Apple of My Eye by Patrick Redmond

said Susan’s mother.
    ‘Nothing of the sort, sadly. Three hours discussing the latest developments in drainage law. Hardly a prospect to fill the heart with joy.’
    They all laughed. He rose to leave. ‘Thank you for the present,’ Susan told him.
    ‘Perhaps next weekend I could take you both for a ride in my car.’
    Susan’s mother looked uncertain. ‘That’s very kind. I’m not sure …’
    ‘Go on, Mum. It’ll be fun.’
    ‘Well, perhaps. If the weather’s good.’
    It was.
    They drove through country lanes, Susan in the back seat, while her mother sat up front with Uncle Andrew. The roof was down, the wind blowing in her face, blasting her hair and making her cheeks tingle.
    Later they walked in the woods to the west of the town. Pine trees stood in rows like pillars in an outdoor cathedral while banks of flowers covered the ground like coloured marble. She ran ahead, searching for her favourite oak tree while her mother and Uncle Andrew followed behind. When she found it sheprepared to climb, squinting up at the sunlight that shone through the branches and feeling the familiar rush of excitement.
    Then she stopped.
    Her father had loved these woods. The two of them had spent many afternoons hunting for new trees to climb. This oak he had christened the Golden Hind because its branches were like the rigging of a giant ship. She would climb as high as she could, pretending she was in the crow’s-nest while he would stand below with an imaginary telescope; the two of them on a voyage of exploration, their discoveries limited only by the powers of their combined imagination.
    Now it was just a tree. All the magic had gone. He had taken it with him and it would never return.
    She stood at its base, close to tears, fighting them back, determined to be brave.
    Uncle Andrew approached with her mother. His eyes were sympathetic, as if understanding her feelings. ‘Go on, Susie,’ he said, gently. ‘I’d love to see you climb.’
    For a moment she hesitated. But her mother was smiling; looking relaxed and happy. And that made her happy too.
    Seizing the lowest branch, she began to pull herself up.
    ‘What a lovely afternoon,’ said her mother that evening.
    ‘Can we go again next weekend? Uncle Andrew said he’d take us.’
    ‘I don’t think so, darling. Uncle Andrew’s a busy man. We mustn’t take up too much of his time.’
    But in the weeks that followed they took up an increasing amount.
    There were more drives in the country and walks in the woods. There was dinner at a smart hotel in Oxford where Susan was allowed a sip of wine and marvelled at all the different knives and forks around her plate. One Sunday he cooked them lunch at his house. ‘Very badly,’ he joked as he carved the joint of beef. He made a lot of jokes. They weren’t as funny as her father’s but still made her smile. His house was very tidy, full of old furniture and with paintings hanging on every wall. Susan spilled a drink on the carpet, much to her mother’s horror, but Uncle Andrew said that he was always spilling things and that it didn’t matter at all.
    There were presents too. A book about famous explorers. A new basket for Smudge. A bicycle with a red seat and a shiny bell. Her mother expressed concern that she was being spoilt but Uncle Andrew said she deserved a bit of spoiling after losing her father, and then her mother would nod and agree that he was right.
    One Saturday they went to the cinema to see a Disney film. The first feature was a history of comedy in cinema with clips of Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin whom she found just as wonderful as her father had promised. During the interval her mother went to buy ice creams. A small thank-you to Uncle Andrew, who had paid for the tickets.
    ‘You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?’ he said, when they were alone.
    She nodded.
    ‘It hurts, doesn’t it?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘The pain will go away, Susie. You probably don’t believe me but it’s