I turned my attention to the box. It was hard to calculate the dimensions but let’s say it was much smaller than your average shoe box. My clumsy fingers fiddled with the key and after thirty-seven years I expected a minor battle, but no, the key turned effortlessly. All I had left to do was to lift the lid. I could hear Moira telling me to pull myself together and get on with it.
I saw it straight away. I recognised it without even lifting it out of the box. I clamped my hand over my mouth to stifle a scream and stood up so suddenly that the chair fell backwards. Hands on hips, I turned away and took huge gulps of the stale air. There was no one to hear me but I said it anyway. ‘How is this possible?’
12
1978
‘Tonight’s the big night then, is it?’ Alf reached for his pipe and crammed in some more tobacco. They had polished off their egg and chips, wiped round the plates with half a crust each and Tara was now struggling to open a rusty can of pineapple chunks for afters. ‘How long have you had this can, Alf? Since the War? The first one?’
‘It’ll be fine, love. Stuff keeps for ever in tins. I say, your mum must be very talented to be invited to The Amethyst Lounge.’
‘Oh, she is,’ beamed Tara. ‘She’s going to be a big star one day.’ She gestured around the cluttered kitchen. ‘Soon we’ll be able to afford a place of our own and then we can say goodbye to this . . . this . . .’ She floundered, realising she was on the brink of hurting Alf’s feelings. She passed him a bowl of pineapple and slumped in the armchair opposite his, stretching out her legs so that her toes were almost touching the grille on the electric fire.
Alf smiled. ‘It’s alright, love, I know it’s not exactly home for you. You deserve better but it’s my pleasure to have you here whilst you wait for your luck to change.’
‘Don’t get me wrong, Alf, we’re happy here. The last few weeks have been the safest I’ve felt for ages. I don’t mind me mum going out to work and leaving me here with you.’
He reached across and patted her knee. ‘Company for each other, aren’t we?’ He pulled out his handkerchief and gave his glasses a cursory polish, before reaching up to take a framed photograph off the mantelpiece. He passed it over to Tara. ‘That’s our Judith.’
Tara stared at the young woman in her gown and mortarboard, clutching a rolled-up piece of paper secured with a red ribbon. Her eyes bored into the camera lens; her chin tilted upwards, something resembling a smirk playing on her lips. She did not look like a person you could warm to. ‘You must be very proud, Alf.’
‘Aye, I am, love. Worked hard she has, sacrificed a husband and kids for her career. Me and Ethel would’ve liked grandkids but you can’t be selfish, can you?’
Tara shook her head. ‘No, I suppose you can’t. Where does she live?’
‘Down in that there London, got a lovely flat, although she calls it an apartment, or summat, overlooking t’Thames.’
‘What does she do down there?’
Alf sat up a little straighter, his chest inflating. ‘She’s a political advisor. Very demanding it is. She works for the Tories, often has meetings with that Mrs Thatcher.’ He curled his lip and shuddered.
‘Not a fan, Alf?’
He shook his head. ‘Nah. You can’t have a woman in charge of the party. It’s alright for the likes of our Judith working behind the scenes.’ He clenched his fist and punched the air. ‘But it takes a man to lead.’
‘Don’t let me mum hear you talking like that. She reckons Maggie should be the next prime minister.’
Alf guffawed so forcefully he dislodged his false teeth. He pushed them back in with his thumbs. ‘Eee, I’ve ’eard it all now. Never going to ’appen, love. I’ll plait fog if it does.’
‘D’yer see much of her? Judith, I mean, not Mrs T.’
Alf shrugged. ‘Well, she’s very busy, you know. She gets up here when she can, stays for a cuppa if she’s got time, and we speak on the phone every so often.’
‘Doesn’t sound like much.’
‘Aye, well, I try not to make too many demands on her. I’m alright ’ere on me own. I’ve got me customers so it’s not like I don’t see anybody. Some old folks can go weeks without talking to another soul, so I count me blessings.’ His face brightened a little. ‘And now I’ve got you and your mum.’
Right on cue, the kitchen door creaked open and Violet entered the room, the sequins on her short red dress sparkling, her cherry lips sporting a wide smile. ‘Ta-da!’ she exclaimed, throwing her arms in the air and tilting her hips.
Alf shuffled round in his chair. ‘Violet Dobbs, you’re a sight for sore eyes alright.’
‘Skye, Alf. Skye with an “e” on the end. When I’m dressed in this clobber you have to use my stage name.’
‘Violet Skye,’ repeated Alf. ‘It suits you, does that.’
‘Mmm . . . I’ve been using it since I was five years old. I entered a talent contest at Butlin’s in Skegness and when the Red Coat asked for my name, he said, “Dobbs! A pretty little thing like you can’t go on stage with a stubby name like Dobbs.” I was in the wings already so had to think of something quickly and it’s the first thing that popped into my head. I loved it though. I wanted to change my name by one of those deed whatsits but I wasn’t allowed.’ She turned to her daughter. ‘Tara, can you fix this blinkin’ eyelash for me? It keeps fallin’ off.’
Violet sat in the chair vacated by her daughter and drummed her fingers impatiently as Tara hovered over her, pressing the eyelash down onto her lid. ‘Don’t smudge me eyeliner, will you?’
‘Do you want me to do it or not, Mum?’
‘Sorry, love. I just want everything to be perfect for tonight.’
Tara straightened up. ‘And it will be.’
‘You look beautiful,’ said Alf. ‘You put me in mind of a young Vivien Leigh.’
‘Really? What a lovely thing to say, Alf.’ Violet stood up, blinking furiously to test the strength of the fixed eyelash. ‘Thanks, Tara. Now pass us me coat off that hook.’
Alf held out his hand. ‘Help me up, will you, Tara?’
She hoisted him out of his seat and watched him shuffle over to the cupboard in the corner. ‘You can’t go out in that old thing, Violet. This is The Amethyst Lounge we’re talking about, not the old Labour club.’ He pulled out a three-quarter-length fur coat in shimmering tones of walnut brown and beige. ‘I want you to wear this.’
Violet stepped forward and stroked the fur. ‘Is it real?’
‘Aye, mink, it is. Belonged to my Ethel and before that to her mam.’
Violet shook her head. ‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly wear this, but thanks anyway.’
Alf was insistent, thrusting the coat towards her. ‘Take it, Violet. It’s no use to anybody just hanging there in that cupboard. It deserves to be worn.’
‘Take it, Mum,’ urged Tara.
‘Oh, I don’t know, I’ve always had a go at folk who wear real fur. It’s cruel, isn’t it?’
‘Vicious buggers they are,’ stated Alf.
‘Who are? The people who wear fur?’ asked Violet.
‘Nah, not them. I’m talking about mink. Spiteful little blighters. Bite your finger off soon as look at yer.’
‘Doesn’t mean we have to strip the fur off their backs though, does it?’
Tara held the coat up to her cheek. ‘It’s so soft, Mum, and so elegant, and the mink’s long dead now. What harm could it do?’
Violet looked from Tara to Alf, their expectant faces waiting for her answer. ‘Well, if you’re sure, Alf. I’ll look after it, I promise.’ She kissed him on the cheek. ‘Wish me luck.’
Violet stared into the mirror in her dressing room, the harsh lights showing no forgiveness. She took out her compact and blotted her forehead and nose. A loud rap on the door startled her. ‘Who is it?’
A man stuck his head through the gap. ‘Ian Cherry, Evening News.’
‘Evening News? I’ve not got time to read the paper. I’m due on stage.’
He l
aughed and took a step closer. ‘I’m not selling it, you daft bat. I want to do an interview. You’ve seen my column in the paper? Ian Cherry, Man About Town?’
‘You want to do an interview with me?’
He glanced around the dressing room. ‘Well there’s nobody else here.’ He took out his shorthand notebook and pencil and pulled up a chair. ‘Don’t look so worried, I’ve interviewed the best of them, you know. It probably won’t be much but I’ll squeeze you in.’
The velvet curtain had come down on the first half and Violet was on next. She peered through the curtain and gazed at all the people clustered round their little tables. Waiters and waitresses zoomed in and out, trays held aloft on one palm, expertly dispatching frothy pints without appearing to spill a drop. There was so much laughter and merriment in the room, the mixed audience seemingly intent on just having a good time. She drew a deep breath and peeled her tongue from the roof of her mouth. She could barely find enough moisture to speak, let alone sing. She was grateful for the high neckline on her sequinned shift dress because she knew for sure that her chest would be flushed a livid shade of scarlet. Her clammy palms had trouble finding purchase on the microphone and she looked round for something to wipe them on.
‘Two minutes to curtain up, Miss Skye.’ The stage manager glanced down at his clipboard. ‘You ready?’
Violet nodded. ‘I think so. Do you have a towel, my hands seem to be a little . . . well, you know?’
He whipped a handkerchief out of his pocket. ‘Here, keep it.’ He squeezed her forearm and winked. ‘Break a leg.’
She could hear the compère on the other side of the curtain telling the audience about a bright young star whose pitch-perfect voice would thrill and mesmerise in equal measure. Never before had such mellifluous tones graced the stage at The Amethyst Lounge. Violet was wondering who on earth he was talking about when she heard him ask the audience to give a huge warm welcome to Miss Violet Skye. The velvet curtain began to rise, agonisingly slowly at first, until all at once there she was in the full glow of the spotlight, the microphone clutched to her chest, the politely clapping audience full of expectation.
Now more than ever before she had to give the performance of her life.
The twenty-minute set flew by in a blur and by the time Violet took her final bow, the audience was on its feet demanding an encore.
‘Thank you very much, you’re very kind.’ She nodded to the people closest to her, just yards from her feet. ‘Thank you.’ To shouts of More, more, she swayed gently, the relief making her light-headed and giddy. She focused on the huge glitter ball in the centre of the room, until she felt the reassuring hand of the compère as he guided her into the wings.
Later, perched on a bar stool at the back of the theatre, she sipped her drink, reliving the glorious memory of her twenty minutes in the spotlight. Never before had she received so much adulation. She could hardly wait to tell Tara.
‘This one taken?’
Violet lifted her eyes and stared at him. The first things she noticed were his bushy sideburns and a chunky gold incisor. ‘Erm . . . no, it’s not.’ She gestured to the stool. ‘Please have it.’
He eased himself on to the stool. ‘Can I get you another?’
She glanced at the empty glass and, not wishing to appear rude, reluctantly accepted. ‘Thank you. A Snowball, please.’
He clicked his fingers at the bartender. ‘A Snowball and a Grasshopper when you’re ready, pal.’
He took out his packet of cigarettes. ‘Want one?’
Violet wafted them away. ‘No, thanks, I don’t smoke.’
‘Aah, of course, not good for the voice.’ He lit up one for himself and blew out a perfect smoke ring. ‘You were sensational by the way.’ His eyelids were heavy and he had a daft grin on his face.
‘You really think so?’
He leaned over and whispered in her ear. ‘Utterly captivating.’
She shuddered as his hot breath condensed in her ear. ‘I . . . err . . .’ she floundered.
The barman pushed their drinks over the bar. ‘Shall I put them on your tab, Stu?’
He nodded and raised his glass, the smell of the crème de menthe mingling with his Brut aftershave. ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers,’ echoed Violet. ‘And thank you . . . erm . . . Stu.’
They clinked their glasses together and each took a sip. Stu slid off his stool and manoeuvred it closer to Violet, so their knees were now touching. Violet regarded his greasy hair, the black curly tendrils reaching the top of his collar. The light bounced off his gold tooth. All he needed was an eye-patch to complete the washed-up pirate look.
‘This your first time here then?’ He swayed back and forth on the stool and Violet resisted the instinct to grab him to stop him falling off.
She nodded. ‘First time here but I’ve been singing for years on the club circuit, the back-street club circuit that is, nothing like this place.’ She popped the cocktail cherry into her mouth as Stu downed his drink.
He wiped his hand across his lips. ‘Another?’
Without waiting for an answer he held two fingers up to the barman. ‘Same again.’
‘Oh, I’m not sure,’ protested Violet. ‘I need to be getting back to my daughter.’
‘You have a baby?’
‘Well, no, not a baby, she’s fourteen.’
‘Never! Never in a million years do you have a fourteen-year-old kid. I mean you can’t be much more than that yourself.’
Violet laughed. ‘You’re obviously not looking closely enough. I’m almost thirty.’
He leaned forward, scrutinising her face, his cigarette-infused breath making her turn away and pick up her drink again. He pointed his finger at her chest, his words beginning to slur. ‘You . . . you are an exqu . . . an exquis . . . a ravishing-looking creature.’ He placed his palms on her thighs and began to inch them forward.
‘Remove your hands at once, please.’
Stu looked perplexed. ‘Why? You’re obviously gagging for it. Letting me buy you drinks, leading me on.’ He left his hands where they were and leaned in towards her face, his mouth open, his wet lips resembling two fat slugs.
Before Violet could react, somebody clamped their hands onto Stu’s shoulders and dragged him backwards. ‘I think it’s time you left, sonny.’ He hauled Stu off the stool and threw him to the ground, pinning him there with a foot to the chest. ‘I suggest you apologise to the young lady and then get the hell out of here before my temper runs out.’
Stu scrambled to his feet and dusted himself down. He glared at his assailant with as much menace as he could muster before turning to Violet to deliver his venomous parting shot. ‘Prick tease.’
The whole episode had lasted less than sixty seconds, but Violet’s hand shook as she picked up her glass. ‘My God, I thought this was a classy place.’
‘Are you OK? Let me get you another.’ He called to the barman. ‘Two brandies over here when you’re ready, mate.’
‘I’m fine, thanks to you. What a creep he was.’
He held out his hand. ‘Larry Valentine. Pleased to meet you.’
She took his hand, noticing the neatly clipped fingernails. A diamond signet ring sparkled on his little finger. ‘Violet Dobbs.’
He gestured to the stool opposite. ‘May I?’ He held his palms aloft. ‘I promise I won’t grope you.’
Violet managed to laugh. ‘Yes, please have a seat.’
He shrugged off his camel coat and laid it over the back of the stool. ‘I was just on my way home when I saw you might be in a spot of bother.’
‘Well, I would have handled it differently. If you hadn’t intervened he would’ve been dripping in advocaat by now.’
‘Good job I stepped in then. Waste of a drink that would’ve been.’ He took a swig of his brandy. ‘I thought you were brilliant tonight by the way. Best singer they’ve had here in ages.’
‘It’s kind of you to say that.’
‘It’s true. I’m not in t
he habit of saying things I don’t mean.’
Violet took a surreptitious glance at her watch, all of a sudden not wanting the evening to end, but conscious that Tara would be waiting.
Larry noticed her looking. ‘Do you have to be somewhere?’
‘I do really. I need to get home to my daughter. She’ll be dying to know how tonight went and I don’t want to miss the last bus.’
‘The last bus? Don’t tell me you came on the bus looking like that.’
She glanced down at her sequinned dress. ‘I had a big coat on too.’
Larry rubbed his chin, his narrowed eyes fixed on hers. ‘Tell you what, stay for a bit longer and I’ll run you home. What do you say?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.’
He raised his glass and winked at her. ‘Oh, I think we’ve had all the trouble we can handle tonight.’
The pot-holed car park was badly lit and Violet had to pick her way carefully along the uneven Tarmac. She stumbled over a rogue stone and would have crashed to the ground had Larry not grabbed her elbow and hauled her up. ‘You really are my knight in shining armour tonight.’ She cringed inwardly at the cliché and wished she hadn’t sounded so much like the proverbial damsel in distress.
‘This is a beautiful coat,’ he said, running his fingers down the sleeve. ‘Is it real?’
‘Yes, but it’s not mine. I borrowed it from a . . . erm . . . friend.’
Larry gave a low whistle. ‘Must be a very good friend indeed.’ He stopped outside a metallic-blue sports car and slipped his key into the door. Violet stared at the long sleek bonnet, the tinted windows and the sparkling chrome wire wheels. ‘It’s a beauty.’
‘She,’ he corrected. ‘She’s a beauty.’
Violet resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Why did blokes always have to use the female pronoun on inanimate objects such as cars?
Her Last Promise Page 7
