Apple of My Eye

by Patrick Redmond

  ‘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.

  She had to leave here. Take Ronnie and move away. But where would she go? What would she do? She had no brains or talent. She could not earn enough to keep them both. Not without Stan and Vera’s help.

  She heard footsteps. Ronnie stood in the doorway, watching her with anxious eyes. In his hand was a piece of bread and jam. As she looked at him she knew Vera was right. She should have had him adopted. Given him a decent start in life. Not kept him with her because she was too weak to go on being alone.

  Self-disgust overwhelmed her. She burst into tears.

  He ran towards her. Threw his arms around her neck. ‘Don’t cry, Mum. Please.’

  ‘Oh, Ronnie …’

  They stayed like that for some time. Not saying anything. Rocking backwards and forwards with him sitting on her knee so that to an outside observer it might seem that she was the one offering comfort.

  Her tears slowed. She wiped her eyes. ‘Don’t mind me. I’m just being silly.’

  He touched her ring. ‘You were thinking about Granny Mary, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You miss her. And Grandpa Ronald and Uncle John. You wish they were here.’

  She nodded.

  ‘I don’t want to be adopted, Mum. Don’t make me be adopted.’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Promise.’

  ‘Cross your heart and hope to die?’

  ‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’

  He rested his head against her chest. She stroked his hair. ‘I’m sorry, Ronnie.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘That you only have me.’

  ‘My dad will come soon and then I’ll have him too.’

  ‘He isn’t going to come, Ronnie.’

  ‘Yes he is, and then …’

  She cupped his face in her hands. Stared down at him. ‘Ronnie, you must listen to me. Your father isn’t going to come. Not ever. I’d give anything for that not to be true, but it is. We only have each other.’

  His eyes became troubled. He looked much older suddenly; like the little man he tried so hard to be. She felt ashamed. Wished she had allowed him to hang on to his dream.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mum,’ he said eventually. ‘We’ll be all right. I’ll look after you. I promise.’

  Then he began to sing. ‘You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are grey.’ His voice was high and off key. A wave of love swept over her. So powerful she thought her heart would burst.

  ‘Shall I tell you a secret, Ronnie? Whenever I feel sad I tell myself that I’m the luckiest person in the world because I have the best son in the world. Handsome, clever and good. And I promise that one day I’ll make you as proud of me as I am of you.’

  The piece of bread lay next to them on the bed. He offered it to her. Though not hungry, she ate to make him happy.

  Tuesday evening. Anna walked along Moreton Street.

  It was half past seven. She had been working late. An attempt to make amends for the disaster of the previous week.

  Stan walked beside her. He had been for a pint with a couple of friends from the factory, though judging by his unsteady gait he had drunk considerably more than that. Though Vera was no mean drinker herself, she could be very moralistic when confronted with an intoxicated Stan. Anna considered taking him to the café on the High Street for a coffee but decided against it. Vera was making supper that night and their lives would not be worth living if they were late.

  It was dark. The street was empty except for Vera’s friend Mrs Brown, walking arm in arm with her deputy bank manager husband, wearing fake pearls and high heels that threatened to buckle under her ample frame. Out to dinner perhaps, at that new restaurant in the High Street. The Browns ate out regularly. Vera was always on at Stan to take her to restaurants and he would complain that it cost too much.

  They exchanged brief pleasantries on passing. Mrs Brown, registering Stan’s drunken state, gave a smile that merged amusement with contempt. Anna felt Mr Brown’s eyes crawl all over her. The previous December, at Stan and Vera’s Christmas party, he had cornered her in the kitchen and suggested that he take her out for a ride in his new car as she was a girl who clearly liked a bit of fun. She had declined and he had never mentioned it again, but even now she couldn’t see him without feeling the need to go and wash.

  They moved on towards number 41. The lights were on. Thomas sat in his bedroom window, struggling with his homework. He gave them a wave. She waved back while Stan reached for his key. He unlocked the door. She entered first.

  And heard the scream.

  It came from the kitchen. High and shrill. A mixture of fear and terrible pain.

  She ran, followed by Stan. Vera lay on the floor, the chip pan beside her. Boiling fat oozed across the floor. The air was full of the sickly smell of burnt flesh.

  Stan, befuddled with drink, looked too shocked to act. Anna took charge. ‘Go to the Jacksons. Use their phone to call an ambulance. Now!’ He turned and ran while she crouched down, pulling Vera to safety.

  Thomas appeared, followed by Peter and Ronnie. ‘Keep away,’ Anna told them. Vera, already whimpering, was starting to tremble. Shock was setting in. ‘One of you fetch me a blanket. Quickly!’

  As she waited she comforted Vera, making soothing noises and trying not to look at the damaged flesh on the left arm. Instead her eyes settled on Peter’s roller skate, partly covered by the pan as if attempting to hide its guilt.

  Anna sat on Vera’s bed, changing the dressing on her arm.

  She tugged a little harder than she had intended. Vera winced. ‘Careful!’

  ‘Sorry.’

&
nbsp; ‘You’re not as bad as that bloody nurse. Where did they train you? I asked her. Belsen?’ Vera laughed at her own joke but it did little to lift the grey pallor of her face. The painkillers didn’t seem to be helping. Stan had told Anna that she regularly woke in the night in pain.

  Peter appeared in the doorway. ‘Are you all right, Mum?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘Yes.’ Vera’s tone was curt.

  ‘Are you really? Do you promise?’

  ‘I’ve said so, haven’t I? Now go away.’

  Peter did as he was told. Anna finished. ‘All done. Sorry if I hurt you.’

  ‘You didn’t mean to. Anyway, better you than Stan.’ Another laugh. ‘If he were doing this I’d be screaming the whole street down. Useless bloody man.’

  ‘Peter didn’t mean to hurt you either.’

  Vera’s mouth tightened. ‘I’m always telling him to put his things away. If only he’d listened …’

  ‘But he was so upset, and …’

  ‘His being upset doesn’t do me much good, does it?’

  ‘I know, but …’

  ‘When I was at school there was a girl in my class with burn scars. They were on the side of her head so the hair didn’t grow properly. We used to call her Scarecrow. We made her cry and she’d tell us that one day the scars would fade and her hair would grow and she’d be more beautiful than any of us. Poor little cow.’

  During the nine years they had lived together, Anna had seen many emotions reflected in Vera’s eyes. But never, until this moment, had she seen fear. As she saw it she experienced a feeling that was just as new. Pity.

  ‘It will fade, Vera. Give it time.’

  ‘I was lucky, really. It’s only my arm. Imagine if it had been my face, like Scarecrow.’

  Silence. In the street outside two young men laughed as they walked by.

  ‘I will forgive him,’ said Vera eventually. ‘What else can I do? He won’t be mine for ever. What was it my mother used to say? A son is a son till he takes a wife. One day some girl will take him away from me just as another will take Thomas, and then all I’ll have is Stan, God help me.’

  ‘I’ll always have Ronnie.’

  ‘Will you?’

  Anna pictured Ronnie as an adult. Handsome and clever. Talented and charming. Someone countless girls would love. Someone who would no longer have any need for her.

  Suddenly she was thirteen again. Standing in front of the wreckage of her home. Tasting the dust in her mouth. Feeling the emptiness inside.

  They stared at each other. Old enmities temporarily forgotten in a moment of shared dread.

  ‘Perhaps you will. Ronnie’s a good boy.’ A trace of bitterness crept into Vera’s voice. ‘One thing’s certain. He’ll make you prouder than my two will make me.’

  ‘I’d better start supper. The others will be getting hungry.’

  Vera nodded. Anna made her way downstairs.

  Sometimes, as a treat, Anna took Ronnie to the Amalfi café on the High Street.

  The café was owned by the Luca family, who had emigrated to England from Naples. Mrs Luca made wonderful cakes that were displayed in a big cabinet on the counter, but in spite of Anna’s urgings to be adventurous Ronnie always chose a jam tart washed down by a bottle of lemonade.

  They sat at a table by the window. Ronnie ate the pastry, leaving the jam until last. ‘Wouldn’t it be nicer to eat them together?’ Anna suggested. He didn’t bother to answer. She remembered her parents once giving her brother and herself the same advice and receiving an identical response.

  ‘Queen Elizabeth is going to be crowned, isn’t she?’ he asked between mouthfuls.

  She nodded. The papers had been discussing preparations for the following year’s coronation. Stan had been talking about it at breakfast.

  ‘When she’s crowned will she be called the Virgin Queen?’

  She thought of Prince Charles and Princess Anne. ‘I don’t think so, darling.’

  ‘Why not?’

  She felt herself blush. ‘Finish your tart,’ she told him. A man at the next table overheard the exchange and gave her an amused smile.

  The café was crowded. At a nearby table a girl of about Ronnie’s age devoured an ice cream sundae, watched by a well-dressed couple who were presumably her parents. The girl waved to Ronnie. ‘Do you know her?’ Anna asked.

  ‘That’s Catherine Meadows.’

  ‘Is she in your class?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is she your friend?’

  ‘S’pose so.’

  ‘As good a friend as Archie?’

  A shrug. Ronnie carried on eating. His new form teacher had told her that Ronnie was popular enough with his classmates but he had yet to make any close friends. He had been for tea at Archie Clark’s house but shown no particular desire to return the favour. In a way that was a blessing. Vera was always complaining about Peter and Thomas’s friends, and to suggest entertaining some of Ronnie’s would be like showing a red rag to a bull.

  As she sipped her tea she thought of Peter. Stan had given him a thrashing and Vera had been very cold towards him, though she was warming now.

  But it could have been so much worse. A scarred arm was better than a scarred face.

  She shivered. Ronnie frowned. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I was thinking of Auntie Vera.’

  ‘You feel sorry for her, don’t you?’

  She nodded. Her friend Kate walked past outside, arm in arm with Mickey Lee. Kate was marrying Mickey in two weeks’ time. Both gave her a wave.

  ‘Why?’

  For a moment she didn’t register what he’d said. When she did she put down her cup.

  ‘Why? Ronnie, what a question.’

  He stared at her, his eyes solemn.

  ‘Don’t you feel sorry for her?’

  Silence. The eyes, unblinking, bored into hers as if searching for something.

  ‘Ronnie?’

  ‘She’s horrid to you. She made you cry.’

  ‘No she didn’t. I was just being silly. I told you.’

  ‘She wanted me to be adopted.’

  ‘She was just angry. She didn’t mean it.’

  ‘Yes she did.’

  Again she thought of Peter. In the aftermath of the accident he had insisted that he had put his roller skates away. That someone else must have left them there. Thomas perhaps. Or Ronnie.

  But that was ridiculous. Ronnie had no interest in roller skating. He would never have left them lying around in such a dangerous place.

  Unless he had done so deliberately.

  Something stirred in her head. Threads of a memory buried deep in the dark side of her mind. A conversation betweeen Ronnie and herself over a story book.

  ‘Jemima’s only got one wish left. What would you wish for if you were her?’

  ‘That Auntie Vera was in heaven.’

  An image crept into her brain. Ronnie standing by the kitchen door. Watching Vera. Waiting for her back to be turned. Carefully picking his moment …

  She pushed it away as if it were diseased, erecting mental barriers to prevent it from ever entering again. How could she think that of her own child? Her darling. Her little Ronnie Sunshine.

  The only person in the world she had to love.

  Someone called Ronnie’s name. Catherine Meadows was leaving. She gave Ronnie another wave. This time he responded. Catherine smiled. She was a pretty girl who promised to be an even prettier woman. The sort of woman who might one day steal Ronnie away.

  ‘You’re teasing me, aren’t you, Ronnie. You’re sorry for Auntie Vera really, aren’t you.’ Her tone was declamatory rather than questioning.

  He blinked. For a moment his eyes were troubled. Shame, perhaps.

  ‘Yes, Mum.’

  And he meant it. Of course he did. She knew it.

  He took another sip of his drink. Bubbles went up his nose and he began to splutter. Everyone looked over. ‘Hey, Ronnie, you wan’ everyone think I poison you?’ cried Mr Luca from
behind the corner. She wiped his mouth with her handkerchief and both began to laugh.

  Midnight: 41 Moreton Street was still, except for Ronnie, who made his way along the upstairs hallway towards the last door on the left.

  The door was closed. He turned the handle and pushed it open. Only a foot. No more, as it would squeak. He had tested it that afternoon while everyone else was downstairs. But it was enough for him to enter.

  A double bed stood in the centre of the room. Uncle Stan slept on the right-hand side, Auntie Vera on the left. Though the room was in darkness the curtains were flimsy and the street light provided illumination.

  He crept towards Auntie Vera, treading carefully to avoid the creaking floorboard near the window and trying not to shiver. It was cold and he wasn’t wearing his dressing gown. If they woke he would pretend to be sleepwalking. Thomas had been prone to sleepwalking when Ronnie’s age. Ronnie had heard Auntie Vera telling Mrs Brown about it.

  Auntie Vera lay on her back, her mouth open, her breathing a dull rasp as opposed to Uncle Stan’s thunderous snore. Her right arm lay across her chest. But it wasn’t her right arm he was interested in.

  Gently he lifted the quilt and blankets. The left arm lay by her side. It was no longer bandaged. The light wasn’t brilliant but sufficient for him to make out the damaged skin. He stretched out his fingers, wanting to touch it but holding back for fear of waking her. Seeing it was enough. To know that it existed.

  Many children in his class had roller skates. Sally Smith’s grandmother had tripped on one and broken her ankle. Sally had told them in class and a half-formed idea had suddenly taken shape. A broken ankle would have been good. But a scarred arm was even better.

  His mother said that Auntie Vera didn’t mean to be unkind. That she was a nice person really. But he didn’t believe her. Auntie Vera thought his mother was stupid. Auntie Vera liked making his mother cry. Auntie Vera wanted his mother to have him adopted and sent away to strangers so they would never see each other again.

  But he would never leave his mother. One day, in spite of what she said, his father would come and take care of them both, but until that day it was his job to take care of her. And Auntie Vera had better not try and have him sent away because if she did …