-year-olds and indulged in the game she played at the start of each school year.
In time these children would face an eleven-plus examination that would determine whether they finished their schooling in the grammar or secondary modern system. The former offered a bright child the chance of qualifications, university entrance and exciting new horizons. The latter gave the less academically gifted vocational training and a more modest career path. Though she knew little of each child’s aptitude, still Miss Sims liked to look into their faces and try to predict the route each would follow.
Pretty Catherine Meadows in the front row was discounted. Catherine’s father was a stockbroker and could afford a private education for his daughter.
Alan Deakins whispered to his neighbour in the back row, his eyes alive with mischief. An intelligent but impish face. The class troublemaker who might have grammar school potential but not the requisite application.
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.’
Apple of My Eye Page 3