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 s
orry 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.
Later he sat on the beach, drawing pad in front of him, watching parents play with small children and elderly couples loll in deckchairs frowning at teenagers who lay on towels listening to rock ’n’ roll on transistor radios. A father and son built a giant sandcastle. He began to draw it, embellishing its simple design with flourishes of his own, giving it ramparts, turrets, statues of dragons, a drawbridge and moat. Turning it into his own version of Camelot with the man and boy as medieval knights.
Three girls sat near by, all about sixteen and wearing one-piece bathing costumes, watching as a pair of slightly older boys arm-wrestled each other in an attempt to appear manly without damaging their carefully styled hair.
One of the girls noticed him drawing. She came to look, sitting down beside him in the sand. ‘My name’s Sally. What’s yours?’
He told her. She had brown hair, large breasts and a sensual mouth. ‘May I draw you?’ he asked.
She nodded. Her gaze was direct and confident. ‘You may.’
Her friends came to join them. One of them said he looked like Billy Fury. The other agreed.
In the end he drew all three while they asked him questions and talked about a party on the beach the following evening. Sally kept staring at him. ‘You must come,’ she said, her eyes warm and inviting. He stared into them, sensing her desire and feeling the sudden, unexpected heat of his own.
‘I’ll try,’ he said.
The friends giggled, while in the background the older boys muttered to each other and the turning tide sent waves to besiege the castle and dissolve it into nothing.
The next morning the heavens opened. A summer storm blown out of nowhere and destined to vanish as quickly as it had come. Ronnie prowled from shop to shop waiting for the sun to return.
Eventually he entered a gentlemen’s outfitters in the central square.
It was a large shop. Assistants hurried about, serving customers. He stood by the tie rack, gazing out of the window. The rain seemed to be slowing.
‘Can I help you?’ A middle-aged assistant had appeared by his side.
‘I need a new tie.’
‘For a particular occasion?’
‘My cousin’s wedding.’ Again he glanced out of the window. The rain was definitely easing. In the background a heavily overweight man complained that tailors were making trousers much tighter these days while his equally overweight wife rolled her eyes.
‘Do you see any you like?’
He pointed one out.
‘Would you like to try it on. There’s a full-length mirror you can use.’
The rain was almost completely gone now. He decided to leave. There were other places to buy ties.
Then he saw the two boys from the beach.
They were standing by the fountain, their arms folded, looking bored and restless.
One of them noticed him in the window and nudged the other. Their faces darkened.
‘All right, then.’
‘The mirror’s in that alcove.’
He turned in the direction indicated.
And heard a voice inside his head. A sudden bolt of pure instinct.
Leave. Leave now. Leave this place and never come back.
But he couldn’t leave. Not yet.
And what was there to fear? What could happen to him here in this public place?
Moments later he stood in front of the mirror, staring down at shoes which were still damp from the rain. His hair was damp too. A drop of water slid down his forehead and on towards the floor. He watched it fall.
There were footsteps behind him. Quick and purposeful. A hand came to rest upon his shoulder.
He looked up into the mirror.
Mr Clark checked his watch.
He was sitting in a café, waiting for Ronnie. They had agreed to meet for lunch at one o’clock and it was now a quarter past.
Anxiety stirred in him. Had Ronnie got himself into some sort of trouble?
But then it subsided. Ronnie was a sensible boy who would never do anything reckless. He had just lost track of time. That was all.
Beckoning to a waitress, he prepared to order.
From that day onwards his offers of lunchtime meetings were politely but firmly declined. ‘It’s very kind of you, Mr Clark, but I don’t want to disrupt your day.’ For the rest of the holiday he saw Ronnie only at breakfast and bedtime.
Except once. On a perfect summer afternoon, three days after the storm. While walking past The Terrace he noticed Ronnie sitting on the green, drawing pad on knee and pencil in hand, staring fixedly in front of him.
He decided against going over for fear of spoiling Ronnie’s concentration. Instead he continued on his way.
*
Little Ronnie Sunshine, fourteen and restless.
Little Ronnie Sunshine, ready to leave childish things behind.
Little Ronnie Sunshine, alone in a new town, listening to the music inside himself.
During those long days of summer the jumbled sequence of notes at last took shape.
Allowing the first masterpiece to be heard.
October. Charles Pembroke drove Anna to the railway station.
It was raining heavily. The windscreen wipers swept sheets of water on to the road. As he drove she told him a story that her lock-keeper friend had told her. Something about a boat coming loose from its overnight moorings and drifting a mile downriver. Her voice was tight with excitement. The way it always was when she was going to see Ronnie.
It was warm in the car. He opened his window an inch, feeling a blast of cold air and the sting of raindrops on his cheek. ‘Do you mind?’ he asked, knowing that she would not. Not when she was going to see Ronnie.
She was wearing a blue dress; neat, simple and slightly old-fashioned. She spent little on clothes, preferring to save her money for Ronnie.
But it didn’t matter. She could have worn a potato sack and would still have looked lovely.
Her story reached its end. ‘I bet you’ll be glad to escape my prattling.’
‘The rare luxury of a peaceful office.’ He smiled to show he was joking while thi
nking of just how empty it would seem without her.
They reached the station. The rain was still heavy and she had no umbrella. He handed her his newspaper. ‘Use this.’
‘You haven’t done the crossword yet.’
‘There’s no point. With you gone who can I swear at when I’m stuck on the last clue?’
She laughed. Her face was devoid of make-up. Not even lipstick. Ronnie didn’t like it. Ronnie had told her she didn’t need make-up to be beautiful.
He wished he could tell her too.
Instead he wished her a safe journey and a lovely break.
As she hurried across the station forecourt a youth on a motorcyle raced by, spraying her with water without stopping to apologize. He felt an urge to leap from the car, drag the cyclist from the bike and knock him to the ground.
But she didn’t even notice. Too excited at the prospect of seeing Ronnie.
On reaching the entrance she turned back. A slim, pretty woman in a cheap blue dress, covering her head with a soggy newspaper. A woman who had experienced the full savagery of life but not become embittered. A woman with little in the way of education but who possessed a warmth that could fill a palace, let alone a book-lined study overlooking the river.
He gave her a wave, while feeling a raw ache in his heart.
I love that woman. I love her more than I have ever loved anyone in my life.
She waved back and then was gone.
Saturday lunchtime. Anna sat at the kitchen table with Ronnie, Vera, Stan, Peter and Jane, eating a chicken stew she had made. Her visits were always spent cooking. And cleaning. Doing all the jobs that Vera could possibly delegate.
Vera was griping about their new neighbours. Mr Jackson had moved away, leaving Mr and Mrs Smith to take his place. Though Vera had not liked Mr Jackson she had never complained about him as vehemently as she did about the Smiths. But then, Mr Jackson had not been black.
Apple of My Eye Page 14
