Read Online Apple of My Eye by Patrick Redmond - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Patrick Redmond
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for him. He wanted it for her.
Her bed was stripped bare now. Uncle Stan had told him that he could sleep in it if he wanted. A changefrom the camp bed, which was almost too small for him. But he had refused. It was his mother’s bed. He didn’t want it to be used by anyone else, not even himself.
The moon was full. A great white orb high in the cold night sky. He stopped his work and gazed up at it, imagining as he had so many times before that he could see his father’s plane flying across its face. In spite of his mother’s pleas he refused to give up hope. One day his father
would
come and then the three of them would be together. He and his mother would finally be members of a proper family rather than just unwanted attachments to the family of others.
It would happen one day. He knew it would.
A train rattled past in the darkness, filling the room with noise and light. In the world behind his eyes he was walking towards a beautiful mansion by a river where his parents stood waiting while the train came off its rails, careering down the bank, smashing into the house he had left behind, wiping out the lives of those who slept there like a careless hand crushing a family of insects.
The drawing was finished. Good, but not good enough. Tearing it up, he began again, focusing all his energies upon the page, shutting out all background noise to better hear the music inside himself. Bundles of jumbled notes that in time would swell and grow into concertos and on into symphonies. And where those melodies would lead him only time would tell.
Little Ronnie Sunshine, a pocket full of rye.
Little Ronnie Sunshine, slugs and snails and puppy dogs’ tails.
Little Ronnie Sunshine, a Mozart in the making.
Little Ronnie Sunshine …
Oxfordshire: 1952
Osborne Row. A quiet street of terraced houses on the west side of Kendleton. Susan Ramsey lived at number 37 with her parents and a million photographs.
Every available surface was covered in framed images. Faded portraits of the grandparents she had never really known. Pictures of her father as an impish schoolboy or handsome in the uniform he had worn during the war. Pictures of her mother on childhood holidays or outside the church on her wedding day. But most of all there were pictures of Susan herself. Dozens of them. Every one of her six years lovingly chronicled for all to see.
Sometimes, when visitors were expected, her father would remove her pictures from the hallway and living room while her mother smiled and shook her head. When the visitors arrived Susan would hide on the stairs, looking at one of her books and waiting to be called down.
And as she entered the room, gazing curiously at the strange faces around her, the adult conversation simply died away.
Then it began, just as it always did. The talk ofactresses known to all except herself. Vivien Leigh. Gene Tierney. Jean Simmons. Ava Gardner. Most were usually mentioned. But the one always discussed was Elizabeth Taylor. Susan knew nothing about Elizabeth Taylor except that she had once owned a beautiful collie dog called Lassie but then given it to a boy called Roddy McDowall. This meant that Elizabeth Taylor must be stupid, as if Susan had owned a dog she would not have given it to anyone. A dog was the thing she wanted most in the world.
Well, second most.
She would sit beside her mother on the sofa, eating sponge cake and telling the visitors about the things she was learning at school and Charlotte Harris who was in her class and lived in the same street and was her best friend. The visitors would smile and nod while her mother stroked her hair and her father, unnoticed, pulled faces so that eventually she would burst out laughing, spraying crumbs everywhere. Her father would then adopt a serious expression, remarking on how quickly poisons took effect and making her laugh even harder.
Sometimes, after being excused, she would sit in front of her mother’s dressing-table mirror, studying the face
Her bed was stripped bare now. Uncle Stan had told him that he could sleep in it if he wanted. A changefrom the camp bed, which was almost too small for him. But he had refused. It was his mother’s bed. He didn’t want it to be used by anyone else, not even himself.
The moon was full. A great white orb high in the cold night sky. He stopped his work and gazed up at it, imagining as he had so many times before that he could see his father’s plane flying across its face. In spite of his mother’s pleas he refused to give up hope. One day his father
would
come and then the three of them would be together. He and his mother would finally be members of a proper family rather than just unwanted attachments to the family of others.
It would happen one day. He knew it would.
A train rattled past in the darkness, filling the room with noise and light. In the world behind his eyes he was walking towards a beautiful mansion by a river where his parents stood waiting while the train came off its rails, careering down the bank, smashing into the house he had left behind, wiping out the lives of those who slept there like a careless hand crushing a family of insects.
The drawing was finished. Good, but not good enough. Tearing it up, he began again, focusing all his energies upon the page, shutting out all background noise to better hear the music inside himself. Bundles of jumbled notes that in time would swell and grow into concertos and on into symphonies. And where those melodies would lead him only time would tell.
Little Ronnie Sunshine, a pocket full of rye.
Little Ronnie Sunshine, slugs and snails and puppy dogs’ tails.
Little Ronnie Sunshine, a Mozart in the making.
Little Ronnie Sunshine …
Oxfordshire: 1952
Osborne Row. A quiet street of terraced houses on the west side of Kendleton. Susan Ramsey lived at number 37 with her parents and a million photographs.
Every available surface was covered in framed images. Faded portraits of the grandparents she had never really known. Pictures of her father as an impish schoolboy or handsome in the uniform he had worn during the war. Pictures of her mother on childhood holidays or outside the church on her wedding day. But most of all there were pictures of Susan herself. Dozens of them. Every one of her six years lovingly chronicled for all to see.
Sometimes, when visitors were expected, her father would remove her pictures from the hallway and living room while her mother smiled and shook her head. When the visitors arrived Susan would hide on the stairs, looking at one of her books and waiting to be called down.
And as she entered the room, gazing curiously at the strange faces around her, the adult conversation simply died away.
Then it began, just as it always did. The talk ofactresses known to all except herself. Vivien Leigh. Gene Tierney. Jean Simmons. Ava Gardner. Most were usually mentioned. But the one always discussed was Elizabeth Taylor. Susan knew nothing about Elizabeth Taylor except that she had once owned a beautiful collie dog called Lassie but then given it to a boy called Roddy McDowall. This meant that Elizabeth Taylor must be stupid, as if Susan had owned a dog she would not have given it to anyone. A dog was the thing she wanted most in the world.
Well, second most.
She would sit beside her mother on the sofa, eating sponge cake and telling the visitors about the things she was learning at school and Charlotte Harris who was in her class and lived in the same street and was her best friend. The visitors would smile and nod while her mother stroked her hair and her father, unnoticed, pulled faces so that eventually she would burst out laughing, spraying crumbs everywhere. Her father would then adopt a serious expression, remarking on how quickly poisons took effect and making her laugh even harder.
Sometimes, after being excused, she would sit in front of her mother’s dressing-table mirror, studying the face
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