Apple of My Eye

by Patrick Redmond

  She hurried from the room, leaving him standing by the sink.

  That evening she ate dinner with him and Mrs Pembroke. There was little interaction between mother and son. Just some discussion of people they both knew, conducted with scrupulous politeness. Anna found herself the focus of most conversation. Mrs Pembroke spent an unusually long time asking about Ronnie while Charles Pembroke added the occasional query of his own. He was a good listener, giving an impression of genuine interest. As before, he tried to keep his right profile hidden. This and the strained atmosphere made her feel uncomfortable, and by the end of the evening she had come to wish that he had remained in America.

  But in the weeks that passed she began to grow used to his presence. Some of his days were spent in Oxford, teaching at one of the colleges. Others were spent in the study on the ground floor, writing a book on Russian history. She wanted to ask him about it so she could tell Ronnie but held back for fear of revealing her own ignorance in the process.

  One afternoon, shortly before Christmas, she went to ask whether he had any letters for posting. He was standing by the window, looking out at the river. Quickly he hid his right profile from sight.

  ‘You don’t need to do that,’ she told him.

  ‘It isn’t very pretty.’

  ‘You were injured saving someone’s life in an air raid. That’s what your mother said.’

  ‘And that makes it prettier?’

  ‘Not pretty, but …’

  He turned, displaying his full face. ‘But?’

  ‘It shows you have courage.’

  ‘Is that so rare a thing?’

  ‘In my experience, yes.’

  ‘But you possess it. To a far greater degree than I.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because you kept Ronnie.’

  She lowered her head. ‘I didn’t think you knew.’

  ‘My mother told me. She knows I can keep a secret.’

  ‘It wasn’t courage that made me keep him.’

  ‘Then what was it?’

  ‘Knowing, from the moment I held him, that I could never give him to someone else.’

  ‘And do you ever think you made the wrong choice?’

  ‘No. Not even for a second.’

  ‘Neither do I.’

  She looked up. He was smiling. The first proper one she had seen. She smiled back.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Pembroke.’

  ‘Thank you, Anna.’

  New Year’s Eve. Stan and Vera were having a party.

  It was nearly midnight. Ronnie stood behind a makeshift bar, serving guests. Thomas and Sandra had just announced their engagement and were being toasted. ‘Sandra’s a girl after my own heart,’ announced Vera, delighted that Thomas had chosen a wife she could intimidate. Stan, for once allowed to smoke in the house, nodded in agreement. Mrs Brown sipped sherry and looked superior while her husband puffed on a cigar and leered at anything in a skirt. There was no sign of Peter and Jane. Ronnie suspected they were upstairs, enjoying a rather more intimate celebration.

  His mother appeared from the kitchen, carrying a tray of sandwiches. She was wearing a blue dress and looked very pretty. Mr Brown moved towards her, preparing to give her bottom its third pinch of the evening. This time Ronnie was prepared. Hurrying across the room he blocked Mr Brown’s roving hand with a glass of steaming-hot punch.

  ‘Bugger!’ roared Mr Brown, his cry drowned out by cheers for the engaged couple.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry.’

  ‘I should think so! Bloody well …’

  ‘I was just taking a drink to your wife.’

  Instantly Mr Brown mellowed. ‘Oh. Never mind, then. Accidents happen, eh?’

  ‘Thank you,’ said his mother when Mr Brown had gone.

  ‘I’m sick of this party. Everyone must have enough food and drink by now. Let’s go outside.’

  They crept into the deserted street like conspirators. There was a bench in the park on the corner. They sat together, their breath condensing in front of them, staring up at the stars.

  ‘Do you remember me teaching you the constellations?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, but you got their names wrong.’ He pointed to the Great Bear. ‘That’s called Brownus Lecherus Slobbimus. And that one there is Verata Witchita Maxima.’

  She laughed. He felt pleased. No one could make her laugh the way he did.

  ‘Make a wish,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you supposed to wish upon a star?’

  He shut his eyes and did so.

  ‘What did you wish for?’

  ‘It’s a secret.’

  ‘You can tell me.’

  That my father would come.

  ‘Ronnie?’

  That I could stub a cigar out in Mr Brown’s eye. That Peter would get hit by a train. That Auntie Vera would get cancer so I could watch it eat her alive. That I could get out of this fucking place before I explode.

  ‘No, I can’t. It won’t come true if I do.’

  She looked disappointed. Ronnie Sunshine didn’t have secrets from his mother. There was nothing Ronnie Sunshine thought or did that he would not share with his mother.

  I wish I could tell you everything. That’s what I wish for most.

  ‘I wished for more prizes this summer. I love winning prizes. Not for me but for you.’

  The disappointment faded. A smile illuminated her face. She looked beautiful. His mother. The only person in the world who had ever mattered to him.

  ‘Do you have a boyfriend, Mum?’

  ‘Why do you ask that?’

  ‘Jane asked me once if you did.’

  ‘And what did you tell her?’

  ‘That you didn’t need one.’

  ‘I don’t. The only person I need is you.’

  It was his turn to smile. Silently he made another wish. That she would never need anyone but him. He didn’t want to share her ever.

  Except with his father.

  Cheers echoed down the street, followed by a raucous rendition of ‘Auld Lang Syne’. ‘Happy New Decade, Ronnie,’ she said. ‘I know it will be a glorious one for you.’

  He hugged her while wondering what the future would bring.

  March. Mrs Pembroke was having an afternoon nap. Anna stood in Charles Pembroke’s study, watching him hammer away at a typewriter with one overworked finger. ‘A woman at college is supposed to type for me,’ he told her, ‘but she can’t read my handwriting.’

  ‘Perhaps I could.’

  ‘Doubtful. A secretary in America once told me I had the worst handwriting she’d ever seen. What were her exact words?’ He adopted an American accent. ‘You may be book smart, Charlie Pembroke, but you can’t use a pen for shit.’

  She laughed. He missed the key he was aiming for. ‘Damn!’

  Some of his notes lay in front of her. ‘I can read this.’

  ‘Prove it. Read aloud.’

  She did. A few lines on Catherine the Great. ‘She was German, wasn’t she? Ronnie told me that.’

  ‘He’s right, and you’re remarkable. But your time belongs to my mother. I mustn’t encroach upon it.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be. She sleeps most afternoons and my evenings are free after she’s gone to bed. I’d like to have something useful to do.’

  ‘Then I accept.’

  April. Mrs Pembroke sat up in her bed, nodding as Anna read from Ronnie’s latest report. ‘He’s never come top in English before,’ she observed.

  ‘Actually he did come top in his English exam two years ago but he’s never come top for the term, though he once came second and …’ Anna shook her head. ‘Sorry. You don’t need to know all that.’

  ‘Don’t apologize. I asked to hear the report.’

  ‘But if you hadn’t I would have read it anyway.’

  ‘You’re proud of your son. That’s a good thing. Ronnie is lucky to have a mother who loves him as much as you.’

  ‘I’m the lucky one. Ronnie gives me more joy than I could ever have imagined. My l
ove is the only thing I have to give back. It isn’t much.’

  ‘It’s more than you think. Much more.’ Mrs Pembroke’s expression became troubled. ‘Sometimes I think there should be a law against giving all your love to just one person. But who can legislate for the heart?’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to legislate for mine. Not when it comes to Ronnie.’

  ‘I thought like that once. When I was young and didn’t know what I do now.’

  Silence. Anna, uncomfortable, picked up Ronnie’s report. ‘Perhaps I should go.’

  ‘No, stay. I’m just a foolish old woman talking nonsense. Don’t take any notice.’

  ‘You’re not foolish.’

  ‘It’s kind of you to say so. But then, kindness is one of the qualities that makes me like you so much. Charles likes you too. He’s a good judge of character. And a good friend. Better than his brother ever was. Remember that when I’m gone. If a time should come when you need a friend then they don’t come much better than him.’

  And for a moment the troubled expression returned. Just for a moment. Then it was gone, replaced by an indulgent smile. ‘Now back to the report. Which painter does the art teacher compare Ronnie to this term? Not Picasso, I hope. If someone painted me as a series of cubes I would be mortally offended!’

  They both laughed. Anna continued to read.

  June. There were now two desks in Charles Pembroke’s study. Charles sat at the larger one in the centre of the room, its entire surface covered with books and papers. Anna sat at the smaller one by the window, its surface clear except for a typewriter and a vase of bluebells.

  Having finished the latest batch of typing, Anna read a letter from Ronnie. It was full of news about school and anecdotes about Vera and the family, all told in a light, cheerful style. A skilful façade to convince her he was happy. She was grateful for the effort yet frustrated at not being able to make things better.

  Not yet.

  Charles was writing more notes for her to type, a pipe clenched between his teeth. ‘All well with Ronnie?’

  ‘Yes.’ She upheld the façade. ‘Plans for Thomas’s wedding are coming on apace.’

  He told her about a wedding he had attended in America where the groom’s cousin had gone into labour when the bride was halfway down the aisle. It made her laugh. She liked his stories. As he spoke, clouds of smoke billowed up into the air. He had offered not to smoke when she was in the room but she liked the smell too. It brought back memories of her father.

  ‘How was dinner at the Wetherbys’?’ she asked.

  ‘I would have enjoyed it more had Mrs Wetherby not kept hinting at how wonderful it would be if I’d give her son Edward private tuition. Though “hinting” is perhaps the wrong word. The woman is as delicate as a dentist’s drill.’

  Again she laughed. ‘Will you tutor him?’

  ‘Probably not. He seems a rather boorish young man. I doubt he’d be a very willing or rewarding student.’

  She remembered how Edward had sneered at Ronnie’s achievements and felt pleased.

  ‘Then again I’m hardly the world’s most exemplary teacher. Once I went to sleep on my feet while lecturing on Peter the Great’s foreign policy and woke up to hear myself explaining why Laurel and Hardy were funnier than the Marx Brothers.’

  She gasped. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Assured my bewildered students that there would be no questions about 1930s film comedy in their Russian history exam then went and had a very strong coffee. I should stress that that was a one-off. An old friend had paid me a flying visit and we’d sat up all the previous night talking. Believe it or not I do take my teaching seriously.’

  She did believe it. Sometimes she would ask him questions about his work and he would always take the trouble to answer them properly, never making her feel stupid or that she was wasting his time. He had the gifts of enthusiasm and clarity, combined with a melodious speaking voice. His students at Oxford were lucky to have him as a teacher.

  Perhaps one day Ronnie would be among them. She hoped so. The day Ronnie gained entry to a university like Oxford would be the proudest of her life.

  He finished writing and handed her a new pile of notes. ‘I really need these by tomorrow. Would that be possible?’

  It would, but only if she worked all evening. Outside it was a balmy late afternoon. She had hoped to go for a walk after dinner. But she wanted to be helpful too. ‘Of course.’

  ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

  She smiled, glad to be appreciated.

  ‘Perhaps I could take you out for dinner one evening. My way of saying thank you.’

  ‘You don’t need to do that.’

  ‘But I’d like to. After all, you won’t let me pay you.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be right. My time is already paid for by your mother.’

  ‘Then let me show my gratitude with a meal. I promise not to fall asleep and talk about Stan and Ollie.’

  Yet more laughter. He made her laugh more than anyone except Ronnie.

  ‘May I take mirth as acceptance?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Wednesday evening. One week later.

  Hawtrey Court was an Elizabethan mansion in a village on the outskirts of Oxford. Once a private house, it was now a luxury hotel with one of the finest restaurants in the area.

  They sat at a table by the wall, Charles watching Anna eat goose. ‘Is it good?’ he asked.

  ‘Delicious. This is such a treat.’

  The restaurant was crowded. All the tables were occupied, each with a candle flickering at its centre. The constant hum of conversation was overlaid by a Chopin prelude, played by a pianist in the corner of the room. ‘I hope this place doesn’t compare too unfavourably to the Amalfi,’ he said.

  A smile. She had told him about the Italian café in Hepton where she took Ronnie. ‘Not too badly.’

  ‘And what kind of cream cake does Ronnie favour?’

  ‘Anything with chocolate, though when he was younger it always had to be jam tarts. He used to eat the pastry first, then the jam, and it took for ever. I kept ordering more cups of tea for fear they’d throw us out!’

  ‘My brother Jimmy was the same. He used to eat cream slices layer by layer. It drove our parents mad.’

  ‘You must miss him.’

  ‘Yes. Though not as much as my mother does.’

  ‘It must have been a comfort to her to still have you.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’

  She looked awkward. He nodded reassuringly, not wanting her to feel uncomfortable. ‘I don’t know,’ she replied honestly. ‘I’d like to.’

  ‘It puzzles you, doesn’t it? My relationship with her.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She’s actually my stepmother. My father married her when I was very young and Jimmy was her son with him. My real mother died when I was born.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Don’t be. It’s difficult to miss someone you’ve never known. And Barbara is a good woman who deserved a better husband than my father.’

  ‘She rarely talks about him. What was he like?’

  ‘Superficially charming, but weak and self-centred. He adored my real mother and never really got over her death. He couldn’t cope with a baby so my maternal grandparents took me in. He also couldn’t cope with being alone so he married Barbara soon afterwards. She was younger than him and very much in love but all he wanted was someone to look after him and run the house while he carried on mourning my mother. The realization must have hurt her terribly, and when Jimmy was born he became the focus for all the love my father had made clear he didn’t need.

  ‘When I was ten my grandparents died and I returned home. And that just made things worse. I’d grown to resemble my mother and my father loved me for it in a way he never loved Jimmy. Of course that made Barbara resent me and love Jimmy all the more.

  ‘The sad thing was that Jimmy grew up to be a more extreme version of our father. Utt
erly charming and totally irresponsible. He was only nineteen when Father died and had run through his inheritance within a couple of years. Barbara was constantly giving him money. She kept pushing him to start a career but he never had the discipline. The fact that I did and was bailing him out financially too only made her resent me more. When the war was over I moved to America and what was left of our relationship effectively broke down.’

  ‘Do you regret that?’ she asked him.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I think she does too and is glad you’re here. I really do.’ She smiled. ‘Thank you for telling me. It won’t go any farther. Like you, I know how to keep a secret.’

  ‘A toast to secrets.’

  As they clinked glasses he looked into her eyes. Two pale blue orbs, each with a trace of sadness at the centre. Even now, when she was enjoying herself, he could still see it. The only time it vanished was when she talked about her son.

  Her hand brushed against his. It was soft and warm and he felt a sudden urge to caress it. Startled by the impulse, he downed the rest of his wine. A waitress came to refill his glass. His right profile was against the wall but when she asked whether he was enjoying the meal he turned his full face towards her. Momentarily taken aback, she spilt wine on the tablecloth.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ she said, turning crimson. ‘I’ll have someone clear this up.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Accidents happen.’

  She hurried away. ‘Poor girl,’ he said. ‘Probably scared she’s lost herself a tip.’ He laughed, hoping Anna would follow suit. Instead she lowered her head, staring down at the stained cloth.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘It does matter. The way she reacted to you. It’s the same way I did and it’s not right.’

  ‘But it’s natural. I’m scarred. I look different. People react to that.’

  She looked up again, the candle sending shadows across her eyes. ‘How do you face people?’

  ‘Because I have to.’

  ‘Vera is scarred. I’ve never told you that. She poured boiling chip fat on her arm. Now she always wears long sleeves so no one can see.’

  ‘I was engaged when it happened. I’ve never told you that, either. Her name was Eleanor. She used to visit me in hospital and then one day she sent a note saying she couldn’t marry me after all. For weeks afterwards I lay in a darkened room not wanting anyone to ever look at me again. But I knew I couldn’t do that for ever. That I had no choice but to go out and face the world and hope that the people I met would learn to see behind the scars. And after the initial shock most of them do.’