Apple of My Eye by Patrick Redmond Read Free Book Online Page A

keep the monsters away. I promise.’
    They lay down. She pulled the blankets over them while he wrapped himself around her. She continued to stroke his hair, humming a lullaby to help him drift back to sleep.
    *
    Monday evening, two weeks later. Ronnie sat on the floor next to his mother’s chair, reading a book. Auntie Vera and Uncle Stan sat together on the sofa in front of the fire.
    The wireless was on. A programme of classical music. ‘Now a symphony from Haydn,’ said the velvet-voiced announcer. Auntie Vera nodded approvingly. Haydn was one of Mrs Brown’s favourites. Uncle Stan, who would have preferred jazz on the other station, tried to look enthusiastic.
    Auntie Vera was wearing a thick jumper. In the past, even when it was really cold, the sleeves would have been pushed up. But not now. As she listened to the music her fingers kept stroking the wool that covered the damaged skin.
    She realized that Ronnie was watching her. Their eyes locked.
    ‘Does it hurt?’ he asked.
    ‘A little.’
    ‘I wish it didn’t.’
    His mother was sewing. Mending one of his shirts. She stroked his hair. He gazed up at her, his face sad. The sort of face she would expect from little Ronnie Sunshine.
    ‘Good boy,’ she whispered.
    He tried to concentrate on the words on the page. But the motion of Auntie Vera’s hand kept disturbing him. Drawing his eyes like moths to the flame.
    *
    Spring 1953.
    Langley Avenue was a terrace of elegant, grey stone houses, built at the turn of the century. The residents of Langley Avenue liked to say it was the best address in Hepton, but when one considered what a dreary place Hepton was, this wasn’t saying much.
    June and Albert Sanderson had moved there forty years earlier when Albert had been an ambitious young lawyer and their two sons only babies. Now both were lawyers themselves with families of their own and Albert, whose health was poor, spent his days expanding his stamp collection and trying to guess the culprit in detective novels.
    Up until six months ago old Doris Clark had been their cleaner, coming every Saturday to work her magic on their over-cluttered home. When Doris announced her retirement, an acquaintance called Sarah Brown had suggested a possible replacement. A young woman called Anna who had no husband, a small son to support and the need to earn more money.
    On this particular Saturday June sat in her kitchen, writing a letter to her cousin, Barbara. Anna sat beside her, polishing the silverware.
    June finished writing and rose to her feet, trying to stretch the arthritis from her hand. ‘Some tea,’ she announced.
    ‘I’ll make it,’ said Anna.
    ‘Don’t you worry. I’m up now.’ June filled the kettle and put it on the stove. From the living room Ivor Novello’s voice harmonized with Albert’s snores. Annacarried on polishing, doing a thorough job. She was a good worker. A good person too. Always willing to listen to an elderly couple who missed their sons and often had only each other and the wireless for company. June felt lucky to have found her.
    ‘How is Stan?’ she asked. ‘Is his cold better?’
    ‘Much better, thank you.’
    ‘And Vera? How is she?’
    ‘Well too.’ Anna’s eyes remained on the silverware. Though she rarely talked about her life in Moreton Street, June was perceptive enough to sense that it was not easy. Sarah Brown had told her that Vera was a dreadful snob who was not pleased to have a relative working part time as a cleaner, and June had thought to herself that it took one to know one.
    The kettle boiled. She filled three cups, poured lemon squash into a glass and covered a plate with biscuits. ‘Come through, dear,’ she told Anna. ‘You’ve earned a break.’
    On entering the living room she cleared her throat. Albert’s eyes opened. ‘Not asleep,’ he said hastily. ‘Was I, Ronnie?’
    Ronnie shook his head. He was sitting at a table by the window, drawing on a pad. Anna often brought him with her,