Read Online Apple of My Eye by Patrick Redmond - Free Book Online
Authors: Patrick Redmond
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fourth-year class. The theme was ‘An Important Person in My Life’. The winner was to receive five shillings and have their picture displayed on the school noticeboard for a week.
Most of the children had drawn their mothers. Naughty Alan Deakins had drawn that tart Marilyn Monroe, but Alan’s mother looked like a tart so that was rather appropriate. Stuart Hooper, bottom of the class and eager to curry favour, had drawn what was supposed to be a flattering portrait of herself resembling a gargoyle. Some had drawn their fathers. PatrioticCatherine Meadows had drawn the Queen. Archie Clark had drawn his cat.
But one entry stood head and shoulders above the rest. Ronnie Sidney’s drawing of his cousin Thomas.
It was an unusual drawing. Thomas himself did not appear. Ronnie had drawn a graveyard; at its centre a tombstone guarded by a stone angel with its wings spread out and its hands clasped in prayer. On the stone was carved: ‘
Thomas Stanley Finnegan. Born 12 November 1940. Died 7 October 1953
’.
Mrs Fletcher thought back to the previous October when Thomas had gone missing. Her colleague, Mrs Jennings had told her how the whole class had prayed for Thomas’s safety and of how worried Ronnie had been. Scared that Thomas might be dead. Fortunately it had all worked out well.
But it could have been so different. That was what the drawing showed.
It was clever. Imaginative. Like Ronnie himself.
But it was also disturbing. Not the sort of thing to be displayed on a noticeboard. It might give the first-years nightmares.
She decided to award the prize to another child. There would be other competitions for Ronnie to win.
January 1955.
Ronnie stood on a platform at Paddington Station, talking to his mother at the window of her train. Uncle Stan and Peter, who had helped carry her luggage, waited near by.
‘I’ll write every day,’ she told him. ‘Tell me if you can’t stand it. I can come back. I don’t have to stay.’
‘Don’t worry, Mum.’ He gave her his best Ronnie Sunshine smile. ‘I’ll be all right.’
The guard blew his whistle. It was time. She leant through the window. Hugged him as best she could while late arrivals pushed past trying to find seats.
The train began to move, sending clouds of white steam into the air. She remained at the window, waving. He waved back, fighting the urge to run after her and beg her to stay.
Then he walked back towards the others.
‘All well, then, Ronnie,’ said Uncle Stan in a tone of forced joviality.
He nodded.
‘Let’s have a plate of chips somewhere. I’m sure your aunt won’t mind this once.’
‘Thanks, Uncle Stan.’
‘You two wait here for a minute. I need to get some cigarettes.’
‘Aren’t you going to cry?’ demanded Peter once they were alone.
‘No.’
‘Yes you are. Come, on cry-baby bastard. Start blubbing for your mummy.’
Ronnie shook his head.
‘You’re only staying with us because Dad told Mum it would look bad if we didn’t keep you. Otherwise you’d be in the orphanage with all the other bastards.’
A lump was growing in Ronnie’s throat. The tears hehad been battling against all day were very close. Peter’s eyes shone as if sensing this. As Ronnie looked into them he remembered Auntie Vera lying on the kitchen floor. He imagined Peter lying there instead; screaming as boiling chip fat ate away his face.
Laughter bubbled up inside him, melting the lump into nothing.
Peter’s smile faded, replaced by confusion. ‘Cry!’
‘Or what? Going to leave one of your roller skates for me to fall over?’
Peter flushed. ‘Cunt!’ He went to join his father.
Ronnie turned, wanting a last glimpse of his mother’s train. But the platform was empty and she was gone.
4 February 1955
Dear Mum
,
Thank you for your letter. It came this morning and I read it at breakfast. Auntie Vera was cross but I didn’t care. I took it to school and read it three more times there. I am going to read it in bed too!
I
Most of the children had drawn their mothers. Naughty Alan Deakins had drawn that tart Marilyn Monroe, but Alan’s mother looked like a tart so that was rather appropriate. Stuart Hooper, bottom of the class and eager to curry favour, had drawn what was supposed to be a flattering portrait of herself resembling a gargoyle. Some had drawn their fathers. PatrioticCatherine Meadows had drawn the Queen. Archie Clark had drawn his cat.
But one entry stood head and shoulders above the rest. Ronnie Sidney’s drawing of his cousin Thomas.
It was an unusual drawing. Thomas himself did not appear. Ronnie had drawn a graveyard; at its centre a tombstone guarded by a stone angel with its wings spread out and its hands clasped in prayer. On the stone was carved: ‘
Thomas Stanley Finnegan. Born 12 November 1940. Died 7 October 1953
’.
Mrs Fletcher thought back to the previous October when Thomas had gone missing. Her colleague, Mrs Jennings had told her how the whole class had prayed for Thomas’s safety and of how worried Ronnie had been. Scared that Thomas might be dead. Fortunately it had all worked out well.
But it could have been so different. That was what the drawing showed.
It was clever. Imaginative. Like Ronnie himself.
But it was also disturbing. Not the sort of thing to be displayed on a noticeboard. It might give the first-years nightmares.
She decided to award the prize to another child. There would be other competitions for Ronnie to win.
January 1955.
Ronnie stood on a platform at Paddington Station, talking to his mother at the window of her train. Uncle Stan and Peter, who had helped carry her luggage, waited near by.
‘I’ll write every day,’ she told him. ‘Tell me if you can’t stand it. I can come back. I don’t have to stay.’
‘Don’t worry, Mum.’ He gave her his best Ronnie Sunshine smile. ‘I’ll be all right.’
The guard blew his whistle. It was time. She leant through the window. Hugged him as best she could while late arrivals pushed past trying to find seats.
The train began to move, sending clouds of white steam into the air. She remained at the window, waving. He waved back, fighting the urge to run after her and beg her to stay.
Then he walked back towards the others.
‘All well, then, Ronnie,’ said Uncle Stan in a tone of forced joviality.
He nodded.
‘Let’s have a plate of chips somewhere. I’m sure your aunt won’t mind this once.’
‘Thanks, Uncle Stan.’
‘You two wait here for a minute. I need to get some cigarettes.’
‘Aren’t you going to cry?’ demanded Peter once they were alone.
‘No.’
‘Yes you are. Come, on cry-baby bastard. Start blubbing for your mummy.’
Ronnie shook his head.
‘You’re only staying with us because Dad told Mum it would look bad if we didn’t keep you. Otherwise you’d be in the orphanage with all the other bastards.’
A lump was growing in Ronnie’s throat. The tears hehad been battling against all day were very close. Peter’s eyes shone as if sensing this. As Ronnie looked into them he remembered Auntie Vera lying on the kitchen floor. He imagined Peter lying there instead; screaming as boiling chip fat ate away his face.
Laughter bubbled up inside him, melting the lump into nothing.
Peter’s smile faded, replaced by confusion. ‘Cry!’
‘Or what? Going to leave one of your roller skates for me to fall over?’
Peter flushed. ‘Cunt!’ He went to join his father.
Ronnie turned, wanting a last glimpse of his mother’s train. But the platform was empty and she was gone.
4 February 1955
Dear Mum
,
Thank you for your letter. It came this morning and I read it at breakfast. Auntie Vera was cross but I didn’t care. I took it to school and read it three more times there. I am going to read it in bed too!
I
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