The Promise

by Michelle Vernal

  ‘Pardon?’ Isabel spluttered, certain she’d heard wrong.

  ‘Why else do you think she was in and out of the gallery? It wasn’t to discuss my potting attempts; it was to catch a glimpse of you.’ He looked bemused.

  Isabel was dumbfounded. How’d she managed to miss that? ‘I thought she was always showing up because you two were an item.’

  Rhodri roared with laughter this time. ‘Er no, I’m the wrong sex I’m afraid, besides Nico isn’t my type.’

  ‘What, you don’t do blonde and beautiful? And I’m glad my naivety so amuses you.’

  ‘It is pretty funny. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now that Nico’s moved on and I think her and Delwyn make a much better match, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah.’ The memory of Delwyn’s shining, happy face flitted to mind. ‘I think so too. Um, Rhodri is there any chance of you doing me and Constance a teensy favour tomorrow? I wouldn’t ask, only it’s rather important.’

  Chapter 39

  Constance was waiting in the foyer of Sea Vistas when Isabel and Rhodri arrived at the arranged time on Sunday afternoon. She was ensconced in the wheelchair Jill had organized for her once more, and Rhodri greeted her effusively. Constance preened, pretty in pink, when he bent down and planted a kiss on her cheek. She made to get up from the chair perfectly capable of walking the short distance out to the carpark, and he helped her to her feet before linking his arm through hers.

  He turned his attention to Nurse Jill affording her with a grin as he gestured to the wheelchair. ‘Do we need a crash course in operating this piece of equipment?’

  Jill had been filling in paperwork at the front desk, something she’d confided to Isabel drove her potty about nursing these days. Isabel watched on amused at the way the sensible nurse, glad of the distraction, flushed under the handsome Welsh man’s gaze and fiddled with her hair. ‘No, Isabel has had the run down; she holds a full license.’ Her giggle was positively girlish. ‘Enjoy your outing, Constance.’

  ‘Are you off somewhere nice then?’ A baritone voice called over.

  Isabel turned in its direction and saw that the rich, rumbling tones belonged to a dapper gentleman. He’d have done well on the radio with a voice like that, she thought idly taking in his well-cut suit. His generation didn’t do casual, she thought, and there was something rather romantic about that bygone era of smooth talking, black and white movie heartthrobs. A newspaper was rolled up under his arm, and he’d obviously just come from the dining room. He would be around the same age as Constance, but his posture was still admirably ramrod straight. ‘Actually, I’m not sure where we’re off to yet. Constance’s got us heading out on a bit of a mystery tour,’ she said, smiling at him.

  ‘Does she now? She was always a theatrical one. Well, mind how you go and look after her.’

  Constance, however, announced she was not in the least bit prone to dramatics in a loud enough voice for them to get the message before she put her best ballet flat forward, eager for the off.

  ‘We will.’ Isabel smiled at the elderly gent, touched by the genuine concern she’d heard in his voice.

  ‘Right, let’s get this show on the road.’ She took the handles of the wheelchair and followed Constance and Rhodri’s lead out into the fresh air.

  ‘Who was that?’ she whispered loudly in Constance’s ear as she caught up with them, even though they were a safe distance away not to be overheard.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Don’t be all coy with me Constance; the dreamboat in the suit.’ She used her mum’s turn of phrase for Rhodri.

  ‘Dreamboat? That’s rather a stretch Isabel. That was Walter, I’ve known him forever. He used to run an antique store a few doors down from my little shop.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’

  ‘There is absolutely nothing to see young lady, so you can get that daft look off your face.’

  Rhodri’s mud-splattered and somewhat battered Land Rover was parked nearby, ready and waiting. Isabel had been bemused how someone who hardly ventured out in his vehicle had managed to get it so dirty. He’d laughed and told her he liked to get off road sometimes to scout for painting locations. His smile dried up though as they pondered how they’d get Constance into it.

  Now, the pair of them supported her weight while she made indignant murmurings. Ignoring her, they managed to hoist her up into the passenger seat. Isabel helped her with the seatbelt before tackling the wheelchair, which was also a two-man job as they tried to figure out how to fold it. ‘So much for you having a license,’ Rhodri muttered, but they got there in the end. Once it was stowed in the boot, Isabel clambered into the back seat and buckled in. Rhodri slid behind the wheel, and she leaned into the space between the front seats and said, ‘Right, Constance, now are you going to tell us where we are going?’

  ‘Quarr Abbey ruins,’ Constance directed turning her head toward Rhodri who gave her a salute by way of reply. She batted his hand.

  ‘Okay, Quarr Abbey ruins it is. I’m glad I brought my painting gear, It’s a great spot to while away a few hours.’ Rhodri turned the ignition key; the engine roared to life.

  ‘But you already painted the ruins,’ Isabel said.

  ‘I have a work in progress that I’m painting from memory. It’ll be nice just to sit somewhere peaceful to paint. I always work better outdoors than in the gallery. I think it’s the light.’

  ‘Oh well, that’s all good then.’ Isabel bounced along in the back watching the green and gold of the countryside speed by as they wound their way in toward Quarr. She glanced toward Rhodri, catching his face in profile as he chatted to Constance about an artwork he’d sold yesterday. She was touched by his sensitivity in not enquiring as to why all the cloak and dagger carry on, on Constance’s part. He was happy just taking the afternoon in his stride.

  The drive to the abbey didn’t take long, and Rhodri crunched onto the graveled carpark sliding the Land Rover into a space. As Isabel got out of the car, she paused to admire the beauty and sheer scale of the looming monastery’s brickwork. It was a visual treat in its woodland shrouded grounds. Despite the other cars filling the parking lot signifying fellow day trippers, there was a feeling of tranquil solitude about the place.

  Rhodri set about hauling the wheelchair out of the boot and unfolded it deftly. ‘Easy when you know how,’ he said, before signalling to Isabel that he needed a hand. Together, they helped Constance down from the four-wheel drive, the queen alighting from her carriage, and saw her seated comfortably in the chair. ‘Right ladies. It’s my treat in the abbey tea rooms at say,’ Rhodri glanced at his watch, ‘four o’clock. It’s just on two now. Constance, will that be enough time?’

  Constance nodded folding her hands in her lap. She’d never get used to being pushed around in a wheelchair, but needs must if she wanted to get to the ruins before nightfall. She knew her limitations! She mumbled her thanks to Rhodri for bringing them, which Isabel reiterated, and then they left him unloading his art gear. Isabel had no clue where it was Constance wanted to head as she pushed her forth. She’d follow her lead, but for now, she figured she couldn’t go wrong by heading to the main grounds.

  Constance waved her this way and that until they reached the sign for the Woodland Walk. Isabel hoped she wasn’t expecting her to push her along the looping track, but apparently, she was given the way she turned to ask what they were waiting for.

  ‘Are you sure you want to follow that trail, Constance? It might get a bit rugged. I don’t think the monks laid it out with wheelchair access in mind.’ Or flimsy but oh-so-pretty new summer sandals either, she thought, with a rueful glance at her footwear. Constance wouldn’t be able to walk it, Isabel contemplated their choices; one false step, and she could break a hip. That was an incident she did not want to have to explain to Nurse Jill or Walter with his obvious soft spot for Constance upon their return to Sea Vistas.

  ‘Yes, yes. To the ruins, Isabel,’ Constance demanded. She was straining forward in her chair in an agitated manner and
Isabel, knowing how stubborn she could be, took the hint and ventured on to the track. It was against her better judgment, and she ignored the strange looks they received from a wholesome family of walkers, the two young children clutching a bug pot each. It was a shame, she thought, that the chair didn’t come with a lap belt as they ventured deeper into the woods. It would not be a good look were she to hit a rogue tree root and send Constance airborne.

  The ground at least was dry. Isabel was grateful for small mercies, and the terrain was manageable. She’d be like flipping Popeye with bulging muscles, though from pushing this tank of a chair by the time she got them both to the ruins. Despite her shortness of breath Isabel still found the small talk flowing from her like a babbling brook. She chattered on about how well the monks maintained the grounds of the abbey, and what it must be like to live virtually self-sufficient in the same way the Benedictine Monks resident at Quarr had done for hundreds of years.

  She was nervously excited as to what Constance would divulge that afternoon and why she was so insistent on waiting until they got to the ruins. Constance was muttering something, and she paused, grateful to stop for a second. ‘What was that, sorry?’

  Constance shook her head not wanting to repeat herself and impatient to get to where she wanted to be.

  Isabel frowned, spying a red squirrel who’d heard them coming dart up a tree. She could have sworn Constance had said that perhaps Isabel should think about taking a vow of silence!

  It wasn’t long before they veered off the trail and bumped their way over to the clearing where the remains of the old abbey stood. Isabel could see there were a handful of tourists milling around the ancient stone walls which were strewn with threads of green creeper trying to lay claim to the ancient rocks. Just beyond the ruins was a slash of blue where the Solent waters lapped. It was an atmospheric sight, Isabel thought conjuring up images of the brown-robed monks of old setting about their daily tasks, a white-sailed ship idling in the harbour beyond. She flapped away the random image of a swashbuckling pirate straight from the cover of a romance novel, who bore an uncanny resemblance to Rhodri, and bumped Constance across the grass.

  She wheeled her up to one of the remaining great stone arches and watched as Constance leaned forward in the chair, resting her hand on the fine stone masonry for a moment. Her lips were moving as though she were speaking to someone, and Isabel thought she heard her say she was sorry but she couldn’t be sure. They certainly didn’t build ‘em like that anymore, she mused marvelling at how the walls of the abbey had stood the test of time. She stood silently alongside Constance. This was her afternoon, and she’d reveal why they were here when she was good and ready. There was no point rushing her, Isabel knew, watching out the corner of her eye as Constance closed hers briefly, continuing to press her hand to the wall as though it were communicating with her.

  The seconds ticked by and a middle-aged man in outdoor wear with a camera slung around his neck gave them a wary smile. They must make an odd sight, Isabel thought. She tried to convey in the smile she sent his way that they were perfectly normal. At last Constance let her arm fall back to her lap and opened her eyes blinking against the sunshine as she came back from wherever it was she’d been. She pointed Isabel over to a sun-stippled patch of grass a short distance from the other visitors milling about, and Isabel’s stomach lurched. The time had come to learn the truth of what had transpired between Ginny and Constance all those years ago. She steered them over to the spot in the sun.

  Chapter 40

  Isabel sat down on the grass stretching her legs out in front of her. She was too distracted to admire the beautiful setting, and for want of something to do with her hands she plucked a few daisies. Her fingers were thumbs as she tried to make a chain from the dainty flowers waiting for Constance to talk. Constance watched her for a moment. It was an echo from the past, she thought thinking of the daisy chain and promise Henry had made her.

  ‘I used to come here on a Sunday with Henry, my beau, when I was a young girl. He was in the Canadian Airforce, and we were engaged, well, unofficially,’ Constance said after a while, gazing into the distance as though she could see him standing just beyond the ruins, waiting for her. ‘We’d borrow bicycles from the girls at Puckpool Camp where he was stationed and cycle here. It was the folly where we first met, but it was these ruins that became our place. It was here I fell in love properly with him.’

  Isabel pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them as she sat with her head tilted to hear better as Constance’s sad love story began to unfold. She felt as though she were an observer to their romance, hovering on the periphery of their intimate conversations as she listened to Constance. She wasn’t to know that it was the first time in over seventy years that Constance had spoken of Henry and how he’d died. It was only when her nose began to run as she heard how he’d been killed protecting one of his countrymen by a bomb dropped on what was now Sea Vistas, that Isabel realized she was crying. It was so much sadness for someone so young to go through, she thought wiping the tears away with the back of her hand.

  Constance finished talking, and reached into the pocket of her tunic. Isabel thought she was fetching her a tissue to blow her nose on, but instead, she produced a folded piece of paper. That it was old was evident in the discolouration of the paper, and Isabel took her hand away watching as she held it to her chest for a moment, her lips moving silently before passing it to Isabel.

  She blinked against the afternoon’s bright sunshine wishing she’d thought to bring her sunglasses as she read the typed words in front of her. It took her a few beats to digest that the paper Constance had handed her was a birth certificate for Ginny’s son—Edward Henry Downer, born on the twenty-second of October 1944 in Salisbury. The space next to where his father’s name should be was blank, but it was what was typed next to ‘Mother’ that Isabel couldn’t make sense of. It was Constance Mary Downer.

  ‘Why’s your name on Ginny’s son’s birth certificate?’ She looked up at Constance puzzled.

  ‘Teddy wasn’t her son; he was mine.’

  Isabel’s eyes widened, ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Ginny’s baby was stillborn, and I was pregnant when Henry died. It was deemed that her adopting my baby was the perfect solution to the mess I found myself in.’ Constance looked away before her tears could brim over and turned her gaze to the shimmering waters in the distance. Her verdant surrounds seemed to tilt on their axis as the mist descended and she found herself back in another time.

  ͠

  1944

  It didn’t matter that Constance loved Henry, the words sounded hollow to her parents despite their fondness for him. By dying, he’d left it up to them to pick up the pieces he’d left behind and make things right.

  She felt the tiny fluttering of life growing inside her for the first time the day her mother told her the local vicar would be consulted on the quiet, of course, as to what their options were. The tremulous leap she felt in her belly took her by surprise as did the realisation that this baby was part of her, not what had been done to her. It was a shock to understand that there was a very real chance she would love this child with a fierceness she’d never imagined possible.

  Her mother was true to her word, and so it was two days later tea was served at the carefully laid table at precisely three o’clock as had been arranged with the vicar’s housekeeper, the formidable Mrs Chubb. ‘Reverend Hayles is a busy man you know,’ Mrs Downer had said earlier as she set out the china, as though he were bestowing them with the greatest of gifts with his visit. Constance had nodded meekly as she carried on with the dusting task she’d been set. She knew she was not in a position to comment.

  Throughout the reverend’s visit, Constance sat with her eyes cast downward seemingly entranced by the intricate lace flowers of her mum’s best tablecloth brought out for the occasion. She was willing this nightmare to end. The reverend, with his perfect shiny dome for a head surrounded by its shoc
k of white that looked as though pieces of unspun wool had been pasted on, cut a portly almost comical figure across the table from her. He reminded Constance of the Friar Tuck painted on the pages of a Robin Hood picture book she’d loved as a child. The idea of robbing the rich to give to the poor had caught her fancy. It was still tucked away upstairs on her bookshelf, but its pages would be gathering dust these days.

  Ginny was seated to her left, and she held her hand under the tale, giving it a reassuring squeeze now and again as mother, father and Reverend Hayles talked over the top of their heads. Their agenda: to decide what to do about the problem that was Constance.

  She listened, feeling as if she were floating slightly above them all, to the reverend as he told her parents of a Mother and Baby Home he had connections with through the church. It was a reputable home and was run by the good people of The Salvation Army. He’d manage to secure a place for Constance there. The words bounced back and forth across the table with it transpiring the home was near where a cousin of Ginny’s lived in Salisbury, and a plan was hatched over a generous slice of mum’s cake.

  It was as if she was on a train which would not stop, Constance thought as the voices bounced back and forth around the table. Ginny compliant in the conspiracy, would go and stay with her cousin; the poor girl was recently widowed. She would be glad of the company and people would understand Ginny’s decision to leave Wight; she needed a fresh start. Constance inclined her head to look at her sister-in-law, and for the first time since her baby’s stillbirth, she saw hope flicker on her pretty features. She wondered why.

  It was decided that the tale to be told to anyone forthright enough to enquire, was that Ginny had gone to Salisbury to stay with her cousin, also a war widow. They could be of comfort to one another. It was too painful for her to stay here in Ryde, so it was the obvious solution for them both. Now that it was deemed safer for the girls to travel with the Allies gaining strongholds and keeping the Jerrys at bay, Constance would go with her to help settle her in for as long as it took given her fragile state.