Apple of My Eye

by Patrick Redmond

Genres: Suspense

Synopsis

Ronnie Sidney is a perfect child. The illegitimate son of a wartime romance, he gives his mother the unconditional love she so craves. In his mother's eyes Ronnie is faultless: a ray of sunshine in her grey life. But as cracks begin to creep into Ronnie's facade of youthful charm, a very different character starts to emerge. For Susan Ramsey, life is easy. Cherished by her parents, she knows nothing of hardship or misery. Until a sudden tragedy thrusts her into a dark and disturbing world. When Susan and Ronnie meet, the attraction is instant. Each recognises in the other a long-awaited soul mate. Finally, Ronnie feels able to remove his mask of perfection - with consequences more dreadful than either could possibly have foreseen . . . With its compelling exploration of psychological power games and emotional violence, Apple of My Eye is the mesmerising third novel from the bestselling author of The Wishing Game and The Puppet Show.

Release date: November 21, 2013

Publisher: Sphere

Print pages: 384

Sample

‘The setting is genuinely chilling, and the atmosphere of menace and sterility riveting’ – Daily Express

‘Patrick Redmond’s chilling debut novel is a first-rate page-turner’ – Daily Mirror

‘The repressive world of single-sex boarding schools is a fertile ground for novelists, and Redmond grasps every opportunity for delineating the resulting psychological deformations with relish … Such is the hard-edged skill of Redmond’s writing that the carefully structured revelations about the past have a bitter and compelling power’ – Times Literary Supplement

‘Assured writing sets up evil to overcome the weak in this deft, Hitchcockian portrayal of a malevolent microcosm of warped power’ – Publishing News

‘The Wishing Game is dark and gripping, like an anaconda. I could not pull myself away: an astonishing debut’ – Tim Rice

‘Thanks to Redmond’s masterfully subtle fore-shadowing, a brooding sense of impending disaster is maintained throughout his gripping suspense thriller’ – Publishers Weekly

‘Redmond has a way of making individuals seem both more human and more vile as new levels of detail are unearthed. Even his villains manage to become more understandable, vulnerable and complex as the book marches on … An impressive debut’ – Washington Post

‘Redmond marries a sure grasp of psychology with a beguiling narrative that allows its series of revelations to unfold in a totally organic fashion … But his principal gift, as in The Wishing Game, is an effortless grasp of narrative texture, and multiple levels of sympathetic insight into his brilliantly drawn characters – Crime Time

‘A highly successful thriller: a page-turner, certainly, but also original, well-constructed and intelligent’ – Spectator

‘As dark psychological thrillers go, this is dark … A good read’ – Maxim

‘His style is strictly no frills – simple, sparse and straightforward … but he does have a way of making you gag to know what happens next’ – Daily Mirror

‘A mesmerising narrative, plainly but urgently told. Redmond’s particular talent lies in the book’s careful structure, its plotting and steadily accelerating pace – and in the psychological veracity that made the previous book a stunner … An excellent novel: clearly a talent to watch’ – Tangled Web

‘A dark and bloody tale which keeps the tension going right until the last page … A superb, intelligent read’ – Joanne Harris

‘A compelling novel that draws you deep into the world of children at the mercy of the dangerous adults. Disturbing and gripping’ – Natasha Cooper

‘An intense, gripping read’ – Heat

‘The lurking tension and twisting cruelty in Redmond’s writing and plotting make for a hypnotic, compelling read’ – The Bookseller



A late afternoon in June. In the stuffy office with grey walls the doctor cleared his throat and prepared to act out the scene he knew by heart.

‘There’s no doubt. You are pregnant. About five months, I’d say.’

The girl made no answer. But then it could hardly have come as a surprise.

‘So no more starving yourself. You need to keep your strength up. After all, you’re eating for two.’

Still no answer. He sat back in his chair and studied her. She was a pretty thing; strawberry blonde hair, delicate features, pale blue eyes and no wedding ring. A small hand rubbed at a lower lip. The white blouse and knee-length skirt made her look like the child she still was. Her name was Anna Sidney and she was three months short of her seventeenth birthday. He had read that in her file. And he had read some other stuff too.

‘Is the father a soldier?’

A nod.

‘Is he still here?’

‘No.’

‘Do you know where he is?’

A pause. The hand continued to rub at the lip. ‘No.’

He shook his head, having seen it all before. Naive, romance-starved girl meets libidinous, silver-tongued soldier and is charmed into losing her virginity and much else besides. Someone had told him once that a woman learned to desire the man she loved while a man learned to love the woman he desired. Only some men were very bad learners.

But that was just the way of the world. He was old and tired and there was nothing he could do about it.

He picked up his pen. ‘You need more vitamins. I’ll give you a prescription.’ His tone was brusque and businesslike. ‘And you’ll have …’

‘He will come back.’ Her voice was soft as a whisper. ‘I know he will.’

‘No he won’t. They never do. Not in real life. Only in films.’ He carried on writing, trying to be quick. Longing to get home to his supper and bed. In the street outside a man walked by, singing loudly. It was only a month since VE Day and the sense of euphoria was everywhere. Peace after six long years.

The nib of his pen scratched on the paper. A drop of ink fell on to his desk. He looked up, searching for some blotting paper, and saw that she was crying. He remembered her file. What he had read.

And felt suddenly ashamed.

He put down his pen. She was wiping her eyes with her fingers. There was a clean handkerchief in his drawer. ‘Here,’ he said gently. ‘Use this.’

‘Thank you. I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. Forgive me if I sounded harsh. I didn’t mean to. Life should be like the pictures, only most of the time it’s not.’

‘He told me that he loved me. That he’d send for me. That we’d be married.’

Of course. That was what they all said. But perhaps the words had been meant.

‘Do you like the pictures, Anna?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who’s your idol? Clark Gable? Errol Flynn?’

‘Ronald Colman.’

‘My wife and I enjoy his films. The characters he plays. Kind and honourable. There isn’t enough of that in the world.’

‘He looks like my father.’

Again he thought of her file. Thought of the hard road she had travelled and the harder one that lay ahead. There was little comfort he could offer but still he felt the need to try.

‘Anna, people are going to try and make you feel ashamed. Don’t let them. A new life is growing inside you and that is a wonderful thing. My wife and I wanted a child of our own more than anything but we were never blessed. And that’s what it is, Anna. A blessing. No matter what anyone says to you, never lose sight of that.’

She looked up. Her tears were slowing. ‘I won’t,’ she said, and suddenly there was a world of dignity in her voice. ‘Because he meant what he said. He loves me and now the war is over we will be together.’

‘I hope so.’

‘I know it.’

That evening, after supper, Anna told Stan and Vera.

The three of them sat at the kitchen table of the house in Baxter Road. The window was open, looking out on to the tiny back yard that Vera insisted on referring to as a garden. The breeze, tinged with the scent of a hundred meals being cooked in neighbouring houses, never quite dispelled the smell of stale chip fat that hung in the air like invisible fog.

‘I knew it,’ Vera announced. ‘I said something was up.’

Stan nodded. He was a cousin of Anna’s father. A tall, thin man with receding hair, slack chin and asthma, who worked in a can factory two streets away.

‘I’m sorry, Stan,’ Anna whispered.

A sigh. ‘Well, I suppose these things do happen.’ His expression was sympathetic. Though a weak man, he tried to be a good one.

But it was not his reaction which mattered.

‘Not in my house they don’t.’ Vera’s small mouth was set in an ominous line. She was tall, like her husband, but twice as wide. ‘How could you do this to us after all we’ve done for you?’

Anna stared down at the tablecloth. From the living room came excited squeals as four-year-old Thomas and two-year-old Peter raced toy cars across the floor.

‘You had nothing. We took you in. We gave you a home and family and you repay us by acting like some tart.’

‘It wasn’t like that.’

‘How did it happen, then? An immaculate conception?’

‘We love each other.’ Emotion rose up in her. She fought against it, not wanting to seem weak. Not now.

‘So where is he? This knight in shining armour.’

‘I don’t know.’

A snort. ‘You don’t know anything about him!’

But that wasn’t true. She knew his name was Edward. That he was twenty-five and nearly six foot tall. That he was not classically handsome but had beautiful grey-green eyes and a smile that could release a million butterflies in her stomach. That he had a small birthmark on his neck which he called his little map of England. That he spoke with the faintest trace of a lisp. That he was clever, funny and kind. And that they loved each other.

‘You fool! You don’t have the brains you were born with.’

‘Don’t be too hard on her,’ said Stan suddenly. ‘She hasn’t had it easy.’

‘None of us have had it easy, Stan Finnegan, but we don’t all spread our legs the first time some squaddie gives us a smile. We’ve done everything for this girl and this is how she repays us. We gave her a home …’

And so it went on. The anger, the contempt and the constant reminders of all she owed them. She sat in silence, feeling as empty and afraid as she had on the day three years earlier when she had returned home after spending the night with a friend and discovered that a German bomb had destroyed her house and the lives of her parents and younger brother.

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.

He loves me. He will take me away from this and we will be happy for ever.

He loves me and he will come and save me. I know he will come.

He has to come …

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:

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.

You make me happy when skies are grey.

You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you.

Please don’t take my sunshine away.

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.

Half a dozen smaller boys played football in the street. Seven-year-old Peter scored a goal and was congratulated by his teammates. Mabel Cooper stood outside her shop, talking to Emily Hopkins. Mabel gave Anna a cheerful wave. Emily did not. She was Harry’s sister and had opposed his involvement with Anna from the start.

As she walked on, Anna thought of Kate and Mickey spending their evening watching a Robert Mitchum picture before eating fish and chips on the way home. Hers would be spent making the supper and doing whatever chores Vera decreed.

But that was how things were. She had made her bed. It could not be unmade now.

A cry disturbed her thoughts. Ronnie was running down the street, his feet moving so fast they barely touched the ground. His shorts, handed down from Peter, were still too big for him. His socks hung around his ankles. Flinging his arms around her, he began to tell her about his day; words pouring out of him like a torrent so that she could barely make sense of them while Stan stood by, watching them both with a smile.

As she gazed down at him love consumed her, burning away regret like a blast furnace devouring a sheet of paper.

On Saturday evening Ronnie knew it was his turn to have a bath.

Each member of the household had an allocated bath night. Auntie Vera bathed on Monday, Uncle Stan on Tuesday, Thomas on Wednesday, Peter on Thursday, Ronnie’s mother on Friday and Ronnie on Saturday. On Sunday the bath remained empty because even though the house in Moreton Street was bigger than the one they had left in Baxter Road and Uncle Stan was earning more now, Auntie Vera didn’t believe in wasting money on hot water if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.

There was a red line drawn on the side of the bath. A limit on the level to which it could be filled. Ronnie wished he could fill his bath right to the top but on this, as with everything else in 41 Moreton Street, Auntie Vera’s word was law.

His mother knelt by the side of the bath, measuring out shampoo. Only half a lidful per head. Yet another rule. ‘Shut your eyes, darling,’ she told him before massaging it into his hair. He lay back in the water while she washed it out, then sat up again.

‘Did Ophelia have dirty hair?’ he asked.

‘Ophelia?’

‘In the picture book.’ One that she had borrowed from the library about famous painters. A man called Millais had painted a girl called Ophelia lying in the water with her hair spread out like a halo. That was the picture he had liked best.

‘Probably, but not as dirty as yours.’

He climbed out of the tub. ‘Who’s a clean boy now?’ she asked, while drying him with a towel.

‘I am,’ he replied. Her hands were soft and gentle.

After he had cleaned his teeth, using the ordained amount of toothpaste, she led him across the hallway to the back bedroom they shared. From downstairs came the sound of Thomas and Peter arguing while Auntie Vera shouted for quiet so she could hear her big band programme on the wireless.

It was the smallest bedroom in the house, though bigger than the one they had shared in Baxter Road. His mother had a single bed by the door while he had a camp bed by the window that looked out on to the back garden and the ridge that led up to the railway line. Kneeling beside it, he said the prayer she had taught him.

‘God bless Mum and Auntie Vera, Uncle Stan, Thomas and Peter. God bless Granny Mary, Grandpa Ronald and Uncle John in heaven. God bless my dad and keep him safe wherever he is. Thank you for my lovely day. Amen.’

He climbed into bed. She plumped up his pillow. ‘Tell me about our house,’ he said.

‘One day, when I’ve saved enough money, I’ll buy us a lovely house of our own. You’ll have a big room and can cover all the walls with your pictures. We’ll have a garden so huge it will take a man a whole day to cut the grass. And you’ll have a dog and …’

He watched her face. Though she was smiling, her eyes were sad. She worked as a secretary at Uncle Stan’s factory but wasn’t very good. That was what Uncle Stan told Auntie Vera. Sometimes Mrs Tanner, who ran the typing pool, shouted at his mother. Auntie Vera said that his mother was lazy but that wasn’t true. She did her best and one day he would go and shout at Mrs Tanner and see how she liked it.

‘When I’m bigger,’ he told her, ‘I’m going to help you with your work.’

She stroked his cheek. ‘Of course you will.’

‘And then, when we’ve got our house, my dad can come and live with us.’

Momentarily her smile faded. ‘Perhaps. But if he can’t we’ll still be happy, won’t we.’

‘Yes.’

‘What shall we do tomorrow? Go to the park and play on the swings?’

‘I’m going to draw you another picture.’

‘I’ll take it to work and hang it on the wall and when people ask who did it I’ll say that it was my son Ronald Sidney and one day he’s going to be a famous artist and everyone in the world will know his name.’

She bent down to hug him. Her skin smelled of soap and flowers. He hugged her back as hard as he could. Once Peter had twisted his arm to make him say that he wished Auntie Vera was his mother. He had said it but his fingers had been crossed. He wouldn’t change his mother for a hundred Auntie Veras.

When she had gone he opened the curtains and stared out at the summer evening. It was still light and in the next door garden Mr Jackson sat in a chair, reading the paper. Auntie Vera said Mr Jackson gambled on horses. Auntie Vera thought gambling was bad.

Soon it would be dark and the moon would slide across the sky. It was just a thin sliver but in time it would grow as fat and round as the apples Mrs Cooper sold in her shop. His mother had taught him about moons and the constellations of stars. Auntie Vera probably thought moons and constellations were bad too.

A train rattled past, pumping clouds of steam into the air as it left London for the country. It was full of people. A woman saw him at the window and waved. He waved back.

One day he and his mother would be on that train. His father would come and take them away to a beautiful house of their own, and Auntie Vera and her rules would be left far, far behind.

April 1951.

‘Bastard,’ whispered Peter.

Ronnie s