Apple of My Eye (17 page)

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. Utterly 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.’

She looked sympathetic. ‘Eleanor must have hurt you terribly.’

‘Just as Ronnie’s father must have hurt you.’

‘Do you still hate her?’

He shook his head. ‘Do you still hate him?’

‘How could I when he gave me Ronnie.’

‘Has Ronnie always loved drawing?’

‘From the first moment he could pick up a pen. When he was only two he could …’

And so she told him more about her beloved son, while in the background other diners carried on their own conversations and the pianist continued to play. Her eyes were shining, the trace of sadness temporarily banished. The sight made him glad.

And, for the first time, jealous.

In the assembly hall of Rigby Hill Grammar School, Archie Clark checked his answers to the end-of-year French exam. Desks were laid out in rows. To his right, Terry Hope wrote furiously while sighing loud enough to wake the dead. To his left, Ronnie Sidney, already finished, stared into space.

‘Pens down,’ bellowed the supervising teacher. ‘Answers to the front.’

‘Ronnie!’ hissed Archie. ‘How did you do?’

A shrug.

‘I made a right mess of the third translation.’

‘There was a
third
translation?’ squeaked Terry.

‘On the back page. Didn’t you see it?’

Terry let out a groan.

‘I wouldn’t worry,’ Archie told him. ‘I’ll get nought on it, unlike Brainbox over there.’ He gestured towards Ronnie, feeling suddenly sad. Back at Hepton Primary both Ronnie and he had been considered brainboxes. They had been the only boys from their class to reach grammar school but now he was struggling while Ronnie still shone.

Terry left the hall. ‘We’d better hurry,’ said Archie. ‘The bus goes in five minutes.’

Ronnie continued to stare into space.

‘We don’t want to miss it.’

No answer.

‘The next one isn’t for an hour.’

‘Then piss off and catch it.’

‘Why are you in a mood? You should be happy. The exams are over and soon it’ll be the summer holidays.’

‘And they’ll be great, won’t they? Six weeks stuck in Hepton working in the corner shop, listening to Auntie Vera rant about how spoilt and lazy I am compared to the brothers grim and, if I’m really lucky, a few days of watching my mother being ordered around and treated like she’s nothing. I can’t wait.’

Archie felt guilty. ‘Sorry. That was a stupid thing to say.’

Ronnie sighed. ‘Forget it. Go and get the bus. And don’t worry about the translation. You’ll have done fine.’

The hall was emptying; boys leaving in groups, talking excitedly about the forthcoming holidays. Archie packed up his belongings, wishing that Ronnie could be excited too.

Then, suddenly, he had a brainwave.

‘Do you want to come to Waltringham? It’s in Suffolk. We’re going there on holiday in August and Mum said I could bring a friend.’

This wasn’t strictly true. Waltringham was famous for its antique shops and Mr and Mrs Clark had spent their previous summer holiday browsing through every one of them, dragging a reluctant Archie in their wake. When he had complained his mother had told him that if he had a friend to go around with she would gladly forgo his company, but of course he didn’t and there was no way he was wandering around a strange town on his own.

But if Ronnie was there too …

Ronnie’s face lit up. ‘Are you sure your parents won’t mind?’

Archie told himself that it would be all right. His parents really liked Ronnie. Both referred to him as ‘that charming young man’.

‘I’m sure.’

Ronnie looked at his watch. ‘The bus will have gone. I’ll buy you a milk shake. Mum sent me some money and I need to spend it before Vera the Hun demands tribute.’

Archie laughed. Together they left the hall.

*

July 1960.

‘
An outstanding year, crowned by a superb performance in the exams. I predict that when Ronnie finally leaves us it will be to take up a place at either Oxford or Cambridge
.’

August. Anna sat at her desk, typing up the latest batch of handwritten notes. The window was open. A faint breeze shifted the dark pipe smoke that Charles Pembroke breathed into the air. Outside it was a beautiful day. A narrow boat sailed past with three children sitting on the roof, all topless and brown as berries.

The handwriting was particularly bad this time. One sentence defeated her completely. She turned to ask her companion for clarification and realized that he was staring at her.

He was leaning forward in his chair, elbow on the desk, head resting on his hand and a faint smile on his face. The pipe was still clenched between his lips, clouds of smoke rising towards the ceiling like a signal from an Indian fire.

‘Mr Pembroke?’

No answer. The eyes, unblinking, remained focused upon her.

‘Mr Pembroke?’

He started. The smile faded, replaced by embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry. Was I staring? I do that sometimes when I’m thinking through an idea.’ A quick laugh. ‘My secretary in America was always scolding me for it.’

‘I can’t read this sentence.’

She showed him the page. As he read aloud he scraped used tobacco from his pipe. ‘Are there any other parts you can’t decipher?’

‘No.’

Returning to her desk, she continued to work. After relighting his pipe so did he.

Waltringham, an attractive coastal town, was a popular holiday resort.

Ronnie and the Clarks were staying in the Sunnydale Hotel, a small guest house. Though situated in a nondescript side street its location was excellent: only five minutes’ walk from both the town centre and the beach.

They arrived on a hot, sticky afternoon. After they had unpacked, Mr Clark suggested a walk to show Ronnie his new surroundings.

The town centre, dating from the eighteenth century, was a maze of narrow streets converging on a small square with a fountain. ‘One in every four shops sells antiques,’ said Mrs Clark. ‘Isn’t that amazing?’ Ronnie agreed that it was while Archie grimaced behind his mother’s back.

One corner of the square opened on to a green surrounded by large houses with views of the sea. ‘That’s called The Terrace,’ explained Mr Clark. ‘The wealthiest people in Waltringham live there.’ He smiled wistfully. ‘Lucky things.’ Ronnie told them about The Avenue in Kendleton and felt suddenly wistful too.

They ended their expedition sitting on a bench overlooking the beach, eating fish and chips. Though it was early evening people were still swimming or lying on towels soaking up the last rays of sun. Archie ate slowly, complaining of a headache. His mother began to fret, wanting to feel his forehead. Ronnie stared out at the vast expanse of water and huge, empty sky, experiencing a sense of euphoria at his temporary escape from the grey streets of Hepton.

‘Have you been to the sea before, Ronnie?’ asked Mr Clark.

‘Once. Just for a day. Mum took me to Southend when I was little.’

‘And how does Waltringham compare?’

‘There’s no comparison. This place is beautiful. Thanks for bringing me.’

‘A pleasure. You must do some drawings for your mother while you’re here.’

‘I will.’

Mrs Clark continued to fuss over Archie. Mr Clark joined in. Ronnie remained silent, listening to the hiss of breaking waves, watching the gulls swoop over the water, tasting the salt in the air, allowing his senses to be filled by his new surroundings.

That night Archie started being sick.

He was still vomiting the next morning. A doctor was summoned to diagnose a particularly nasty stomach bug and prescribe the consumption of liquids and a week’s bed rest. Mrs Clark, dreading a visit from the
Grim Reaper, took up a vigil over the invalid while ordering her husband to keep himself and Ronnie out of the way.

‘I’m sorry about this,’ said Mr Clark as they ate lunch in a café.

‘It’s just a pity Archie’s holiday is spoilt.’

‘We must make sure yours isn’t. What sort of things would you like to do?’

‘Go swimming or exploring. The lady at the guest house told me about some good walks.’

Momentarily Mr Clark looked disappointed. ‘More fun than antique shops, eh?’

‘If you’d like to look at antiques, Mr Clark, I could entertain myself.’

‘Can’t have that. What sort of host would I be?’

‘I don’t mind. It’s the least I can do after you and Mrs Clark have been so kind to me.’

‘Well, if you’re sure.’

Ronnie gave his most charming smile. ‘Don’t worry about me, Mr Clark. I’ll be fine.’

The afternoon was hot. He sat on the coastal path, sketching the sea. The first time he had ever drawn it from sight rather than imagination.

An elderly couple stopped to admire his work. ‘I’d give anything to have talent like that,’ said the woman. Impulsively he offered her the picture, which she made him sign so she could show it to her friends when he had made his name.

The next day was hot too. In the morning he
explored Rushbrook Down, a huge expanse of green with dense woodland all around that was a popular picnic site. At lunchtime he met Mr Clark to hear the latest on Archie’s health, expressing concern while feeling none. There was so much to see and do in this exciting new place and Archie, with all the adventurous spirit of a dormouse, would only have slowed him down.

In the afternoon he went to the beach, plunging into the cold sea and swimming out as far as his arms would carry him. When exhausted he trod water, his body tingling with exertion, feeling the swell of the waves and the tug of the current while experiencing a strange sense of relief that his mother was not here to call him back lest he be drowned.