Apple of My Eye Read Free Page A

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. Atthe 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 thewater 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