Apple of My Eye

by Patrick Redmond

  Mrs Wetherby, a tall, raw-boned chain-smoker, was complaining about French hotels. Mrs Pembroke sipped her tea. Wrapped in a blanket, she looked as small and delicate as a bird. ‘And how are things at school?’ she asked the children.

  ‘Edward was captain of his cricket team,’ Mrs Wetherby told her, ‘and Alice won her year’s English prize and had two poems published in the school magazine.’

  Edward nodded. At fifteen he resembled his mother, whose cigarettes he eyed enviously. Anna had seen him and his friends in Market Court, all smoking furiously with their collars turned up, trying to look like middle England’s answer to James Dean. Alice smiled. At thirteen she was exceptionally pretty with long blonde hair, a doll-like face and predatory eyes, so immaculately dressed that she looked as if she’d been ironed. Both attended Heathcote, the expensive day school on the outskirts of town.

  Mrs Pembroke offered congratulations. Mrs Wetherby looked smug. ‘I’m lucky to have such talented children.’

  ‘Anna’s son, Ronnie, is talented too. He won four prizes this year.’

  Mrs Wetherby’s eyes widened. She nodded but made no comment. Alice, however, looked curious. ‘Ronnie’s my age, isn’t he, Mrs Sidney? What prizes did he win?’

  ‘Maths, history and art. His year prize too.’

  ‘Given,’ added Mrs Pembroke, ‘to the boy with the best overall exam results.’

  ‘That’s only three prizes,’ said Edward. ‘Art doesn’t count.’

  Anna was taken aback. ‘It does.’

  ‘At his school, maybe. My school doesn’t give prizes for non-academic subjects.’

  ‘Well, perhaps they should,’ suggested Mrs Pembroke. Edward shrugged. Anna, keeping her anger in check, offered round a sponge cake.

  ‘And how is Charles?’ asked Mrs Wetherby. ‘Mrs Pembroke’s son is a history professor at an American university,’ she told her children. Alice expressed interest while Edward continued to gaze longingly at the cigarettes.

  ‘Not for much longer,’ Mrs Pembroke told her. ‘He’s returning to England and will be living here for a while.’

  ‘How lovely. He must come for dinner when he arrives.’

  Anna masked her surprise. In the four and a half years she had lived in Kendleton, Charles Pembroke had never visited his mother. If Mrs Pembroke was hurt by such absence she never showed it, though on the few occasions his name arose she was often quick to change the subject. Just as she did now.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m feeling rather tired. This wretched heart of mine.’

  ‘Then we must go,’ said Mrs Wetherby, quick to take the hint.

  Anna showed them to the door. Mrs Wetherby lit another cigarette. ‘Can I have one?’ asked Edward.

  ‘Certainly not. You’re too young to smoke.’

  ‘That’s what you think, Mum,’ said Alice meaningfully. Brother and sister glared at each other. As they walked down the drive Edward skidded on a wet stone and nearly fell. Restraining an urge to cheer, Anna shut the door behind them.

  Mrs Pembroke, still wrapped in her blanket, gave her a weary smile. ‘We never used to see so much of that awful woman.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have told her you were related to an earl.’

  ‘Distantly.’

  ‘But still related.’ Anna smiled too. ‘Are you tired? Shall I take you upstairs.’

  ‘No, dear. I’ll stay here.’

  ‘Thank you for praising Ronnie.’

  ‘Anything to deflate our guest. But it was my pleasure.’

  ‘Would you like me to read to you?’

  Not now. Let’s just sit.’

  So they did, while outside the sky cleared, promising a brighter evening ahead.

  ‘I didn’t know Charles was coming,’ said Anna eventually.

  ‘I’m sure I mentioned it. Perhaps you forgot.’

  ‘I must have done.’

  ‘I think I’ll sleep for a little.’

  Mrs Pembroke shut her eyes. After checking that the blanket was secure, Anna crept from the room.

  On summer evenings she liked to walk by the river.

  That evening the path was less crowded than usual. The woman who ran the library said a cheery ‘Good evening, Mrs Sidney’. She smiled back, stroking the silver band on the ring finger of her left hand. As far as the town was concerned she had been widowed during the war. A deception suggested by Mrs Pembroke to avoid the spiteful gossip that had plagued her in Hepton.

  Ben Logan, the lock-keeper, was opening the gates to admit the last boats of the day. His face lit up when he saw her. ‘’Lo, Anna. How you doin’?’

  ‘Better now the rain’s stopped.’ She stood, watching him guide boats into the lock. Her ‘young man’, as Peggy, the cook, called him. A private joke as Ben was seventy, bald and toothless. But he was her friend. Someone she enjoyed sitting and talking with when she had the time.

  Ben went to help a woman tie a rope to a bollard. Though the lock was full, another boat tried to slide in. ‘I don’t think there’s room,’ Anna called to the man at the helm.

  He glared at her. ‘What’s it got to do with you?’

  Ben’s face darkened. ‘Mind your manners or you ain’t comin’ through my lock.’

  ‘I’d better leave you to it, Ben. Talk to you tomorrow.’

  ‘You do that, Anna.’

  She walked on, past boats already moored for the night. Two teenage boys sprawled on the roof of one, exchanging jokes and ignoring the middle-aged man who ranted at them from the galley to make themselves useful. She sat down, shaking her head at the ducks that glided towards her in search of food. Across the river a fisherman landed a catch while swallows swooped over the water, hunting flies that danced in the evening breeze.

  She wondered what Ronnie was doing. Whether he was missing her as much as she missed him. For a moment she hoped he was, then despised herself for the sentiment.

  Was he seeing a girl? An innocent friendship that might blossom into something deeper? It was inevitable that he would one day fall in love, and though he would still be her son he would no longer be her Ronnie Sunshine. His heart would belong to another and as long as that person made him happy she would be happy too.

  Or at least she would try to be.

  She wondered what sort of girl he would choose. Someone like Alice Wetherby, perhaps. Attractive, intelligent and secure in the knowledge that no other girl in Kendleton could outshine her.

  Except one. The girl who was walking along the path with a ginger cat perched on her shoulder.

  She moved quickly, striding through the high grass, dressed in a childish cotton frock that only accentuated the graceful shoulders, long, lithe limbs and developing figure. Her feet were bare; her hair a tangled mane of ebony that she suddenly brushed back, allowing her glorious face to be seen. The boys on the boat fell silent as she passed. One made as if to call out but then changed his mind. The tension she radiated did not invite conversation, though she drew their eyes like a magnet.

  She passed Anna, eventually coming to a halt farther downriver. As the ducks swam towards her she tossed them scraps of bread, her feet dangling in the water while the cat rubbed himself against the small of her back.

  Over the years Anna had often seen her sitting there, lost in thought. Though tempted she had never called out a greeting, wary of disturbing another’s obvious desire for solitude.

  ‘That’s Susie Ramsey,’ Ben had said. ‘Lives in Queen Anne Square with ’er mum an’ stepdad. ’Er real dad died of an ’eart attack when she was seven. Dropped dead in front of ’er, poor little kid. A good man, John Ramsey. Used to bring Susie down ’ere all the time.’

  The wind was rising, blowing clouds across the sky. Susan stared up at them, her lips moving. Talking to herself, perhaps. Or to her father. The cat climbed on to her knee, stretching up its paws like a child seeking comfort from an adult. She wrapped her arms around it, pulling it close, burying her face in the warmth of its fur.

  Rising to her feet, Anna made her w
ay back along the path. The boys were still on the roof of the boat. One was arguing with the middle-aged man in the galley. The other continued to gaze at Susan.

  October. Anna, packed for a visit to Hepton, went to say goodbye to her employer.

  Mrs Pembroke was sitting in bed, sifting through old photographs. ‘My taxi will be here in a few minutes,’ Anna told her.

  ‘Sit with me until it comes. You look excited.’

  ‘I suppose I am.’

  ‘Of course you are. You’re going to see Ronnie. I wish he could come and visit here but you know how particular my doctor is about noise.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Next week you’ll see Charles.’ Anna looked at one of the photographs that lay on the bed. Two boys, aged about ten and thirteen, sat together on a garden swing. She pointed to the elder one. ‘Is that him?’

  ‘Yes. That was taken in 1924. September twenty-ninth, to be precise. James’s tenth birthday.’

  Mrs Pembroke had had two sons, James and Charles. James had been killed during the war. Mrs Pembroke talked of him often and kept his picture on her bedside table. But this faded snapshot was the first likeness of Charles that Anna had ever seen.

  ‘He looks nice,’ she observed.

  ‘He was just a boy then. This was him at twenty-one.’

  Anna studied the image. A tall, serious-looking young man with dark hair, kind eyes and a strong jaw. An appealing face that missed the description ‘handsome’ by inches.

  She wished that she knew more about him. Understood his relationship with his mother. But it was a subject on which she had never felt able to question Mrs Pembroke.

  Mrs Sanderson might have told her something. But she had always felt it disloyal to a kind employer to interrogate one of her relatives. And as Mrs Pembroke had only moved to Oxfordshire five years ago there was no one else in Kendleton who knew her family history.

  ‘He doesn’t look like that now,’ continued Mrs Pembroke. ‘The war took a terrible toll on him.’ She looked at the picture of James on her bedside table. ‘On all my family.’

  ‘And mine,’ Anna said softly.

  Mrs Pembroke touched her hand. ‘Forgive me. That was a thoughtless thing to say.’

  ‘No it wasn’t.’

  Her taxi sounded its horn in the driveway. Mrs Pembroke gave her some money. ‘Here. Use this to treat Ronnie.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Not at all. A clever boy like Ronnie deserves it. When I’m dead you’ll be able to treat him whenever you want.’

  Anna felt embarrassed. ‘You shouldn’t talk like that.’

  ‘Why not? It’s true. Or are you saying you’d miss me?’

  ‘Of course I would.’

  Mrs Pembroke smiled. ‘Yes, I think you would. You’re a good girl, Anna. You’ve brought a lot of happiness into my life and I am grateful. Now give me a hug and be off.’

  Obedient as always, Anna did as she was told.

  Sunday evening. Anna sat on Ronnie’s bed, watching him impersonate Mr Brown.

  He waddled around the room, hands on hips, a pillow stuck down the back of his pyjamas, singing an improvised pop song:

  ‘Peggy Sue, Peggy Sue.

  Each night you pray I’ll fall in love with you.

  ’Cos I look like Elvis Presley

  And dance like him too-oo-oo.’

  She didn’t bother to muffle her laughter. The others were all in the pub.

  ‘We shouldn’t,’ she said, ‘but he really is an awful man.’

  ‘Last time he came for dinner he spent the whole time leering at Jane.’

  ‘And how did Mrs Brown react to that?’

  ‘She looked sick but that was because of the food. Even by Auntie Vera’s standards it was really disgusting.’

  More laughter. He climbed into bed. ‘This is like old times,’ she said.

  ‘Except that you sleep on the sofa. You should have my bed. I keep telling Auntie Vera but she says it wouldn’t be right, you sharing with Peter.’

  ‘It wouldn’t. Anyway, I don’t mind as long as I get to see you.’ She brushed hair back from his forehead. ‘You should wear it like this. Show off that handsome face.’

  He looked sheepish. ‘Mum …’

  ‘It’s true. You are handsome. I bet the girls think so.’

  ‘Jane does. She says I look like Billy Fury but only to tease Peter.’

  ‘You’re better looking than Billy Fury. Anyone else?’

  ‘Catherine Meadows. She’s been writing to me.’

  ‘What does she say?’

  ‘Here’s my maths homework. Send answers by Thursday.’

  ‘So no special girl yet?’

  ‘Only you.’

  ‘My little man,’ she said affectionately.

  ‘I’m taller than you.’

  ‘By a whole half-inch.’

  ‘Three-quarters, actually.’

  ‘And with a deep voice. Soon you’ll have whiskers too.’ She tickled his chin. As he wriggled away his top pyjama button came undone and she noticed a large bruise by his collarbone. ‘How did you get that?’

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘Doesn’t look like nothing.’

  ‘Well, it is.’ He tried to refasten the button.

  She pushed his hand away. ‘Did Peter do it?’

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘Were you arguing?’

  ‘It’s not important, Mum.’

  ‘Did he say something about me? He did, didn’t he? Oh, Ronnie! I’ve told you to ignore him when he says things like that. He’s just wants to provoke you.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So don’t respond. If you do then you’re just being as stupid as he is. I don’t care what he thinks about me. You shouldn’t either.’

  Anger flashed across his face. ‘But I do.’ He stared down at the bedspread.

  She touched his arm. It was his turn to push her hand away.

  ‘Ronnie?’

  Silence.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful. I’m proud that you defended me. I just don’t want you to get hurt.’

  His head remained lowered. She pushed at his lips, trying to turn his frown into a smile. After a moment’s resistance he gave her fingers a soft kiss.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘What is it, darling?’

  ‘Do you think my father would be proud of me?’

  The question took her by surprise.

  ‘I know he’s never coming. But that doesn’t stop me thinking about him.’

  ‘Of course he’d be proud. Any father would. You have the potential to do anything you want with your life and that’s something very few people have. Your father didn’t. I certainly don’t. But you do and that means you don’t need anyone’s approval, least of all his.’

  He raised his head, looking suddenly like the little boy she had sat with in the back bedroom all those years ago, teaching him letters and numbers as the trains rushed by.

  ‘I need yours.’

  ‘You’ve got that. Always.’

  There was noise downstairs. The others had returned. Vera, her voice shrill with drink, called for Anna to come and make coffee.

  ‘Let them wait,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t. Better keep the peace.’

  ‘You’re going in the morning.’

  ‘I’ll be here for breakfast.’

  ‘It feels like you’ve only just arrived.’

  ‘Christmas isn’t far away.’

  ‘I love you, Mum.’

  ‘I love you, Ronnie.’

  ‘Ronnie Sunshine,’ he corrected.

  ‘Aren’t you too grown up to be called that?’

  ‘I’ll always be your Ronnie Sunshine.’

  ‘I know you will.’

  They hugged each other while Vera continued to shout for service.

  *

  Monday afternoon. Anna let herself into Riverdale by the side door.

  The kitchen was empty. Peggy the cook would be at home, retu
rning in the evening to cook dinner. Mrs Pembroke would be having her afternoon nap, checked on from time to time by Muriel the cleaner until Anna could resume such duties herself.

  But first she wanted a few moments to herself.

  She sat at the kitchen table, worrying about Ronnie. Though he never complained he was clearly unhappy. She wanted to get him away from Vera and Hepton. When Mrs Pembroke died she would have the funds to do just that. But Mrs Pembroke had always been kind to her, and to long for such an event made her feel like a vulture hovering above a grave that had yet to be filled.

  The hum of her thoughts drowned out the sound of footsteps in the corridor. The opening door took her by surprise. Startled, she looked up.

  And saw the monster.

  Letting out a cry, she jumped to her feet, backing away from the table.

  Then realized it was just a man.

  He stood in the doorway. Tall, heavily built and in his late forties. The left side of his face was quite handsome, topped with dark hair that was starting to grey. The right side was burnt flesh.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said quickly. ‘I didn’t realize anyone was here.’

  She breathed deeply, waiting for her heart to slow. He turned his head, presenting her with his left profile while hiding the right. It made her think of her old idol, Ronald Colman, who had favoured one profile over the other too.

  ‘I’m Charles Pembroke. You must be Anna.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I didn’t realize you were back. There was no taxi.’

  ‘I walked the last part of the way. My bag wasn’t heavy and I wanted some air. I thought you were coming on Wednesday.’

  ‘My luggage arrives then. I came last night.’

  Silence. Her face felt hot. Embarrassment at the way she had behaved and the poor impression she must have made.

  He walked over to the sink. Poured himself a glass of water while keeping the right profile hidden. She wanted to tell him there was no need. That the shadows from the hallway had made it seem worse than it was. But that would only have added insult to injury.

  ‘I’m very sorry, Mr Pembroke.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I understand you’ve been visiting your son. How is he?’

  ‘Very well. I must go now. Your mother will be needing me.’