Apple of My Eye (2 page)

Stan and Vera had taken her in. Given her somewhere to live. But it was not a home and they were not her family. She was an outsider. Tolerated but unwanted. And sometimes at night, in her bed in the tiny room at the back of the house, she felt so alone that she wished the bomb had killed her too.

‘Well, you can forget about keeping the baby. You’re having it adopted and that’s that. The last thing we need is another mouth to feed. Particularly not some squaddie’s bastard.’

A lump was forming in her throat. She swallowed it down, determined to be strong. Not to let Vera win. To hold on to some last vestige of pride. Closing her eyes, she strained to hear the voice in her head that had once been as loud as thunder but now grew fainter with each passing day.

October.

Nurse Jane Smith looked about the maternity ward. Visiting hour was well under way and combinations of proud parents, happy husbands and curious children
sat around every bed, clucking over the screaming bundle that the tired mother held in her arms.

Every bed except the one that contained the pretty girl with the strawberry-blonde hair.

The crib at the foot of the bed was empty. The baby had been born the previous day after a hard labour. It had been a boy. Seven pounds, nine ounces and perfect in every way. A baby of whom any mother would be proud. A baby who would be loved by his adoptive parents as soon as he was handed over to them.

He was being kept in a separate room. The adoption papers were being signed the following day. Then it would be final. Signed, sealed and delivered. Those whom the legal profession has joined let no natural mother set asunder.

The table beside the bed was bare of flowers and cards. Just as the left hand was bare of a wedding ring. There had been no visitors. No telephone calls. No sign of anyone who cared.

The girl sat staring into space. Her skin was ashen; her expression numb. On the wall behind her head faded bunting still hung. A remnant of the celebrations that had greeted VE Day. In this atmosphere of joy and rejoicing she looked completely out of place. A small, broken creature, totally alone.

Jane knew that it was none of her concern. Decisions had been made, forces set in motion. She had no right to interfere.

But she was a mother herself. One who had lost her husband on a French battlefield four years earlier, and
with him her will to live. Until that day, three months later, when their newborn daughter had given it back to her.

And that gave her every right.

Five minutes later she approached the bed, walking through air that was thick with laughter and the smell of excrement and warm milk. In her arms was a crying baby boy. Seven pounds, nine ounces. Perfect in every way.

‘Anna.’

No answer. The eyes remained focused on the far wall.

‘Look, Anna. Please.’

Still no response. The arms hung limply by the sides. Gently, Jane placed the baby in them, bending the elbows, massaging them into a makeshift cradle. Then she stood back and waited.

The baby wriggled, clearly not comfortable. The mother’s face remained impassive.

Then, suddenly, the baby quietened and lay still.

‘He knows you, Anna. He knows who you are.’

Slowly the eyes turned downwards. The baby began to gurgle, stretching up one arm.

‘He’s saying hello. He wants you to like him.’

More gurgles. The tiny face formed itself into a smile. The doctors would have dismissed it as a contortion of the features. Perhaps they were right. But every new mother in the world would have known different.

‘He’s perfect, Anna. Perfect in every way. And he needs you. You need each other.’

The eyes remained focused on the baby. The numbness
was fading, replaced by wonder, together with the first traces of a reciprocal smile.

‘But if you want him adopted that’s your choice. No one can stop you. Give him to me now. Let me take him back.’

She waited for the protest. None came. But no relinquishment either.

‘Is that what you want, Anna? For me to take him away? To never see him again?’

Silence. A single moment that seemed to last an age.

Then a soft whisper. ‘No.’

The smile remained. One finger slid around the outstretched arm.

‘He’s yours, Anna. No one can take him from you. Not if you don’t let them. Fight for him. He is worth it.’

She slipped away, back into the bustle of the ward, leaving mother and son to become acquainted.

Midnight.

The ward was quieter now. One baby cried; an exhuasted mother snored. All else was still.

Anna Sidney gazed down at her newborn son.

He was sleeping. Earlier she had fed him for the first time. In spite of her anxiety it had gone better than she had dared hope. As if he had sensed her nervousness and wanted to make it easy for her.

His forehead was covered in lines. Nurse Smith had told her that all newborn babies looked like old men for the first few days. Then the skin smoothed out and they became beautiful.

But he was beautiful now.

She traced the lines with her finger, remembering a similar pattern on the forehead of her father. His name had been Ronald. Like her idol Ronald Colman. It was a name she had always loved.

The baby stirred and half opened his eyes. The corners of the mouth stretched upwards. A weary smile.

‘Hello, my darling. My angel.’

Hello, Ronnie.

Rocking him in her arms, she began to sing:

The eyes closed again. He drifted back into sleep. A crinkled Buddha, wrapped in a blanket, lost in a world of dreams.

She wondered whether his father would ever see him. It had been five months since the declaration of peace in Europe and still she had heard nothing. Perhaps he was dead. Perhaps he had just forgotten her, his declarations of love as hollow as a drum.

But it didn’t matter. Not now.

Who will you look like, little Ronnie? Your father? My parents or my brother John? The only four people in this world I’ve ever loved.

All were lost to her now. But when she gazed down at her child she felt as if she had found them again.

No one would take him from her. She would kill anyone who tried. Vera would be furious; perhaps try to order her from the house. But she would stand her ground and fight back. And she would win. A strength was building inside her. One she had never known before. She had Ronnie to take care of and she would die for him if necessary.

There was movement near by. The woman four beds along had risen and was checking on her daughter, Clara. Clara was a foul-tempered baby with a face like a bulldog who did nothing but feed, scream and vomit. Clara wasn’t beautiful. Clara wasn’t perfect.

Clara wasn’t Ronnie.

He stirred in sleep but did not wake. Safe within her arms. The two of them bound together for ever.

Sleep well, my darling. My angel. My little ray of sunshine. My little Ronnie.

Little Ronald Sidney.

Little Ronnie Sunshine.

A slow Saturday in May. At the counter of the Moreton Street corner shop, Mabel Cooper read a magazine article about Elizabeth Taylor’s recent wedding. Nicky Hilton looked very handsome, and the writer of the article was sure that Elizabeth had found a love that would last for ever. Mabel was sure of it too.

Footsteps signalled the presence of customers. Her forced smile became genuine when she saw the pretty young woman who led a little boy by the hand.

‘Hello, Anna.’

‘Hello, Mrs Cooper. How are you?’

‘All the happier for seeing you and Ronnie.’

‘Is your sister feeling better?’

‘She is, dear. Bless you for asking. And how are you today, Ronnie?’

Ronnie looked thoughtful. ‘I am very well today, Mrs Cooper,’ he said, speaking slowly and deliberately, as if considering each word before it was uttered. Though not yet five, he had an old-fashioned dignity of manner that Mabel found enchanting. He was the image of his mother. The only difference was in the colour of the eyes. Hers were blue, his grey-green.

Mabel folded her arms and pretended to frown. ‘Ronnie, what are you to call me?’

The solemn expression became a smile. ‘Auntie Mabel.’

‘That’s right.’ Mabel smiled too. ‘And what can I get you today, Anna?’

A special look passed between Anna and Ronnie, just as it did every Saturday. Mabel reached under the counter and produced a small notepad and a new pencil. Ronnie’s smile became radiant.

‘He’s already filled the last one,’ said Anna, her voice swelling with pride. ‘A different picture on every page and all of them wonderful.’

‘Next time you must bring some to show me. Will you do that, Ronnie?’

‘Yes, Auntie Mabel.’

Mabel’s husband Bill appeared from the back room, crumpled after his nap and bringing with him the rich scent of pipe tobacco. ‘Hello, Anna. Hello, Ronnie.’

‘Hello, Mr Cooper.’

‘Ronnie, what are you to call me?’

‘Uncle Bill.’

Bill handed Ronnie a chocolate bar. Anna looked anxious. ‘I don’t have any coupons.’

‘That can be our secret.’ Bill gave Ronnie a conspiratorial wink which he returned.

‘You start school next year, Ronnie. Are you excited?’

‘Yes, Auntie Mabel.’

‘Are you going to work hard and make your mother proud?’

‘Yes, Uncle Bill.’

‘Good boy.’

Anna paid for the notepad and pencil. ‘Thank you for the chocolate. You’re both so kind.’

‘A pleasure,’ Mabel told her. ‘Take care, dear. Look after your mother, Ronnie.’

‘I will, Auntie Mabel. Goodbye, Uncle Bill.’

‘Goodbye, Ronnie.’

‘Poor girl,’ said Bill once Anna and Ronnie had left. ‘Can’t be easy for her.’

‘Especially living with that awful Vera Finnegan.’ Mabel shook her head. ‘I’m just thankful the father wasn’t a Negro. Imagine if Ronnie had been coloured like Elsie Baxter’s friend’s baby. Yesterday Elsie was telling me …’

‘You spend too much time gossiping with Elsie Baxter.’

‘That’s because it’s more fun than gossiping with you, Mr Keep-your-nose-out-of-other-people’s-business.’ Mabel’s expression became thoughtful. ‘I don’t think Anna would change anything, though. She absolutely adores that boy.’

‘He’s a good lad. Mark my words, he’ll make her proud one day.’

Friday evening. Anna followed the other secretaries out of the typing pool and into the yard of Hodgsons can factory.

It was full of men, smoking, laughing and radiating the good cheer that came with the end of the working
week. Some wolf-whistled as the more attractive secretaries approached. Judy Bates, a lively blonde of eighteen, blew them a kiss. Ellen Hayes, an older secretary, shook her head disapprovingly. Ellen thought Judy the sort of girl who would land herself in trouble. She had once said this to Anna over a cup of tea before realizing to whom she was talking and hastily changing the subject.

Anna walked with Kate Brennan, a cheerful girl the same age as herself. As they crossed the yard Kate was hailed by Mickey Lee, a machine operator. Kate touched Anna’s arm. ‘Have a nice weekend. Give Ronnie a kiss from me.’

‘I will. You have a nice weekend too.’

Kate hurried towards Mickey, her slim figure giving no indication of the baby she had borne five years ago. An illegitimate girl, fathered by a soldier just as Ronnie had been. The child had been adopted and Kate never talked about her now. Acted as if she had never existed. But sometimes Kate would stare at the tiny picture of Ronnie that Anna kept on her desk and a troubled look would come into her eyes. There for a moment and then gone, replaced by a smile and a joke about nothing in particular.

As they approached the gate, Anna saw Harry Hopkins, a small, serious man of about thirty. Three years earlier Harry had started taking her out, and after six months had asked her to marry him. Though not in love, she had been fond of Harry and willing to build a future with him. Until that moment when he had said,
very gently, that it wasn’t too late to have Ronnie adopted …

Their eyes met as she passed. Each smiled, then looked quickly away.

Stan stood at the gate, wearing the suit that hung much less comfortably than the overalls he had once worn. He had a minor managerial role now and sat behind a desk all day. Anna knew that he would be happier back on the factory floor but neither hell nor high water could have persuaded Vera to renounce her new status as a manager’s wife.

Together they passed through the gates and up the road towards Hesketh junction. To the right was Baxter Road and the other narrow streets full of tiny houses with outside toilets, packed in together like sardines. Until last year that would have been their route. Now they turned left, towards Moreton Street and the more prosperous area occupied by the aspiring middle classes of the town.

Stan told her about the events of his day, trying to make them amusing. He was no comedian but she laughed to make him happy. Five years ago it had been Stan who had supported her decision to keep Ronnie, refusing to throw her out of the house in spite of Vera’s demands. It was the one time she had seen him stand up to his wife.

They entered Moreton Street: a nondescript road of semi-detached houses, built in the 1930s. Their house was on the right-hand side, backing on to the railway line that carried trains from London to East Anglia. At
the corner of the street was a tiny park where a group of boys played football. Nine-year-old Thomas stood by a makeshift goal, talking to Johnny Scott, whose elder brother Jimmy had already been in court for theft. Vera did not approve of the Scotts and Thomas was forbidden to associate with Johnny, but Stan hadn’t noticed them together and Anna was not one to tell tales.