Apple of My Eye

by Patrick Redmond

  Well, she’d just better not. That was all.

  Back in his own room he gazed down at his mother. She lay on her side, breathing softly, looking like a princess in a book of fairy tales. A tuft of hair stuck up at an angle. Moistening his fingers, he brushed it down.

  No one was going to hurt her. He would not allow it because she was his mother and he loved her. And she loved him because he was her little Ronnie Sunshine, who made her happy when skies were grey. He was the best boy in the world, she told him, and he made her proud because he was handsome and clever and good.

  But he wasn’t always good. Sometimes he did bad things and was glad to have done them. He wanted her to be glad and praise him, but when he even hinted at them she was shocked because little Ronnie Sunshine never did bad things. Little Ronnie Sunshine didn’t even think bad thoughts.

  And if she knew the things he thought and did she might not be proud any more. She might not love him any more.

  She was smiling in her sleep. Her face was soft and lovely. He imagined it hardening. Growing cold. ‘Go away, Ronald. You’re bad and wicked and I hate you. You’re not my little Ronnie Sunshine any more.’

  Then there would be no one to love him and he would be alone.

  The image terrified him. He burst into tears.

  In her dream it was Christmas morning. She was nine years old and opening her stocking. Her father was smoking a pipe and her mother was telling him how much he looked like Ronald Colman while the family cat miaowed loudly as if complaining about the smell. Her brother John had been given a harmonica and was trying to play ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’ while they all laughed and sang along …

  When she woke the laughter seemed to have followed her. But as her head cleared she realized it was the sound of crying. Ronnie stood beside the bed, shivering in the cold of the room and sobbing as if his heart would break.

  She folded him in her arms, covering his wet cheeks with kisses. ‘It’s all right, Ronnie. Mummy’s here.’ Gently she rocked him, making soothing noises while a train rushed by outside, filling the room with noise and light.

  ‘What was it, darling? A nightmare? Did a dream frighten you?’

  He nodded.

  ‘What did you dream?’

  He opened his mouth, then shut it again, shaking his head.

  ‘You don’t have to tell me. All that matters is that it’s over and I’m here and you’re safe.’ She stroked his hair. His eyes were wide and fearful. She remembered her thoughts in the café and felt ashamed. He was just a baby. He would never willingly hurt anyone.

  ‘Do you want to sleep in my bed? I’ll keep the monsters away. I promise.’

  They lay down. She pulled the blankets over them while he wrapped himself around her. She continued to stroke his hair, humming a lullaby to help him drift back to sleep.

  *

  Monday evening, two weeks later. Ronnie sat on the floor next to his mother’s chair, reading a book. Auntie Vera and Uncle Stan sat together on the sofa in front of the fire.

  The wireless was on. A programme of classical music. ‘Now a symphony from Haydn,’ said the velvet-voiced announcer. Auntie Vera nodded approvingly. Haydn was one of Mrs Brown’s favourites. Uncle Stan, who would have preferred jazz on the other station, tried to look enthusiastic.

  Auntie Vera was wearing a thick jumper. In the past, even when it was really cold, the sleeves would have been pushed up. But not now. As she listened to the music her fingers kept stroking the wool that covered the damaged skin.

  She realized that Ronnie was watching her. Their eyes locked.

  ‘Does it hurt?’ he asked.

  ‘A little.’

  ‘I wish it didn’t.’

  His mother was sewing. Mending one of his shirts. She stroked his hair. He gazed up at her, his face sad. The sort of face she would expect from little Ronnie Sunshine.

  ‘Good boy,’ she whispered.

  He tried to concentrate on the words on the page. But the motion of Auntie Vera’s hand kept disturbing him. Drawing his eyes like moths to the flame.

  *

  Spring 1953.

  Langley Avenue was a terrace of elegant, grey stone houses, built at the turn of the century. The residents of Langley Avenue liked to say it was the best address in Hepton, but when one considered what a dreary place Hepton was, this wasn’t saying much.

  June and Albert Sanderson had moved there forty years earlier when Albert had been an ambitious young lawyer and their two sons only babies. Now both were lawyers themselves with families of their own and Albert, whose health was poor, spent his days expanding his stamp collection and trying to guess the culprit in detective novels.

  Up until six months ago old Doris Clark had been their cleaner, coming every Saturday to work her magic on their over-cluttered home. When Doris announced her retirement, an acquaintance called Sarah Brown had suggested a possible replacement. A young woman called Anna who had no husband, a small son to support and the need to earn more money.

  On this particular Saturday June sat in her kitchen, writing a letter to her cousin, Barbara. Anna sat beside her, polishing the silverware.

  June finished writing and rose to her feet, trying to stretch the arthritis from her hand. ‘Some tea,’ she announced.

  ‘I’ll make it,’ said Anna.

  ‘Don’t you worry. I’m up now.’ June filled the kettle and put it on the stove. From the living room Ivor Novello’s voice harmonized with Albert’s snores. Anna carried on polishing, doing a thorough job. She was a good worker. A good person too. Always willing to listen to an elderly couple who missed their sons and often had only each other and the wireless for company. June felt lucky to have found her.

  ‘How is Stan?’ she asked. ‘Is his cold better?’

  ‘Much better, thank you.’

  ‘And Vera? How is she?’

  ‘Well too.’ Anna’s eyes remained on the silverware. Though she rarely talked about her life in Moreton Street, June was perceptive enough to sense that it was not easy. Sarah Brown had told her that Vera was a dreadful snob who was not pleased to have a relative working part time as a cleaner, and June had thought to herself that it took one to know one.

  The kettle boiled. She filled three cups, poured lemon squash into a glass and covered a plate with biscuits. ‘Come through, dear,’ she told Anna. ‘You’ve earned a break.’

  On entering the living room she cleared her throat. Albert’s eyes opened. ‘Not asleep,’ he said hastily. ‘Was I, Ronnie?’

  Ronnie shook his head. He was sitting at a table by the window, drawing on a pad. Anna often brought him with her, apologizing profusely for doing so, but he was always as good as gold. June’s neighbour, Penelope Walsh, had said that she would never employ a cleaner who had an illegitimate child, but June refused to condemn someone for what was nothing more than simple human frailty.

  She gave Ronnie his squash and offered him the biscuit plate, urging him to take two. ‘Thank you very much, Mrs Sanderson,’ he said. His manners were beautiful. A real credit to his mother. On the pad was a drawing of ships at sea. For a boy of not quite eight it was remarkably good.

  ‘That’s wonderful, Ronnie,’ she told him.

  ‘It’s for you.’

  ‘What a lovely present. Isn’t it good, Albert?’

  Albert nodded. ‘You’ve got a talented boy there,’ he told Anna, whose face lit up with pleasure, making her look like a child herself.

  Ronnie sat beside his mother. She put her arm around him while Albert told them about the television set they were buying so they could watch the Queen’s coronation. Ronnie said that the parents of a boy in his class called Archie Clark had just bought one but had no idea how to work it.

  Anna smiled down at Ronnie, her eyes full of uncomplicated love. Once, during a rare exchange of confidences, she had told June that she had promised to buy Ronnie a big house of their own in the country. Perhaps she would, but it was hard to see how on her meagre wages.

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p; June wished she could do something to help. But there was nothing.

  Summer 1953.

  ‘… always polite and attentive. Ronnie learns his lessons well.’

  *

  October 7th 1953. The evening Thomas didn’t come home.

  At first no one was worried. As they sat down to supper Auntie Vera was more angry than anything. ‘What a waste of good food! He’ll feel the rough side of my tongue when he decides to show his face.’

  But by the end of the meal her mood had changed. Anger replaced by apprehension. Such behaviour was out of character for Thomas. ‘He’ll be with that no-good Johnny Scott. Peter, go round to their house and fetch him.’ Peter did as he was told and returned with the news that none of the Scotts had any idea of Thomas’s whereabouts.

  Time passed. Other friends were visited and all gave the same answer. Auntie Vera’s anxiety increased. Uncle Stan tried to calm her. ‘He’ll be all right. He’s not a baby.’ It didn’t work. ‘He’s only twelve! He shouldn’t be out this late. Not without telling us. God, where can he be?’

  Anna suggested calling the police. Auntie Vera began to panic. ‘You think something bad’s happened to him, don’t you? Don’t you!’ Ronnie’s mother denied it. Said that it was only a precaution. Ronnie sat with Peter, watching the scene, their respective bedtimes forgotten in the atmosphere of rising dread.

  The rest of the evening was a blur. The house filled with people. Mrs Brown and her husband. The Jacksons from next door. Neighbours from Baxter Road they had barely seen since moving. The air was full of anxious voices, Auntie Vera’s increasingly shrill. The clock above the fireplace ticked away, oblivious. Ten o’clock. Eleven. Midnight.

  The police arrived. Questions were asked. Notes taken. One of them advised Auntie Vera to get some rest. She screamed at him. Called him an idiot. ‘How can I sleep when my child’s missing?’ All the while she kept rubbing her left arm with her hand, not seeming to care that the sleeve of her blouse had slid up and the damaged skin was visible to all.

  At last the house emptied. The five occupants were left alone. Stan and Auntie Vera sat by the fire, holding hands, telling each other to be brave in voices that dripped with fear. Peter crouched at their feet while Ronnie sat on his mother’s knee. ‘You should be in bed,’ she whispered. He shook his head and she did not force the issue.

  Eventually he slept and dreamed that the police returned, saying that Thomas had been found safe and well before leading in a skeleton dressed in Thomas’s Sunday best. When he woke it was nearly dawn. Everyone was sleeping except Auntie Vera, who was rubbing her damaged arm while tears rolled down her cheeks.

  At first he just watched her. ‘Don’t cry,’ he said eventually.

  ‘I can’t help it. This is unbearable. The worst thing that could happen.’

  ‘Worse than your arm?’

  ‘Much worse.’

  He leant forward. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because that happened to me. I was the one who was hurt. Now Thomas might be hurt.’ She began to sob. ‘He might be dead and there’s nothing I can do. That’s the worst pain in the world. When something bad happens to someone you love. It hurts far more than my arm ever did.’

  ‘But …’

  She wiped her cheeks. ‘Go to sleep, Ronnie. I don’t want to talk any more.’

  Obedient as always, he closed his eyes.

  October 9th. Mrs Jennings watched the third years pray for the safe return of Thomas Finnegan in the same classroom where five years earlier Thomas himself had sat.

  There was still no news. Though Thomas had never been one of her favourite pupils, Mrs Jennings dreaded the thought of harm befalling him and raised her own prayer that it would turn out to be youthful misadventure and not something far worse.

  A soft giggle disturbed her thoughts. Naughty Alan Deakins, the class troublemaker, was making faces at his friends, Robert Bates and Stuart Hooper. Mrs Jennings glared at them and three pairs of eyes quickly closed. Now all but two of the class had their eyes shut.

  Pretty Catherine Meadows in the front row kept looking anxiously at Ronnie Sidney. Catherine had a childish crush on Ronnie and was clearly upset for him.

  And Ronnie himself, next to little Archie Clark in the second row, stared in front of him, his brows knotted as if weighed down by the thoughts that whirred inside his head. Mrs Jennings liked Ronnie. He was a good boy; polite, hard working and bright. Imaginative too. Sufficiently so to be afraid for the well-being of his cousin Thomas.

  She tried to catch his eye, give him a sympathetic smile. But he remained lost in his own thoughts and did not notice.

  October 10th. Thomas came home.

  He had been with Harry Fisher, an older boy and regular truant who attended another school in the area. Harry’s mother was dead; his father a habitual drunk who had gone away for a week, leaving Harry to look after himself. But Harry had had other ideas; stealing some of his father’s savings, intending to have a few days’ fun in the West End and wanting someone to keep him company. Thomas, impressionable and easily led, had been the one he had chosen.

  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.
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  ‘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?’