‘Why, then?’
Again he looked shy.
‘Tell me.’
‘Because you had your hand over your face.’
Surprise was eclipsed by delight. A smile spread across his own face, tentative at first then growing brighter. He was very good-looking. More so than she had first realized.
‘You’re Alice Wetherby,’ he said. ‘You live in my street.’
‘Why haven’t you come and said hello, then?’
‘I would have but …’ Another shake of the head. The shyness had returned but the smile remained. It was a lovely smile. Really lovely.
She felt a fluttering in her stomach.
Kate Christie appeared beside them. ‘Why have you drawn that loony?’
‘Ronnie, this is my friend Kate.’
Ronnie offered his hand. Kate giggled. ‘You look like John Leyton. I really like him.’
‘What do you want?’ demanded Alice, trying not to sound irritated.
‘If you’re coming for tea we’d better go.’
‘I’m not.’
‘But you said …’
‘That I’d come on Friday.’
‘No …’
‘Yes. See you tomorrow.’ Her tone was firm.
Kate left, once again giggling. ‘Sorry,’ said Alice. ‘She can be very childish.’
‘But nice, though. She must be if she’s a friend of yours.’
The fluttering sensation returned. ‘Are you going home now, Ronnie?’
‘Yes.’
‘Shall we walk together?’
‘I’d like that.’
Two boys watched them as they set off. She had flirted with both in the past, relishing the sense of power it gave. Boys were all the same. Coarse, blundering creatures interested in only one thing and willing to suffer any humiliation in its pursuit.
But Ronnie seemed different. Courteous and charming. A lone gentleman in a landscape of oafs.
They entered the lane. The sun was high above the trees. ‘It’s beautiful here,’ he said. ‘In Hepton, where I come from, everything is grey and dull, but here it’s like a painting.’
‘Will you do a painting for me?’
‘If you promise not to rip it up when I give it to you.’
‘Of course not.’ She touched his arm. ‘I’m nothing like her.’
‘Is she really a loony?’
‘Absolutely. She attacked me last term for no reason. It was really frightening.’
‘It must have been.’ He looked concerned. ‘Tell me what happened …’
She entered Market Court, Charlotte following at her heels like an anxious puppy. It was full of people all moving in slow motion and speaking without sound. Her calmness was like a tranquillizing drug, dulling her senses and turning the world into a dream.
Until the moment she saw Jennifer, when everything became real again.
She was with another little girl outside a sweet shop, both of them wearing the same red-and-brown primary school uniform that Susan had once worn and eating ice creams. She ran over to Susan, who hugged her so tightly that it provoked cries of protest. ‘You’re hurting me!’
‘Sorry.’ Susan relaxed her hold. ‘I’m just pleased to see you, that’s all.’
‘My new teacher’s called Mrs Boyd. She made us read aloud and said I was the best and she taught us a new song called “Land of the Buffalo”. Listen.’
Jennifer began to sing. Her mouth was covered in chocolate sauce. Gently Susan wiped it away. ‘Can I tell you a secret, Jenjen?’
‘What?’
‘We’re never going to be parted. We’ll always be together.’
Jennifer’s face lit up. ‘Always?’
‘Always.’ Susan licked sauce from her finger then wiped it clean. ‘Is my finger wet? Is my finger dry? God strike me dead if I tell a lie.’
Jennifer was smiling. It was bright and pure and full of trust. The smile of a child who knew nothing of wickedness, shame or fear.
And never would.
‘Now go and finish your ice cream and I’ll see you later.’
Jennifer did as she was told. Rising to her feet, Susan watched the people around her, all going about their business as if everything was normal. From now on she would do the same. There would be no more suspensions. No more behaviour that drew attention to herself and raised questions in others. She would be restrained and controlled, projecting a surface so perfect that no one would ever guess at the ugliness that lay beneath.
Hesitantly Charlotte approached. ‘Susie …’
Susan pointed to the two little girls eating ice creams without a care in the world. ‘Remember when that was us?’
‘What’s the matter, Susie? What’s going on?’
‘Nothing. I just feel a bit mad today but I’ll be sane again tomorrow.’
‘Shall I come home with you? Moral support when you break the news.’
‘No. I’m a big girl now. But thanks for caring. I’m lucky to have a friend like you.’
She kissed Charlotte’s cheek then turned and walked away, humming a tune and wearing a smile as if everything were normal and she too had not a care in the world.
*
Two days later. Charles Pembroke ate breakfast with his wife and stepson.
The room was full of light. A cloudless sky promised another glorious day in a summer that showed no sign of ending. Charles, who was lecturing that morning, looked at his watch. ‘If you want a lift, Ronnie, we must leave in five minutes.’
Anna frowned. ‘There’s fried bread in the oven. He must have some before he goes.’
Ronnie swallowed a mouthful of sausage. ‘I’m full, Mum.’
‘But I made it specially.’ Anna turned to Charles. ‘Can you wait a little longer?’
He couldn’t really but wanted to make her happy. ‘Of course.’
Anna left the room. Charles sipped his coffee and read the local paper. The mayor had just been reelected. Andrew Bishop was quoted as saying that this was a good thing.
Ronnie was staring at him. Studying him with those eyes that gave nothing away. ‘Everything all right, Ronnie?’
‘I’m going to make you late, aren’t I?’
‘No.’
‘I could easily walk.’
‘Would you rather?’
‘I just don’t want to make you late.’
‘You won’t.’ He smiled. ‘Honestly.’
‘Don’t bet on it. I won’t be allowed to leave until I’ve eaten enough to kill an elephant.’ Ronnie smiled too. ‘You know what Mum’s like.’
‘I do.’
‘Not that I’m complaining. Auntie Vera’s meals were either burnt or raw. Uncle Stan used to say that the only reason we didn’t starve to death was because God gave us chip shops.’
Charles laughed.
‘Mum’s a wonderful cook, isn’t she?’
‘Absolutely. We’re both spoiled.’
‘Well, I am. She didn’t cook me meals like this in Hepton.’
‘Didn’t she?’
‘She couldn’t afford to.’
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘Poor Mum. She hated it that we were poor. When I was little she used to promise me that one day we’d have lots of money. No matter what she had to do to get it.’
Charles ignored the dig. ‘And now you do,’ he said affably.
‘And my stomach will burst because of it.’ Ronnie’s smile returned. Perhaps it hadn’t been a dig. Perhaps.
Anna appeared with the fried bread. ‘Made with egg the way you like it,’ she told Ronnie.
‘But I really am full, Mum.’
‘I’m not listening.’ She cut a piece and guided it into his mouth. Sighing melodramatically, he began to chew.
There was a knock on the door. Edna the cleaner entered, carrying a pile of clothes. ‘Excuse me, Mrs Pembroke, I was wondering …’
Anna’s face darkened. ‘What are you doing with those?’
‘I was going to wash them.’
‘Thos
e are Ronnie’s clothes.’
‘I know, but …’
‘I wash Ronnie’s clothes. How many times have I told you?’
‘I’m sorry …’
‘Next time do what I say and leave them alone. That’s not too difficult, is it?’
Quickly Charles stepped in. ‘Perhaps you could put them back in Ronnie’s laundry basket, Edna. But thank you for the thought. It was very kind.’
‘That was a little harsh,’ he told Anna once Edna had gone. ‘She meant well.’
Anna continued to look angry. Charles remembered how she had been at the start of their marriage. Her anxiety at finding herself mistress of so huge a house. The agonies of shyness she had suffered in dealing with the domestic help. How she had looked to him for reassurance at every turn, allowing him to be her guide and protector.
Until the day Ronnie came.
She did everything for him. Washed and mended his clothes. Cooked all his meals. Cleaned his room. Catered to his every need in a way that was both devoted and possessive. Keeping others at a distance like an anxious bird defending a frail chick.
He did understand. For six long years her time with Ronnie had been restricted to brief visits, and those constantly disrupted by Vera’s demands. It was only natural that she would now seek to express the maternal love that had been frustrated for so long.
But still the intensity of that love worried him.
A piece in the paper caught his attention. ‘Ronnie, do you know a boy at school called Paul Benson?’
‘No. Why?’
‘He’s just won a national essay competition.’
‘May I see?’
Charles handed over the paper. ‘I bet you could have written a better essay,’ Anna told Ronnie.
‘You don’t know that, Mum. He might be brilliant.’
‘You’re brilliant. The most brilliant boy in Kendleton.’
‘I’ll be the fattest too at this rate.’
‘But you’ll still be the most handsome. Now eat!’ She tried to shovel more food into his mouth while he pushed it away, laughing. She wrapped her arms around him, kissing his cheek while he stroked her arm, their gestures fluid with familiarity. As Charles watched them Ronnie’s eyes locked with his. For a moment the barriers seemed to vanish. The eyes flashed in triumph, as if to say, ‘You see how it is. I come first and always will.’ But did they really? Or was envy distorting his own perception?
He couldn’t wait any longer. ‘I’m sorry, Ronnie, but we must go.’
‘Just a couple more minutes,’ begged Anna. ‘Please.’
‘I don’t mind walking, Mum. After all, it’s a lovely day.’
‘Then I’ll walk with you as far as Market Court.’
‘Do you remember walking me to Hepton Primary? There was that woman with curlers who stood on the corner of Knox Road.’
‘I do. She was an awful woman. Always gossiping.’
‘And her husband spent his whole life in the pub, though who wouldn’t if it meant getting away from her …’
Charles listened to them talk about people who meant nothing to him. He felt shut out. Excluded. But it was only natural that they would sometimes want to talk about their past.
He made for the door, leaving Ronnie to his breakfast and his mother.
‘Did you really enjoy your day?’
‘Very much. Double chemistry and double Latin. What could be better than that?’
Anna laughed. She was sitting on Ronnie’s bed. The night was warm and the windows were open, letting in the smell of the river. ‘Do you think you’ll be happy there?’ she asked.
‘The facilities are rather second rate but I’ll try and make the best of it.’
Again she laughed. He did too, looking debonair in the silk pyjamas she had bought him. Once their cost would have been prohibitive. But not now.
A floorboard creaked in the corridor. Just the sigh of an old house but still she tensed, half expecting Vera to burst in and demand that she perform some meaningless task. Old habits died hard.
‘Made any friends yet?’
‘No.’
‘What about Alice Wetherby? You walked home with her this afternoon.’
‘That doesn’t mean she’s my friend.’
‘She’s very pretty.’
‘And spoilt. I’d much rather walk on my own, but she seems to like my company and I can’t just ignore her. She is a neighbour.’
She masked her relief with an indulgent smile. ‘Of course she does. What girl wouldn’t like the company of such a handsome boy?’
‘Mum!’
‘But it’s true.’ She stroked hair back from his eyes. His pyjamas made him look younger than he was. More like the little boy he had been than the young man he was fast becoming. She liked that.
‘Charles says you can invite your friends here whenever you want.’
‘Makes a change from Moreton Street.’
‘This isn’t Moreton Street. This is your home and you don’t need permission. Charles wants you to know that.’
He nodded.
‘You do like him, don’t you?’
‘Of course. He’s your husband.’
‘Is that the only reason?’
‘No.’
‘Then why?’
A troubled look came into his eyes.
‘Ronnie?’
‘Because he’s not my father. My father hurt you. Charles won’t ever do that.’
‘Your father hurt you too.’
‘Not really. I never knew him.’
‘You wanted to, though. You used to talk about him all the time.’
‘I was younger then. Just a baby.’
For a moment the troubled look remained. Then it was gone, replaced by a Ronnie Sunshine smile. As reassuring as a hug.
‘Better go to sleep,’ she told him.
He lay down in bed. From the window came the sound of swans fighting. The room was vast with a wonderful view of the river. An antique desk stood by a bay window. One of its drawers had a lock. She gestured to it. ‘What do you keep in there?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Why is it locked, then?’
‘Is it?’
‘You should know. You have the key.’
‘I’ll keep it open if you like.’
‘Not if you don’t want to.’
‘It doesn’t matter to me.’
‘Nor to me. You keep your secrets if you want to.’
‘I don’t have any secrets. Not from you.’
She gazed down at him, remembering the tiny bedroom they had shared in Hepton all those years ago. Its walls had been covered in the pictures he had drawn for her, each full of colour and joy. But there had been other pictures he had never shown her. The ones he kept hidden under the loose floorboard beneath his bed.
She had never told him she knew about the floorboard. Occasionally, when he was very young, she would open it up and study the dark, angry visions he kept there. But eventually she had stopped doing so. They were just drawings, after all. Images without meaning or significance. From around his seventh birthday they had remained undisturbed. About the time Vera had her accident with a pan of chip fat and a roller skate.
He smiled up at her. Another glorious Ronnie Sunshine smile that could banish all her worries like magic. Something he must have known, for no one knew her better than he did.
But she knew him better than anyone else too. And whatever secrets he had would be nothing more than summer storms. Fleeting disturbances that could not disturb the beauty of the season.
That’s all they’ll be. I know it.
‘Goodnight, Mum. I love you.’
She hugged him while outside the swans continued to fight.
Next morning, while tidying his room, she studied the books on his desk.
The titles alone were enough to make her head swim. A History of the Industrial Revolution, William Pitt: His Life and Times, Lord Byron and the Romantic Movement in English Culture, The Dawn of Democracy:
Revolt and Reform in Nineteenth-century Europe.’ It was hard to believe her little Ronnie had read and understood them all.
But he wasn’t her little Ronnie any more. In a month he would be sixteen. A man in the eyes of many and a far cry from the boy of nine she had been forced to leave behind in Hepton. A boy who had needed her in a way she had never been needed before.
But he still needed her now. Time hadn’t altered that. The nature of the need might have changed but the need itself remained.
He’s still my Ronnie Sunshine. However old he is he’ll always be that.
Her leg brushed the drawer with the lock. She tried the handle, hoping it would open. But it remained shut.
Saturday afternoon. Susan walked into Market Court.
A crowd had gathered around the steps of the Town Hall watching Paul Benson receive his essay award from the mayor and be photographed for the local paper. She hadn’t meant to be one of them, but as the moment approached had found that she couldn’t stay away.
It was a beautiful day. Paul, bathed in sunlight, looked very smart in his school uniform. The mayor, pompous as always, made a speech about prizes he himself had won at a similar age and how they had helped make him the respected public figure he now was. She stood at the back, not wanting Paul to see her and conclude that she still had feelings for him. Because she didn’t. None whatsoever.
Finally the mayor handed Paul the award. The crowd began to applaud. ‘Say cheese,’ said the photographer. Paul’s grin almost split his face in two. As she saw it she realized that she still hated him, both for the cruelty with which he had treated her and for her own weakness in allowing herself to care.
And then it happened.
Something fell from the sky. Just at the moment the picture was taken. Something dark and heavy, landing on the heads of Paul and the mayor and fragmenting into pieces.
The applause died away, replaced by stunned silence. A brown lump stuck in Paul’s hair. Others were plastered to his jacket. The mayor, similarly smeared, wiped at his clothes, his eyes widening in horror.
‘It’s a cow pat!’ cried a man in the crowd.
Someone laughed. Others followed suit. Susan looked up at the window of the old library reading room but it was obscured by the eaves of the roof and the culprit could not be seen.
The mayor, his face crimson, began to rant about the outrage that had been committed. Paul, equally flushed, appeared close to tears. The photographer’s eyes were shining. The potential headlines were a newspaper’s wet dream. ‘Mayor Attacked by Wayward Turd’, ‘Invisible Cow Spoils Student’s Big Day’, ‘Hanging Too Good for Bovine Tearaway’.
Apple of My Eye Page 24