Apple of My Eye (19 page)

A lump came into her throat. She couldn’t cope with this. Not from him.

‘Shame on you,’ she whispered.

He continued to play with the steam. ‘It doesn’t matter anyway. I don’t need him and soon I won’t need you. In a couple of years I’ll have qualifications and can get a job and out of this place without your help.’

She looked down at her hands. They were shaking. The shock of a verbal beating from such an unexpected source. Softly she began to cry while he pounded the table-top with his fingers, playing a tune that only he could hear.

Then he stopped.

She looked up. He was staring at her. All anger was gone, replaced by mortification.

‘Mum …’

‘I’ve got something in my eye.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any of that. I was angry with Auntie Vera and took it out on you. I had no right to do that.’

‘Yes you did. I’m the one you should be angry with. I
do
know what you have to put up with. I see it every
time I come here. You deserve better than this. Better than …’

‘You?’

He stretched out his hand, gently wiping her tears away. ‘Do you really think that?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Don’t. Not ever. When Peter’s unbearable I feel sorry for him because his mother is Auntie Vera and you’re worth a million of her. You’re worth a million of anyone.’

She felt a warmth in her stomach. ‘Do you really mean that?’

‘You know I do.’

They stared at each other. She took his hand, pressing it against her cheek.

‘What is it, Ronnie? What’s troubling you?’

‘Why do you ask that?’

‘Because you’re preoccupied. You were on my last visit too.’

‘I’m fine, Mum.’

‘If something’s wrong I want to know.’

‘Nothing is.’

‘You can tell me anything.’

‘I do. I could never have any secrets from you.’

Then he smiled. A glorious Ronnie Sunshine smile. He looked beautiful. Her son. Her darling. Her whole reason for living.

Two teenage girls sat at a nearby table. One of them kept staring over at Ronnie. Perhaps she knew him. Perhaps she found him beautiful too.

Oh God, let us be together soon. While he’s still young.

While he’s still mine.

Charles stood in Anna’s bedroom, looking at the surface of her dressing table.

It was like a shrine. Every inch covered with pictures of Ronnie. A tiny baby lying on a bed, staring curiously about him. A chubby toddler grinning for the photographer in a cheap, backstreet studio. A small boy in swimming trunks, standing behind a sandcastle. A solemn teenager with his head buried in a book. And a collection of formal school photographs, eight in all, representing each completed year of education.

The resemblance to Anna was remarkable. The same colouring. The same features and smile. More like twins than mother and son.

Except for the eyes. Hers were soft, warm and nervous; perfect windows into her soul. His were like pieces of coloured glass. Beautiful but blank. Not windows so much as barriers, giving no clue as to what lay beneath.

Charles picked up the most recent school portrait and stared down at the face it revealed. Handsome, intelligent and charming yet somehow secretive. The face that Anna loved above all others. Ronnie; her perfect son.

Perhaps she was right. Perhaps Ronnie was perfect and his own doubts no more than the pathetic jealousy of one who yearned for a comparable hold on her affections.

But love could be cruel. Silver-tongued and devious. Like a magic mirror that erased all flaws, showing those that sat in front of it only the images they wanted to see.

As he put the picture back in its place he caught a glimpse of his own reflection. A battered wreck of a face that no mirror in the world could ever make beautiful. No love could be so powerful as to weave that particular spell.

‘I envy you,’ he whispered to the boy in the photograph, who stared back at him with eyes that gave nothing away.

A cold November evening. Ronnie was drawing in his bedroom.

From the window he could see the railway line. He was back in the room he had once shared with his mother. Now that Thomas had left home Peter wanted a room of his own too.

He was working quickly, completing a sketch started earlier in the day. An image that had festered in his brain since Waltringham but which he had never yet dared commit to paper. When it was finished he crouched beside his bed, reaching under it, searching for the loose floorboard he had discovered as a small child. Vera and Peter often snooped through his possessions. But some things were private. Not for the eyes of others. His and his alone.

The picture hidden, he walked on to the landing. From downstairs came the sound of gunfire. Vera and
Stan were watching
Danger Man.
He liked the show but Vera had been in a foul mood at dinner and would only give him a lecture if he appeared in the living room. Better to stay upstairs.

From Peter’s room came the sound of music. Adam Faith singing in his nasal style. Jane liked Adam Faith. She was in the room too. He wondered what they were doing. Bored and wanting distraction, he crept towards the door. It was shut but not properly. He listened for muffled laughter, weak protests, eager sighs.

But there was none of that. They were whispering anxiously to each other, making plans that were theirs and theirs alone.

Saturday afternoon. Mabel Cooper stood behind the counter of her corner shop watching Ronnie refill the sweet jars. He now worked in the shop every Saturday afternoon as well as during his school holidays. A blessing as she and Bill were not so young any more.

She smiled as he dealt with the caramel creams. ‘I know they’re your favourite. Take some for yourself.’

Grinning, he put one in his mouth. She remembered the solemn little boy whose mother had bought him drawing pads and felt a sense of pride at the fine young man he was becoming. Not for him a menial job in the factory and dreams of fame as the latest pop sensation. Ronnie had prospects. Clever, disciplined and level-headed. Handsome too. Teenage girls spent longer in the shop when Ronnie was there, huddling
by the magazine rack, whispering to each other and giggling.

‘Only a few, mind. Don’t eat all my profits.’

Still grinning, he continued with his work.

‘I’m sorry to hear Jane isn’t well,’ she said.

‘It’s nothing serious. Just a bug. But she’s having trouble shaking it off.’

‘What sort of bug?’

‘She’s sick a lot.’

‘Oh, poor thing.’

‘It’s strange, though. She’s only sick in the morning.’ Ronnie finished dealing with the sweets. ‘All done.’

Mabel stared at him, her brain whirring.

‘Is everything all right, Auntie Mabel?’

‘Yes. Could you price the tinned goods? They’re out in the store cupboard.’

‘Of course.’ He went to do so.

Mabel vowed not to gossip. Bill was always scolding her for doing so. Calling her the biggest blabbermouth in town.

The bell rang. Mrs Thorpe from number 13 entered the shop. ‘Hello, Mabel. What’s the news today …?’

Wednesday evening. Ronnie sat on the stairs, listening to the row taking place in the living room.

‘Were you even going to tell me?’ bellowed a man with a deep voice. Jane’s father.

‘Of course.’ Jane was in tears.

‘Don’t lie to me, girl!’

‘I’m not!’

‘Stop shouting at her!’ Peter trying to be brave.

‘Don’t you tell me what to do. It’s your fault she’s in this mess.’

‘Let’s keep our voices down.’ Stan, ineffective as ever. ‘Think of the neighbours.’

‘The neighbours!’ Vera, piercingly shrill. ‘It’s a bit late for that now. The whole bloody street knows!’

‘But how?’ Peter again. ‘We didn’t tell anyone.’

‘It doesn’t matter how! The fact is they do. And that means it’s too late to do anything. Nobody will believe it was a miscarriage. Not now.’

‘Are you suggesting what I think?’ Jane’s father, shocked.

‘Well, what else?’ Vera, exasperated.

‘My daughter’s a Catholic. There’s no way she’s murdering her own child!’

‘Dad!’ Jane was still sobbing.

‘The baby could be adopted.’ Stan. A sensible suggestion for once.

‘Yes, why not?’ Peter eagerly clutching at straws.

‘And leave my daughter with the stigma of giving birth to a child out of wedlock? Over my dead body! The two of them are getting married and sharpish …’

Later, when Jane and her father had left and Vera and Stan were drowning their sorrows in the pub, Ronnie crept into Peter’s room.

Peter stood by the wall, staring down at the ground. ‘Fuck off.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘What do you think?’

‘When is it to be?’

‘The kid’s due at the end of May. It’s got to be before then.’

‘A ceremony won’t change anything. Shotgun weddings never do. Most people round here will still consider the baby illegitimate and you know what that means.’

Peter looked up. ‘What?’

‘That soon I won’t be the only stupid little bastard in the family.’

Then he began to laugh.

‘Shut up!’

He shook his head, unable to stop.

Peter punched him in the mouth. ‘Shut up! Shut up!’

But he couldn’t. Even as he lay on the floor soaking up Peter’s blows he just kept laughing as if his sides would split.

December 1960.

‘
An excellent term academically. As to conduct, however, Ronnie’s performance has been less satisfactory. His teachers report that, though always courteous, he is often distracted and seems more involved with his own thoughts than the lesson in hand. This is not uncommon in boys of his age and does not give rise to immediate concern, but I would hope to see such behaviour corrected sooner rather than later. Someone with Ronnie’s exceptional potential should not be developing habits that could hinder his future progress
.’

*

February 1961.

Charles sat by his stepmother’s bed. She never left it now. In recent weeks her bedroom had become her whole world.

He was reading from an expensively bound volume of Keats’s poetry. Keats was her favourite poet. On the front page, in flamboyant script, his brother had written, ‘To my darling mother on her birthday. All my love, Jimmy.’ The date was 17 May 1939. Only months from the start of the war that would take him from them both for ever.

‘Which one would you like to hear now?’ he asked.

‘“Ode to Autumn”.’

He smiled. She had always loved autumn. Season of mists, mellow fruitfulness and Jimmy’s birth.

And Ronnie’s. Anna loved autumn too.

‘I’ll never see another one. That’s what my doctor told me. Time to make my peace.’

‘You don’t have any peace to make.’

‘Don’t I?’ She turned towards him. Her expression was anxious. Frightened even. A tiny, birdlike woman with skin as thin as rice paper. He had known that this conversation was inevitable and longed to tell her that it wasn’t necessary. But it was. For her at least.

‘I keep seeing you in my head. The way you were when you first came to live with us. A boy of ten who’d lost the only parents he’d ever known and been sent across the country to a strange house and relatives who
were strangers too. When I picture it now I see how terrified you were. How much you wanted us to accept you. But I didn’t see it then. All I saw was someone who might threaten Jimmy.’

‘You had your reasons for feeling like that.’

‘And that makes it right?’

‘I understood.’

‘You may do now but you didn’t then. How could you? You were just a child.’ Tears came to her eyes. ‘The things you did to try and gain my affection. The way you tried and tried.’

‘Just as Jimmy tried with father.’

‘You should have hated me. I deserved your hatred. Instead you gave me more consideration than Jimmy ever did.’ She pointed to the book. ‘I know you bought that. Gave it to Jimmy to give me while you gave me a scarf in a colour I didn’t like. You didn’t want your present to upstage his.’

‘Presents are just tokens. It’s what you feel that matters.’

‘And what did Jimmy feel? What was I to him, really? Just a never-ending source of credit. That’s the truth. And yet I loved him. I couldn’t help it. When he died I wished it had been you. I told you …’

She began to sob. Her hand, clawlike with arthritis, lay on the bed. He took it in his own, squeezing it as gently as he could.

‘When Eleanor left you I was glad. I came to the hospital and told you that.’

‘You were in pain. You weren’t yourself.’

‘And what about your pain? You must have hated me then.’

‘Perhaps I did. But I also understood. You must believe that. Love can be a terrible thing. It can cause more pain than any physical wound. After Eleanor left me I never wanted to feel it again.’

‘But now you do.’

Silence.

‘Did you think I hadn’t realized?’

‘She’ll never love me. I’m just a friend. I accept that.’

‘Perhaps you won’t have to. Not when I’m gone.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’

Another silence. Her tears had stopped. She had said what she had needed to. He hoped that it had given her some peace.

‘But Charlie, there’s something you must understand. The boy will always come first. However much she might love you she will always love him more. For fifteen years he’s been her whole reason for living, just as your brother was mine. And when you love like that, nothing can ever eclipse it, however much you might wish it could.’

‘Do you wish that?’

‘I have done. Now I only wish that I could see him again. Just once before I die. To see him smile. And to tell him … to tell him …’

Again she began to cry. ‘Don’t,’ he said.

‘Would you hug me?’

He leant towards her. Suddenly she shook her head.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he whispered. ‘It’s all right to pretend that I’m Jimmy.’

She put her arms around his neck, holding him to her with all the strength her feeble body possessed, as if he were a source of life itself.

In March Mrs Pembroke died peacefully in her sleep.

Her funeral was in Kendleton Church, attended by the few people in the town who had known her. Anna hoped the Sandersons would come from Hepton but both were too ill to travel. She sat with Charles in the front row, crying quietly as the vicar delivered his sermon. Since it had happened she had cried a great deal. Though happy that she and Ronnie could now be together, she had lost a woman who had shown her far more kindness and affection than her adopted family ever had.