Her Last Promise

by Kathryn Hughes

  He opened the passenger door, allowing her to slide as gracefully as she could into the low bucket seat, the red leather freezing cold on her bare legs. He jogged round to the driver’s side and climbed in beside her. ‘Where to?’

  Violet conjured up an image of their digs: the garish wallpaper, the dark green paintwork which had peeled in places to reveal the hideous sickly-pink colour underneath. Friday was the day when Alf washed his clothes in the kitchen sink, then ran them through the mangle before letting them steam in front of the electric fire. She’d mentioned buying a twin-tub but he wouldn’t hear of it. His Ethel had had no need for fancy gadgets and neither did he. There was no way Violet could invite Larry in to that mess. ‘You can just drop me at the end of Stockport Road.’

  Larry took a sideways glance at her. ‘You sure? I don’t like to leave a lady to walk around after dark.’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’ Violet dismissed his concern with a flick of her hand. ‘I can look after myself, and besides, Tara will probably still be awake and I don’t want to have to face a million questions about you at this time of night.’

  ‘Well, I’m not happy about it but if you insist.’

  They drove on in silence and she noticed how his hands continually caressed the thin steering wheel, stroking it as though it were a treasured pet. She looked at his profile, his thick sandy-coloured hair framing his face like a helmet. He reminded her of Steve McQueen; the same piercing blue eyes and permanently worried expression. She studied his watch – a Rolex – but whether it was genuine or one he had picked up from the market she couldn’t tell. There again, a man who drove an E-Type Jag was hardly likely to wear a knock-off watch. On his other wrist was a thick gold bracelet, which matched the chain around his neck. She wasn’t a fan of jewellery on men but Larry somehow carried it off.

  He applied the brake and brought the car to a gentle halt. ‘Is this close enough?’

  She nodded. ‘My . . . erm flat is just up there.’ She reached for the door handle but Larry had already jumped out and run round to her side. He opened the door and offered her his hand. ‘Thank you,’ she said, climbing out of the car. He brought her hand up to his mouth and pressed it to his lips.

  ‘I’d like to see you again.’

  She tried to keep the excitement from her voice, instead opting for a cool tone just the right side of aloof. ‘Well, I’ll have to check my diary.’

  He smiled as he held onto her hand. ‘Dinner, tomorrow night. I’ll pick you up at seven.’

  There was no uplift in his voice at the end of the sentence. It was not meant as a question. How arrogant could he get, just assuming she would be free.

  ‘Perfect, I’ll see you then,’ she found herself answering. She pointed to the pavement. ‘I’ll be waiting right here.’

  She removed her heels before climbing up the steep wooden staircase. God only knew how Alf managed to navigate these stairs. She hauled herself up by the handrail, careful to avoid the second-to-last step, which always produced a particularly ear-splitting creak. She eased open their bedroom door and crept in. ‘Tara,’ she whispered. ‘Are you still awake?’

  ‘No,’ came the muffled reply. ‘I’m asleep.’

  Violet eased under the covers and snuggled up against her daughter. ‘Sorry I’m so late, Tara.’ She stroked the back of her head, her thoughts again turning to Larry. Never before had a man of his means showed any interest in her. Most of them just wanted a good time, out for anything they could get, just like that letch in The Amethyst Lounge earlier. But Larry was different. Polite and respectful, good company and, judging by the look of things, not short of a bob or two. She leaned over and kissed her daughter’s cheek. ‘Everything’s going to be alright now, Baby Girl.’

  13

  2018

  It had gone ten o’clock by the time I arrived home. The house wasn’t in darkness as I expected though. The hall light was on and the lounge curtains had been drawn. Moira, bless her, always thought of everything. I hadn’t rung to tell her what was in the box because I’d needed time to process it myself. I was grateful that she’d taken it upon herself to be there for me. ‘I’m back,’ I announced unnecessarily as I opened the door. I could smell the wood burner in the kitchen.

  I took the time to notice the hall floor had been mopped, the solid oak restored to its showroom glory. There was a jug of freesias on the hall table. Moira was so much more than my cleaner.

  I was beginning to feel a little lighter but as soon as I opened the door to the kitchen my shoulders sagged and my mood instantly darkened. ‘Ralph! What the hell are you doing here?’

  He stood up to greet me, holding his arms out. I side-stepped the impending embrace and pushed past him.

  ‘You left a garbled message on my voicemail and then Susie said you rang the house so I knew it must be important.’ He gave a little chuckle, although I failed to see anything remotely amusing. I caught a whiff of his aftershave, once so familiar I had stopped noticing it. The perfect blend of sandalwood and cloves immediately transported me back to happier times. An unexpected and unwelcome wave of sadness overwhelmed me.

  ‘Oh, Ralphie. Why did you have to ruin everything?’

  I hadn’t called him Ralphie since the day he walked out. He seemed taken aback for a second but offered no answer. I wasn’t expecting one. I dumped my bag on the worktop. ‘And that key I gave you is for emergencies only.’

  ‘I thought it sounded urgent.’ He opened the door of the wood burner and chucked another log on.

  ‘Make yourself at home, Ralph.’ He could not have failed to notice the sarcastic edge to my voice and yet he responded with a suggestion that we have a nightcap.

  I nodded meekly as though I didn’t have a choice and watched as he went to the cabinet and lifted out the glasses and Jack Daniel’s. Even though it was the middle of winter he was in his beige chinos, crisp white shirt, a powder-blue cashmere sweater draped casually over his shoulders. His face was still tanned from a recent holiday to the Canaries. His dark hair was greying at the temples but this only added to his good looks. I remembered my own dishevelled state and ran my fingers through my hair, trying to coax it back to life.

  ‘You still haven’t said why you called.’

  The truth is I didn’t want to tell him anymore. It had nothing to do with him, he wasn’t around back then and I knew he’d only start telling me what to do. I regretted involving him but old habits die hard as they say.

  ‘It doesn’t matter now, Ralph.’ I took a slug of my drink as I settled into my chair by the wood burner. ‘Why don’t you start by telling me why you really came round?’

  Instead of taking the chair opposite, he sat on the arm of mine. ‘It’s peaceful here.’ He gazed down into my face and for the first time I noticed how tired he looked. Baby Aerobics was obviously more demanding than it sounded.

  ‘You don’t know how lucky you are, Tara. Having this place to yourself, nobody else to think about. You can come and go as you please, watch what you want on the television . . .’

  I jumped up so quickly, my drink sloshed down the front of my blouse. ‘Ralph, you’re a clueless twit sometimes.’ The conversation was in danger of heading the way all our conversations went and I didn’t have the mental energy to cope with all the accusations, recriminations, blame and a competition as to who had the shittiest life. ‘Will you stop feeling sorry for yourself? You’ve got two lovely daughters, a trophy girlfriend who thinks the world of you for some unfathomable reason and a son who still loves and respects you in spite of the fact you tore our family apart.’

  He bowed his head and stared into his empty glass, nodding slowly. ‘I know and you’re right.’

  I hefted him up by his elbow. ‘You need to go now, Ralph. Go on, get back to your bedtime stories.’ I bundled him out of the front door and watched as he climbed into his car. He gave me a little wave as he pulled away and I was annoyed at the pang of pity I felt for him.

  Back in the warmth of my kitchen I pulle
d the little package from Loxton’s out of my handbag. I glanced at the clock on the wall. There was only one person I wanted to talk to at that moment but it was too late. Forty years too late.

  14

  1978

  Tara heaved her school bag onto her shoulder, hooked the wicker cookery basket into the crook of her elbow and with her free hand picked up her PE bag. ‘The person who came up with my timetable should be lined up against the wall and shot.’

  ‘Tara,’ admonished Violet. ‘Don’t say things like that.’

  ‘Maths, geography, biology, home economics and PE all on the same day? I need a pack mule to get this lot into school.’

  Violet kissed her daughter on the cheek and handed her a lunch box. ‘Don’t forget this.’

  Tara stuffed it on top of her games kit. ‘Right.’ She nodded at the cookery basket. ‘Don’t forget it’s quiche for tea. Tell Alf there’ll be enough for him too. We can open a tin of baked beans to go with it.’

  ‘Ooh, I don’t know,’ said Violet. ‘Eggs and beans? Alf’s insides won’t know whether they’re coming or going.’

  Tara had a slightly longer walk to school than she’d had when they lived in Colin’s hovel, but it was a small price to pay. Nonetheless, her arms had all but seized up by the time she arrived at the school gates. As usual, a cluster of boys hung around the entrance, smoking and generally trying to look cool. Some girls fell for this. Lisa Cooper for starters. There she was hanging on to the arm of that Tom Marshall. Tom didn’t bother with his school blazer, preferring instead his denim jacket. Tara wondered how on earth he got away with it. Unless of course the teachers were as smitten as the rest of her classmates. He stood with his back to the wall, one foot up behind him, flicking ash onto the ground.

  ‘Hi, Tara,’ smiled Lisa, stroking Tom’s arm. ‘You OK? You’re looking a bit crimson. Your face is all . . . you know . . . shiny.’

  Tara hurried on, keeping her big shiny head down. ‘Fine, thank you.’ You absolute total bitch.

  There was no doubt Lisa was pretty but when you used your entire pocket money to fuel your Superdrug habit, then there really was no excuse to go out looking like . . . like . . . well, Tara.

  Being two years her senior already gave Tom the edge and made him more attractive than the boys in her year, who were mostly clowns. They were taught separately, boys and girls, with just a communal playing field dividing the two schools. Once a week though, they would come together for combined studies, giving the girls a chance to have a bash, literally, at woodwork and the boys to try their hand at sewing a patchwork quilt. Tara hated going over to the boys’ side. It smelt stale and stuffy, of unwashed clothes, like some great big charity shop. Violet had a theory of why this was. The girls all wore skirts, which allowed the air to circulate. The boys on the other hand all wore trousers, which meant their nether regions were never afforded the luxury of fresh air and so became sweaty. Tara would rather not think about a boy’s nether regions, sweaty or otherwise. She sat down at her desk, lifted the lid and pulled out her pencil case. Double maths to start the week. She laid out her protractor and ruler and began to sharpen her pencils whilst she and the rest of the class waited for the form teacher.

  ‘Oi, you.’

  Tara looked up. ‘Me?’

  Lisa Cooper stood in front of the desk, her hands on her hips, chewing gum without bothering to close her mouth. ‘You stay away.’ The rest of the class had fallen ominously silent.

  ‘From you? With pleasure.’ Tara carried on with her pencils.

  Lisa slammed her palm down on the desk. ‘Not from me, you idiot. From Tom Marshall.’

  ‘Stay away from Tom Marshall? I doubt he even knows I exist.’

  ‘Really,’ said Lisa, dragging out the word. ‘Then how come he was asking about you?’

  In spite of herself, Tara felt the blood rise in her cheeks. ‘I . . . I don’t know. Um . . . what did he want to know?’

  ‘Never you mind.’ Lisa took a step backwards, the smirk on her lips an indication of what was to come. ‘I set him straight. Told him how you don’t even have a proper house and have to live above an ironmonger’s and that your mother’s a stripper.’

  Tara stared down at the desk, running her fingers over the years of graffiti. She took a deep breath and slowly stood up, enunciating her words. ‘My mother is not a stripper. She’s a singer.’

  Lisa tossed her head. ‘Hah, that’s not what my dad says.’

  ‘And how would he know?’

  ‘He saw her down The Acres of Flesh in town.’

  Damn. This was true. Violet had performed at the seedy strip club but she’d only been able to stomach it once and she had certainly not taken her clothes off. She’d been hired to warm up the crowd by singing a few numbers and she was back home before nine.

  ‘Goes there a lot, does he? Your dad, I mean. Likes looking at other women, does he?’

  Lisa didn’t miss a beat. ‘Well at least I have a dad.’

  Lisa’s smirk vanished as Tara lurched over the desk and grabbed a handful of her hair, yanking it upwards. Tara’s other hand whipped across Lisa’s cheek, making a perfect connection, which produced a most satisfying slap. Lisa screamed just as the form teacher came through the door, clutching the register. ‘Tara Dobbs! Headmaster’s office. Now!’

  Tara stood on the gritty floor behind Alf’s counter. Saturday was her favourite day of the week, and rather than go into town with her friends shopping for make-up or records, she revelled in helping out Alf and his customers. She advised on paint colours, took charge of the deliveries and counted out the screws and nails which Alf sold by the half dozen. Four weeks had now passed since her mother had met Larry Valentine, and together with more gigs at The Amethyst Lounge, this had served to make Violet more contented, bordering on happy even. Violet had told her all about Larry’s house, a huge detached thing in an affluent suburb Tara had only ever seen pictures of in Cheshire Life. Apparently, it had a huge corner bath in green (although her mother said Larry called it avocado), which doubled up as a Jacuzzi, with taps which were actually gold-plated. Of the six bedrooms, four of them had their own little bathrooms attached, which Larry called by some French word her mother couldn’t remember. The master bedroom had a four-poster bed swathed with pink silk drapes and piled high with satin cushions. Tara hadn’t liked to probe how her mother knew anything about the master bedroom and its range of luxury bedding. She pushed the image out of her mind and stared out of the window at the fine smattering of snow that had come down during the night. ‘Bloody ridiculous weather for April this is.’

  Alf wandered in from the back. ‘It’s nothing is that. I lived through the winter of ’47. Twenty-foot snow drifts there were. Stockpiles of coal froze solid, couldn’t be moved at all. Power stations had to shut down and spuds froze in the ground. Couldn’t get them up without a pneumatic drill.’ In spite of the hardships he was describing, Alf had a melancholy smile on his face as was often the case whenever he reminisced. ‘My Ethel knitted me a Fair Isle jumper, with a polo neck. Took her weeks, but I swear you’ll not find anything warmer. I’ve still got it all these years later.’ He looked up towards the ceiling. ‘I can still smell you on it, Ethel.’ He pulled on his brown overall. ‘Anyway, I’ve got a new lad starting today.’

  ‘What for, Alf? We don’t need anybody else.’

  ‘Thought we could do with a bit of muscle around here, to help with all the heavy lifting and that. Might even expand into doing deliveries. You’ve got to keep up with the competition, haven’t you?’

  Tara glanced at the clock. ‘Well, he’s late so that’s not a good start.’

  The shop bell rang and they both looked over at the door.

  ‘Morning, lad,’ greeted Alf. ‘Come on in, will you, say hello to Tara.’

  Tara’s mouth hung open in what was no doubt a most unattractive way. ‘Hello, Tom.’

  Alf raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh, do you two know each other?’

  Tom smiled and took a
step forward. ‘We’ve never been formally introduced.’ He offered his hand. ‘Tom Marshall, pleased to meet you.’ He sounded so grown-up.

  Tara shook his hand, trying to sound casual. ‘Yeah, I’ve seen you around.’

  ‘First things first then,’ said Alf. ‘Tara, lass, show Tom where the kettle is.’

  She pointed to the door leading to the hallway. ‘It’s down there.’

  Alf nudged her. ‘Go after him then and make me one whilst you’re at it.’

  Tara followed Tom into the back kitchen, unable to take her eyes off his slim hips. He wore a washed-out Stranglers t-shirt, with a full list of their 1977 tour dates listed on the back, and his denim flares were frayed at the bottom from the constant contact with the ground. He wore his dark, wavy hair rebelliously long and he had a habit of scooping it out of his eyes with his hand or with a quick shake of his head. She caught a whiff of his Hai Karate aftershave.

  ‘What are you doing here, Tom? I mean why are you working here, at Alf’s?’

  ‘I came in one night after school and asked if he needed anybody to help out on Saturdays. He said he did and here I am.’

  ‘Does Lisa know?’

  ‘Lisa? What the hell has it got to do with her where I work?’ He seemed genuinely puzzled.

  ‘You knew I worked here though.’ She cast her eyes skywards. ‘Well, live here actually. Up there.’

  ‘I did know,’ Tom confessed. ‘I thought it would be a laugh, us working together.’

  ‘You hardly know me.’

  ‘That, I was hoping to rectify.’

  Tara refused to let herself get carried away. ‘But why?’

  ‘I like you, OK? You’re funny.’

  Tara rubbed at her temples, trying to erase the unwelcome thought now clamouring for attention. ‘You . . . um . . . well, you wouldn’t be doing this to get back at Lisa, would you?’

  Tom laughed. ‘See, you’re funny.’