Apple of My Eye

by Patrick Redmond

  Just as he loved Susan.

  He knew it now. As clearly as he knew his own name. This girl who was like no one he had ever met before. Whose beauty, strength and courage left all others in the shade. But who was still capable of being hurt.

  And no one could hurt someone he loved. He would not allow it. Anyone who did so would be sorry. Vera had already discovered that.

  Now Andrew Bishop would discover it too.

  Sunday morning. Susan made her way downstairs to breakfast.

  She tiptoed past Uncle Andrew’s bedroom. He had still not returned from the pub when she had gone to bed the previous evening. It had been the same story four nights earlier. His drinking, briefly curtailed, was now as bad as before. As was his temper. Their joint return bewildered her mother but not her. She understood what was happening. What was going on inside his head.

  He’s getting impatient. He can’t wait until January. He wants Jenjen now.

  On reaching the bottom of the stairs she heard his voice. So he was up already. Her heart sank.

  But he sounded excited. Animated. Unheard of when he was battling a hangover.

  What was going on?

  She stood behind the dining-room door, holding her breath and listening.

  ‘So he’ll go, then?’ asked her mother.

  ‘I should think so. Why wait until January if they want him to start in November? It’s all sorted this end except for a tenant for the house, and estate agents will take care of that.’

  ‘But do you really think it’s a good idea for Susie to move in the middle of a term?’

  An impatient snort. ‘Why not, for heaven’s sake? It’s an excellent school and they don’t seem to mind her coming early.’ A laugh. ‘Mind you, they’ll be getting an extra term’s fees so they’re hardly going to complain.’

  ‘It just seems so rushed.’

  ‘Well, it’s not.’ Again the impatience. ‘They’re not expecting her until mid-October so you’ve got at least three weeks to get her ready. That’s plenty of time, even for you.’

  Three weeks? I could be in Scotland in three weeks?

  Her heart began to race. This couldn’t be happening. She needed more time to think and to plan. Much more.

  A floorboard creaked beneath her foot. ‘Is that you, Susie?’ her mother called out.

  She entered the room. Uncle Andrew frowned. ‘You’re late. We eat breakfast at nine o’clock on Sunday.’

  ‘Only by five minutes.’ She struggled to keep her voice steady.

  ‘But still late.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She kissed his cheek. His breath reeked of stale alcohol. He was still frowning but his eyes looked through her as if she were a spectre. The ghost of midnights past, now being rushed from the stage to make room for the ghost of midnights still to come.

  After kissing her mother she sat down, pouring herself some tea and spreading butter on to toast. Keeping her breathing steady. Forcing herself to be calm. When they told her about the changed plans she would look upset but resigned. Keeping up the façade. Giving nothing away.

  It’s just acting, Susie. You can do it. You know you can.

  ‘Did you sleep well?’ asked her mother.

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  Uncle Andrew gestured towards the window. ‘It looks like being a nice day. We should all go for a walk this afternoon. Down by the river, perhaps.’

  ‘That sounds like a lovely idea,’ said her mother.

  ‘Then it’s agreed.’ Uncle Andrew leant back in his chair and stretched. ‘Susie, you must bring Jenjen. She loves it by the water.’

  Her mouth was full of toast. For a moment she needed to retch. She couldn’t bear him being close to Jennifer. Touching her. Holding her. Making her laugh. Teaching her to trust him. Just as he had done with another little girl not so many years ago.

  Three weeks. That’s all I’ve got. Three weeks.

  But I can do it. I can. For Jenjen I can.

  Oh God, I hope I can.

  She swallowed and smiled.

  ‘That would be nice,’ she said.

  ‘What’s the matter, Susie? What’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Monday afternoon after school. She walked deep into the woods with Ronnie.

  She hadn’t wanted to see him. Had tried to avoid him in fact. Leaving for school far earlier than usual and sitting in the library at the end of the day. But when finally she had emerged through the gates he had been waiting.

  And she had been glad. Even though she hadn’t wanted to be.

  She sat on the trunk of a fallen tree. He sat beside her. ‘These woods are supposed to be haunted,’ she said. ‘There’s a story that hundreds of years ago a mother had a picnic here with her daughter. After they’d eaten it the mother went to sleep and the daughter wandered off and was never seen again. The mother went mad, so the story goes. She spent the rest of her life searching these woods. and now if you come far enough in and sit and listen you can still hear her calling for her daughter to come home.’

  ‘Have you ever heard her?’

  ‘I thought I did once but it was only my imagination. It’s just a story, like I said.’

  ‘I could tell you a story. One that nobody knows but me.’

  She scratched at the earth with a stick. ‘Tell me, then.’

  ‘I hated my aunt. Of all my relatives she was the one I hated most. Not for the way she treated me but for the way she treated my mother. Ordering her around like a skivvy. Humiliating her in front of others. Always reminding her that she could yank the roof from over our heads whenever she wanted.

  ‘One day she made my mother cry and I couldn’t stand it any more. I decided I was going to make her sorry. So I hid a roller skate by the cooker while she was making supper. She tripped on it and poured boiling chip fat down her arm. It left her scarred. Even now, when it’s really hot, she wears long sleeves to hide it.

  ‘No one ever guessed it was me. They thought it was an accident. I tried to tell my mother once but she wouldn’t listen. I’m her perfect son, you see, and perfect sons don’t hurt people. But I’m not ashamed of what I did. As I see it, if someone hurts a person you love then you hurt them back. I hurt my aunt because she hurt my mother, and if someone else were to hurt her then I’d hurt them too.’

  She turned towards him. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘Because your stepfather’s hurting you.’

  Silence. Except for the wind stirring the branches of the trees.

  ‘I’ve got eyes, Susie. I see how you are with him.’

  ‘And how is that?’

  ‘Afraid.’

  She began to tremble. The need to unburden herself was like a physical pain. But it was too dangerous.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Yes you can.’

  Another silence. She looked at the trees that surrounded them. The leaves were changing from green to brown. Soon they would be falling, covering the ground like a blanket.

  ‘He does hurt you, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Not any more.’

  ‘What did he do to you? You can trust me. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘He told me that once.’

  ‘But I’m not him.’

  She stared at him. This boy with his contained strength who defended her when others tried to put her down. Who made her feel happy. Who made her feel …

  … safe.

  ‘You have to swear on your life that you’ll never tell.’

  ‘Not on my life. On my mother’s, because that’s the most precious thing I have.’

  ‘Swear it, then. On her life.’

  ‘I swear.’

  So she told him. The secret she had kept hidden inside herself for nearly eight years. The wind caught her words as soon as they were spoken, dashing them against the trees as if trying to help keep her secret too. He listened, saying nothing, just watching her with eyes that were warm and did not judge.

  ‘He ga
ve me gonorrhoea when I was thirteen. The doctor who treated me was Mary’s husband. We told him a story about a boy at a party but he knew what was really going on. When I realized who Mary was it brought it all back. Not that she’d know. Doctors can’t talk about their patients, not even to their wives.’ She gave a hollow laugh. ‘I should be a doctor. I’d be good at the secrecy part.’

  He shook his head. ‘Oh, Susie …’

  ‘What frightens you? I mean more than anything else?’

  ‘Never finding anyone who really understands me. Of always feeling alone.’

  ‘For me it’s a dream I’ve had since it started. In it I’ve died and gone to heaven to be with my father. I’m so excited about seeing him again that I’m crying. But when we meet he tells me that he hates me. He says I’m wicked and that everything that’s happened is my fault. That I wanted it to happen. That he’s ashamed to even look at me, let alone call me his daughter.’

  ‘But dreams aren’t real, Susie. You know what happened wasn’t your fault. How could you stop it? You were only a little child. If your father were here now he’d say the same thing. And he’d tell you that he was proud to call you his daughter, not ashamed.’

  A lump came into her throat. She tried to swallow it down. Determined to stay strong. ‘It doesn’t matter what he thinks, anyway. He wasn’t so special. Just some man who ran a photography shop, told lousy jokes and was hopeless with money. He left us in debt when he died. That’s how wonderful he was. Good riddance, I say.’

  Then she burst into tears.

  He tried to put his arm around her but she pushed him away, pounding her temple with her fist, giving physical expression to the anger she felt with herself. ‘Weak. Weak!’

  ‘You’re not weak, Susie. That’s the last thing you are.’

  ‘But Jennifer is.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He’s going to start on her. He’s been planning it for months. I’m being sent away and she’s being moved into my bedroom. She’s only six! Just a baby. He thinks I can’t stop him. He knows no one will believe me if I tell them. Not when it’s his word against mine.’

  She took a deep breath. The air was damp. Rain was only moments away.

  ‘But I can still stop him. There’s one final thing I can do.’

  ‘Kill him.’

  ‘Yes.’

  They stared at each other. She wiped her eyes, feeling suddenly weightless. The burden she had carried alone for so long had at last been lifted.

  ‘I’ll do it for you,’ he said.

  For a moment she thought she’d misheard. ‘What?’

  ‘I’ll do it for you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I love you.’

  A drop of rain fell on to his cheek. She felt one land on hers too.

  ‘I love you, Susie, and I’ll do it for you. All you have to do is ask.’

  ‘We can’t stay here,’ she said.

  They made their way back through the woods, leaving the ghost mother to cry unheard.

  By the time they reached town the rain was heavy. They took shelter in Cobhams Milk Bar.

  It was nearly empty. Most of their peers were eating their tea at home. They sat at a table in the corner, far away from wagging ears, drinking coffee and watching each other through the rising steam.

  ‘I meant what I said,’ he told her.

  ‘No you didn’t.’

  ‘You think I’m afraid to do it?’

  ‘Aren’t you?’

  ‘I told you what frightens me.’

  ‘And murder isn’t on the list?’ She shook her head. ‘You’re mad.’

  ‘That’s why I should do it. You’re frightened. I’m not.’

  ‘Of course I’m frightened! Imagine if it went wrong. Imagine getting caught.’

  ‘That won’t happen.’

  ‘But what if it did?’

  ‘Then I’d take the blame. I’d say it was all my idea. That you knew nothing about it. And they’d believe me because I know how to act. I’m good at it. I’ve been acting for people all my life. Even my mother.’

  ‘And you’d do that for me?’

  ‘I would.’

  She gazed into his eyes. Two beautiful grey-green orbs with centres of steel. The eyes of someone who would not allow themselves to be crippled by fear. Who had real strength.

  But she had strength too.

  ‘I don’t want you to do it, Ronnie.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Not alone. We do it together. I’m not afraid any more. You don’t have to help me if you don’t want to. If you change your mind I’ll understand. But if we do it together then we sink or swim together and that means that if we get caught we take the blame together.’

  ‘We won’t get caught. We can do this. We’re both clever and we both know how to act. Nothing can stop us. Not if we’re together.’

  ‘And we are.’

  ‘I love you, Susie.’

  A lump came into her throat. Just as it had in the wood.

  ‘I love you too.’

  She did.

  ‘You should have told me you were going to be late.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum.’

  Eight o’clock that evening. Anna watched Ronnie eat a supper of roast beef. Charles was away, attending a university dinner in Oxford.

  ‘I thought something might have happened to you.’

  ‘You worry too much.’ He smiled at her. ‘I’m a big boy now.’

  ‘Of course I worry. I’m your mother. That’s my job.’

  ‘Well, you don’t need to. I can take care of myself.’ He cut into his beef, his knife slipping and splashing gravy on to the tablecloth.

  It was her turn to smile. ‘So I see.’

  He looked sheepish. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Never mind. It can be washed. Are you enjoying it?’

  ‘It’s delicious. Thanks, Mum.’ He took another mouthful, a contented look on his face. It put her in mind of an old saying: the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.

  But Ronnie’s not a man. Not yet.

  And I already have his heart.

  ‘It’s nice being just the two of us, isn’t it?’

  He nodded.

  ‘I keep expecting Vera to barge in and start giving orders. I’m surprised she hasn’t been in contact since you left Hepton.’

  ‘She won’t be in contact. Not ever.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘Just a feeling,’ he said, though his tone was certain. She nodded and found herself thinking of the locked drawer where he kept his secrets. Except that he had no secrets. Not from her. At least none that meant anything.

  ‘How’s Susan?’

  ‘Fine. She really enjoyed Saturday. She was saying how much she liked you.’

  ‘Did Jennifer like me?’

  ‘Yes, but not as much as she liked your cakes.’

  ‘And how much do you like her?’

  ‘She’d be perfect if it wasn’t for the singing.’

  ‘I meant Susan.’

  A nod.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I like her a lot.’

  ‘How much is a lot?’

  ‘She’s a good friend.’

  ‘And a beautiful one.’

  Another nod.

  ‘I liked her, too.’

  He continued eating. She watched him, wishing he would open up. Not wanting to appear inquisitive. Not wanting him to know she was jealous.

  ‘Have you met her parents?’

  ‘Only her stepfather. He seemed very nice.’

  ‘Ben Logan says he drinks. Ben often sees him walking past the lock looking the worse for wear.’

  ‘Perhaps he drinks to forget.’

  ‘Forget what?’

  ‘Jennifer’s singing.’ He began to hum ‘The Good Ship Lollipop’, while sticking roast potatoes on the end of his knife and fork and making them skip like Charlie Chaplin’s dance of the bread rolls in The Gold Rush. The sight rendered her helpless
with laughter. He watched her, grinning. She knew he liked being able to make her laugh more than anyone else.

  Can you make Susan laugh this hard too? And are you as happy when you do?

  Or even happier?

  He continued the performance. She focused on her amusement, trying to push the questions from her mind.

  Tuesday afternoon. Alice Wetherby walked home with Kate Christie, who kept talking about a boy she had met at a family party the previous weekend. ‘Can’t you talk about something else?’ Alice snapped. ‘He sounds incredibly boring.’

  Kate frowned. ‘Don’t take it out on me because Ronnie doesn’t like you.’

  ‘I don’t care about that. I didn’t like him anyway.’

  ‘Not much you didn’t. Serves you right, too. You’re always acting like you can have any boy you want. Looks like you were wrong.’

  ‘That’s the point. I didn’t want him. Who’d want some pathetic mother’s boy. He’s probably queer anyway. Boys who like art usually are.’

  ‘Maybe you should ask Susan if he’s queer. She should know.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ said Alice forcefully. ‘It doesn’t matter to me.’

  Except, of course, that it mattered a great deal. Ronnie was the first boy she had ever had feelings for and to discover that he preferred someone else had hurt more than she could have imagined. Especially when that someone was Susan Ramsey.

  She needed to take her pain out on someone but Kate was not proving a satisfactory target.

  Then they entered Market Court and she saw a better one.

  Ronnie’s mother was entering Fisher’s Bookshop. Pretty, timid, common Anna Sidney, who adored her precious son and had married a deformed freak in a pathetic attempt to buy them both respectability.

  ‘Do you want to have some fun?’ she asked Kate.

  Anna stood in the art section of the shop, looking for birthday presents for Ronnie, relishing the fact that expense was no longer a consideration.

  She found a book about Millais and began to skim through its pages, checking that his favourite painting of Ophelia was included among the illustrations.

  And heard someone say his name.

  Two people were talking about him, both female, on the other side of the shelves.