Apple of My Eye

by Patrick Redmond

  ‘I’ve got a late start this morning,’ Mr Bishop explained. ‘So I’m saving my wife a job by taking Susie to school.’

  ‘How is your mother, Susie?’

  ‘Fine, thank you.’

  ‘Give her my love, won’t you.’

  Again Susan nodded. She looked tired. As if she had slept badly. Excitement at the holidays, probably. Warner started licking her face. Mr Bishop looked amused. ‘You’ve got a friend there, Susie.’

  ‘Typical male,’ joked Edith. ‘A sucker for a pretty face.’

  Mr Bishop pretended to frown. ‘Pretty?’

  ‘Beautiful.’

  ‘Absolutely. The most beautiful girl in the world. That’s my Susie.’ He looked at his watch. ‘We must be off. Goodbye, Warner. Be good for your mistress.’

  The two of them walked away. Edith watched them go. On her right was the dress shop that had once been John Ramsey’s photographic studio. Poor John. A good man with a kind heart, a lively wit and a smile that could light up a cathedral. A man she had always liked and still missed.

  Though not as much as if she had been his daughter.

  But times changed. Susan had a new father now. A good man too, by all accounts. A new home. A new life. Was it enough to ease the pain?

  She hoped so.

  ‘Goodbye, Susie.’

  Susan turned. For a split second her eyes seemed troubled. Frightened even.

  But the sun was bright and she could have been mistaken.

  Then came the smile. As big and as warming as her father’s had been. And the wave that followed was warming too.

  *

  Little Susie Sparkle, all peaches and cream.

  Little Susie Sparkle, sugar and spice and all things nice.

  Little Susie Sparkle, hiding her wickedness behind a smile.

  Little Susie Sparkle …

  Part 3

  Hepton

  23 June 1959

  Dear Mum,

  Thanks for your letter. Sorry to be slow replying but at last the exams are over. We got three results today. I came top in Maths (88%), third in English (80%) and fourth in French (76%). Mr Cadman said that I’m getting the Maths prize. Hopefully I’ll get History too and I’ll definitely get Art. Archie did well but I don’t think he’ll win any prizes. One boy called Neville Jepps was thrown out of the Latin exam for cheating. Mr Bertrand stopped the exam and made a speech about how grammar school boys never cheat which was a joke as half the class were hiding crib sheets!

  All is well here. Peter now prefers Eddie Cochrane to Little Richard but still thinks that the day Elvis went into the army was the worst day of his life. Yesterday I told him that Elvis had been shot by an escaped Nazi and he got really upset! Thomas has a new girlfriend called Sandra who works in a shoe shop on the High Street and is very boring. She came for tea at the weekend and spent so long telling us about different types of heels that Uncle Stan went to sleep! Auntie Vera is doing a correspondence course on English literature. It’s the same one Mrs Brown is doing. Last week she showed Mrs Brown her first essay. I don’t know what Mrs Brown said but when she’d gone Auntie Vera put it in the bin! Uncle Stan was off work with a bad back but is better now.

  Auntie Mabel said that I could help her and Uncle Bill in the shop over the summer and earn some money. I haven’t been able to cut the grass for the Sandersons because it’s been raining so much but I’ll do it as soon as the weather is better.

  That’s all for now. I’m missing you but everything is fine so don’t worry about me.

  Lots of love

  Ronnie Sunshine

  P.S. The father of a boy in my class says that Mr Brown is having an affair with his secretary. This is classified information!

  Kendleton

  28 June 1959

  Darling Ronnie,

  Thank you for your letter. I was THRILLED with your exam results and have been boasting to everyone who will listen about what a brilliant son I have. The poor women in the post office must be sick of the sight of me by now! Mrs Pembroke was very impressed and one of the ten shilling notes enclosed is from her. The other one is of course from me.

  I’m sorry that the weather has been so bad and hope that it improves in time for your holidays. It is sunny and warm here and I have been for some lovely walks in the woods. The bluebells are long gone, sadly, but there are many other wild flowers and the countryside is full of colour. I wish you could see it and am sure that one day you will.

  This afternoon Mrs Hammond from next door came for tea. We sat out in the garden and watched the boats. The river is full of them and Mr Logan, the lock-keeper, said that he’s never known a summer so busy. Mrs Hammond was telling us about her sons, Henry and Arthur, who go to boarding school in Yorkshire. I think I may have mentioned them before – Arthur is only a month younger than you. They have just had exams too and done well by the sound of it, though nowhere near as well as someone else I could name! I don’t think Mrs Hammond was very pleased to have me there – she’s an even bigger snob than Mrs Brown – but Mrs Pembroke is very kind and insists that I be included in everything.

  I hope that things really are well at home. You know you can tell me if they’re not. I do worry about you, my darling, even though you tell me not to. Never an hour goes past without me thinking about you, wondering what you’re doing and wishing we were together.

  Counting the days until my next visit.

  All my love

  Mum

  P.S. I cannot understand why any woman would want to have an affair with Mr Brown. This is classified information too!!!

  July. Summer had arrived in Hepton and heat covered Moreton Street like a blanket. In the front bedroom he shared with Peter, Ronnie sat by the window finishing his homework.

  It wasn’t easy. Peter lay on his bed, singing along to an Eddie Cochrane record. They had shared for three years, ever since Thomas had demanded a room of his own, and Peter’s greatest delight was disturbing Ronnie’s work.

  The window was open. A group of small boys played cricket in the street, using an old crate as a wicket. ‘I’m Freddie Trueman,’ shouted the bowler, hurling the ball at the head of the batsman, who ducked to avoid concussion while a woman bellowed at them to keep the noise down.

  It was quarter to six. The end of the working day. Stan and Thomas approached the house. Thomas, nearly eighteen and as tall, thin and asthmatic as his father, had worked in the factory since leaving school. The two of them stopped to chat with a neighbour, Stan puffing on the cigarette he was forbidden from smoking in the house.

  Ronnie’s eyes returned to the essay he was writing. An account of the unification of Italy. Textbooks covered the desk. The history prize had yet to be awarded and he had no intention of falling at the last hurdle.

  The record ended. Peter put it on again then went to study himself in the mirror on the inside of the wardrobe. Just sixteen, he had his father’s height and mother’s heavy build. His dark hair, worn in a lavish quiff, shone with Brylcreem. Picking up a dumb-bell, he worked on his biceps, admiring the powerful physique his white vest revealed. His half of the room was covered with pictures of singers and bodybuilders. Ronnie’s was decorated with his own drawings. In the first months of sharing Peter had enjoyed defacing them and it was not until Ronnie had ‘accidentally’ smashed Peter’s favourite record that a truce had been called.

  Eddie Cochrane sang about the Summertime Blues. Ronnie had them now, trying to concentrate. Putting his essay to one side he began to reread his mother’s most recent letter. Peter noticed what he was doing. ‘And what does Mummy say?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘Is she proud of her little Ronnie?’

  ‘At least I give my mother something to be proud of.’

  Peter, about to join his father and brother in the factory, adopted a sneer. ‘What? Some stupid prizes. They won’t get you anywhere in the real world.’

  ‘They’ll get me farther than big muscles and greasy hair will get yo
u.’

  ‘I’ll do better in life than you.’

  ‘Of course. Soon you’ll be the new Charles Atlas. You’ve certainly got the brains.’

  ‘Least I’m not queer. Only queers like art.’

  Ronnie continued reading. Peter, denied a reaction, resumed work on his biceps.

  Five minutes passed. Ronnie stared out of the window. Thomas was saying goodbye to the neighbour while Stan finished his cigarette.

  ‘Looking for your dad, Ronnie? He’s never coming. He doesn’t even know you exist.’

  Ronnie’s eyes remained fixed on the street. The cricket game was breaking up amid accusations of cheating.

  ‘And even if he did he wouldn’t come. Who’d want some bastard queer as a son?’

  ‘He’d be prouder of me than he would of you.’

  ‘Least I know where my father is and that he wanted me. Two things you’ll never know.’

  The front door opened. Stan called out a greeting. ‘Hello, Dad,’ yelled Peter, placing emphasis on the second word. ‘So win all the prizes you can, little Ronnie, but you’ll still be the bastard queer of a stupid slut and a squaddie who was too drunk to remember her name.’ Then he left the room.

  Ronnie remained at his desk. To his left was a small photograph of his mother. He took it out of its frame to see the even tinier snapshot of his father hidden behind. His parents. A stupid slut and a drunken squaddie. Peter had Vera and Stan. A mother who didn’t work miles away and a father who had always been there.

  But he knew which set he would have chosen.

  After kissing both pictures he continued with his work.

  There were five for supper that evening: Peter’s girlfriend Jane, a redhead of fifteen with a large bust and a taste for tight tops, took the place of Thomas, who was out with Sandra.

  Vera served sausages and chips. Two sausages per person. Peter complained that it wasn’t enough and Vera told him they weren’t made of money.

  ‘We are when it suits you. The Browns had steak when they came last week.’

  ‘They were our guests.’

  ‘Jane’s a guest, too.’

  Vera frowned. Her heavy face now played host to a double chin. ‘Your guest, Peter, and when you’re contributing to the family budget you can give her steak.’

  ‘In the meantime I’ll have his chips,’ said Jane, spearing some with her fork. Vera’s frown intensified. Vera did not like Jane.

  ‘I’ll be contributing soon enough, unlike someone else I could mention.’

  ‘My mother contributes for me,’ said Ronnie. ‘And when I’m helping in the shop I can contribute too.’

  ‘What are the Coopers paying you?’ asked Vera.

  He told her. Immediately she claimed the lion’s share for housekeeping. ‘That’s a bit steep, Vera,’ said Stan. ‘Leave him something to spend.’

  ‘It’s perfectly reasonable. Do you know what it costs to keep him over the holidays?’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ said Ronnie, who was being paid more than he’d said.

  ‘How’s your mother?’ asked Stan. ‘I saw you got a letter today.’

  ‘Fine, thanks.’

  ‘I should think so,’ observed Vera. ‘Cushy job like that.’

  Ronnie swallowed a mouthful of sausage. Overcooked, as Vera’s food generally was. ‘It’s not cushy. She works hard.’

  Peter nodded. ‘It’s tough being a skivvy.’

  ‘She’s not a skivvy. She’s a companion.’

  Vera snorted. ‘That’s not a real job.’

  ‘Yes it is. And she does it well. Mrs Pembroke thinks the world of her.’

  ‘Well, your mother would say that, wouldn’t she?’

  ‘Actually Mrs Sanderson said it and she’s Mrs Pembroke’s cousin so she should know.’

  ‘Don’t play the smart alec with me, Ronald Sidney.’

  ‘I’m not being a smart alec, Auntie Vera. I’m just saying …’

  He stopped suddenly, his voice having shot up an octave. ‘Little Ronnie’s voice is breaking,’ jeered Peter.

  ‘Pity we can’t say the same about your brain,’ retorted Ronnie before he could stop himself.

  Vera’s face darkened. Fortunately Jane laughed, drawing maternal fury on to herself. ‘We don’t laugh at personal remarks in this house, miss.’

  ‘Well, you should. That one was funny.’

  ‘Whose side are you on?’ demanded Peter.

  Jane tapped him on the nose with a chip. Vera, scowling, complained to Stan about her latest essay assignment. Ronnie continued eating. Jane began whispering to Peter, who had a dopey expression on his face. Peter was always boasting to his friends that Jane was putty in his hands but Ronnie knew the opposite was true. Vera did too. As she ranted at Stan she kept looking daggers at Jane. Though it was a warm evening the sleeves of her blouse were pulled down, concealing the damaged skin on her left arm.

  ‘Do you have a girlfriend, Ronnie?’ asked Jane.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Little Ronnie doesn’t like girls,’ Peter told her.

  ‘I bet they like him though. He’s good-looking.’ Peter flexed his bicep. ‘Not as much as me.’

  Jane licked Peter’s cheek. He licked hers back. Vera’s mouth was a thin line. ‘There’s a place for that sort of behaviour.’

  ‘We’re not doing anything, Mrs Finnegan,’ said Jane breezily. Her eyes returned to Ronnie. ‘You look like your mum, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She must be pretty. Does she have a boyfriend?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you think she’d tell you if she had?’

  ‘She doesn’t need a boyfriend. She’s got me.’

  Jane smiled. ‘That’s sweet.’

  ‘What’s the matter, little Ronnie?’ asked Peter. ‘Scared Mummy might love someone more than she loves you?’

  ‘That’s enough, Pete,’ said Stan.

  ‘Yes, don’t be horrid,’ added Jane. ‘Or I’ll hate you.’ She grabbed Peter’s hair, pulled his face towards hers and bit him on the lip.

  ‘That’s enough!’ snapped Vera. ‘What would the Browns think if they were here?’

  ‘Where are our steaks?’ asked Jane.

  Vera lost her temper completely. Ronnie, following Stan’s example, finished his meal in silence.

  Later, as Peter played records for Jane in their bedroom and Vera complained about her to Stan in the living room, Ronnie went for a walk.

  Boys were playing football in the tiny park on the corner, preening for the girls, who stood in groups, giggling and gossiping. Alan Deakins, the troublemaker from his primary school class, entertained one group with jokes. Ronnie recognized Catherine Meadows, another old classmate. She called for him to join them. He waved but did not stop.

  The railway line ran along the far edge of the park. Climbing on to the ridge, he began to dig at the dry earth with a stick. A train rattled by, filling the air with smoke and noise. Once he had stood at his bedroom window, watching the trains and longing for the day when his father would come and take him and his mother far away. Now his mother was far away while his father remained nothing but an old snapshot. A dream that grew fainter with each passing year until eventually it would vanish altogether.

  But not yet. Not when dreams were sometimes the only thing to make life bearable.

  Catherine Meadows approached. For the last two years she had attended a boarding school in Berkshire, only coming back to Hepton in the holidays.

  ‘Hello, Ronnie. My term ended yesterday. You haven’t broken up yet, have you?’

  ‘No.’

  She sat down beside him. Her hair was blonde, her eyes pale blue. ‘Do you still visit the Sandersons?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You can visit me too if you like. We live at number twenty-five. I’ll be here all summer except for a week in Devon with my grandparents. Have you been to Devon? It’s boring.’

  ‘It can’t be as boring as here.’ He carried on digging. Two football
ers squared up to each other after an aggressive tackle. The other players separated them and the game resumed.

  ‘Alan’s still a show-off,’ she told him. ‘He says he’s had sex with a girl in Southend. I don’t believe him, though. I think if a girl wanted to have sex with him he’d be scared.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Would you be scared, Ronnie?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I bet you wouldn’t.’

  Another train raced by, drowning out her voice. She continued to mouth words, gesticulating with her hands like a silent film actress. It made him smile.

  ‘How’s your mum?’ she asked when the train had passed.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘You must miss her. I miss my family when I’m at school but when I’m at home they drive me mad.’

  ‘At least you’ve got a family.’

  They stared at each other. He imagined his mother sitting by the river in Oxfordshire with a man she liked. A man who might one day mean more to her than her own son.

  But that would never happen. Could never happen.

  Could it?

  ‘Do you think I’m pretty?’

  He nodded. All girls who looked like his mother were pretty.

  ‘Do you want to kiss me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You will one day. Goodbye, Ronnie.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  She returned to her group. He remained alone, hacking at the ground while the sun slid beneath the horizon, dragging the last drops of heat from the sky.

  A wet afternoon in August. Anna poured tea for Mrs Pembroke and her guests.

  Of all the grand houses in The Avenue, Riverdale was the most splendid. A red-brick Victorian mansion with oak-panelled rooms, a wide central staircase and a dozen chimneys. The furnishings, largely Victorian too, were ornate but comfortable, creating an atmosphere of affluent informality.

  On this particular afternoon Mrs Wetherby sat on a sofa in front of the bay window that looked out on to the back garden and the river, flanked by her children, Alice and Edward. Mrs Pembroke was in her usual chair by the fireplace while Anna perched on a stool, ready to offer food and drink whenever the need arose.