‘It’s lovely to see you again,’ said Violet, clapping her hands together.
‘Mum, you only saw me yesterday.’ Tara rolled her eyes at Alf.
‘Larry,’ Violet said. ‘This is our Tara.’
Larry stepped forward and half-bowed as he held out his hand. ‘It’s nice to meet you at last, Tara. I see you’ve inherited your mother’s good looks.’
Tara felt her cheeks redden, her words coming out in a jumble. ‘Erm . . . ta . . . nice . . . to have . . . I mean nice to meet you as well.’
‘And this is Alf,’ Violet said. ‘Our saviour. I don’t know what we’d have done without him.’
Larry grasped Alf’s hand. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you, sir.’
‘Well, come in then,’ said Violet, ushering them into the hall. ‘Shall I take your jacket, Alf?’
They trooped after Larry as he made his way into the conservatory. Everywhere there were plants, huge rubber plants in pots, ferns dangling from the ceiling in macramé holders, a row of cacti on the windowsill. Larry gestured to the rattan peacock chair in the corner. ‘Have a seat, Tara, and allow me to fix you a drink. Cinzano and lemonade is it, like your mother?’
Tara glanced at Violet who gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. ‘I’m only fourteen, Larry.’
‘Oh, sorry, of course.’ He looked at Violet. ‘A weak one wouldn’t hurt though, would it, Violet?’
Tara waited for her mother to answer, willing her to agree. If there was one thing that would make this afternoon more bearable it was alcohol.
‘Go on then, just a splash, as it’s a special occasion.’
Tara couldn’t see anything special in the occasion but if it meant she got to have a proper drink then she’d go along with it. She watched Larry as he poured in the Cinzano under the close observation of Violet. As soon as Violet turned her back, he added another slug and winked at Tara. He lifted the lid on a plastic pineapple and brought out a chunk of ice, before topping up her glass with lemonade. ‘There you are, Tara, cheers.’ He handed a glass of foaming beer to Alf. ‘It’s lovely to have you both here.’
Larry and Violet settled themselves on the two-seater sofa opposite, their upper arms touching, Larry’s hand resting on Violet’s knee. Tara looked over at Alf seated on a chair in the corner, watching as he raised his pint glass to his lips, his hand shaking with the effort.
‘Well, this is nice,’ announced Violet, breaking the long silence. ‘Isn’t it, Tara? What do you think of Larry’s house?’
Tara glanced down at the glass-topped coffee table, the acidic orange shag pile visible beneath. ‘It’s alright, yeah.’
Violet laughed. ‘Alright? What are you like, Tara? It’s beautiful. I’ll give you a guided tour later.’
She turned to Larry. ‘Tell our Tara about our trip to the continent.’
Larry leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees, his face animated. ‘Oh, it’s going to be fantastic. We’ll drive down to Dover, take it nice and easy, find a nice country pub for a spot of lunch and then we’ll get the car ferry over to Calais. From then on, the world, or Europe at least, really is our oyster.’ He looked at Violet. ‘You can choose, darling, we can go anywhere you want to. There’re vineyards, forests, mountains, beaches, medieval villages, whatever you fancy.’
Violet clapped her hands together. ‘I can’t wait, Larry.’ She leaned over and kissed his cheek. ‘Thank you so much.’
He ran his finger down the side of her face. ‘The pleasure is all mine.’ They locked gazes for so long that Tara was forced to dramatically clear her throat. ‘I hear they’re thinking of building a tunnel under the English Channel. Mr Long, our geography teacher, reckons it’ll happen.’
‘Nah, can’t see it myself,’ said Larry. ‘Too bloody expensive. What do you think, Alf?’
Alf shook his head. ‘No, we’re an island, we are. We’ll have rats coming through bringing rabies and whatnot. We can’t have that. What’s wrong with the car ferry or that hover thing?’
Violet steered the conversation away from rabies and rats. ‘How was Tom yesterday, Tara?’
‘Fine, no mention of another date but he was his usual self, cheerful and playing pranks on me and what have you. Just like I was his little sister.’
‘Nonsense,’ Violet dismissed. ‘Thinks the world of you that lad. Anyway, you could always ask him out.’
Tara stood up. ‘You’re mad, Mother. Now where’s the loo? Upstairs?’
Violet beamed with what looked like pride but surely couldn’t be as they were only talking about toilets. ‘There’s one in the hall,’ she replied, with more than a hint of excitement. ‘You don’t have to go upstairs. Can you believe it?’
‘Mmm . . . truly radical.’ Tara glanced over at Alf who did his best to stifle a giggle.
The downstairs loo turned out to be more of a cupboard under the stairs. There was just a sickly pink sink with gold taps and a vanity unit underneath. And yet another plant hanging from the ceiling.
A bar of her mother’s favourite pink Camay soap lay in a dish beside the taps. Tara lathered up her hands, rinsed them under the scalding hot water and looked round for a towel. There was an empty towel ring but nothing with which to dry her hands. ‘Damn,’ she muttered, wiping them down her skirt. She hesitated at the door. Perhaps there was a towel in the drawer below the sink. Feeling like a cat burglar, she eased open the drawer and looked inside. There was a pile of fluffy white guest towels, each adorned with a strip of frilly lace and satin rosebuds, no doubt geared to match the wallpaper. Larry was certainly in touch with his feminine side. She pulled out the top towel, dried her hands and placed it over the towel ring. She was about to close the drawer when she noticed the gilt-edged photo frame sticking out from beneath the towel at the bottom of the pile. Careful not to disturb anything she eased the picture out and held it up. With its pure white background and carefully positioned subjects, the photo had obviously been taken in a studio. The woman was dressed casually in a pale blue shirtwaister which showed off her tanned legs. Her face was turned away from the camera and towards the little blonde girl who sat beside her, laughing into the camera lens. Even though Tara was only looking at the woman’s profile she could tell there was deep affection between the two of them. It was indeed a touching photo of a mother and her daughter. So why was it buried beneath a pile of towels in Larry’s downstairs toilet?
19
Alf perched on his stool behind the counter, issuing orders. ‘Tom, lad, take them trays of bedding plants outside, will you, and arrange them on the upturned fruit boxes, stagger them like, so that it makes a nice display. Tara, you make a pyramid out of these pots of paint for the window display.’
Tom winked at Tara. ‘Yes, boss.’ He stamped his feet together and gave a salute.
Alf hurled over a wet cloth which caught Tom square in the face. ‘Cheeky beggar.’
A week had slipped by since the lunch and even though Larry had been nothing but charming and clearly adored her mother, Tara could not shake the feeling that something was not quite right.
She picked up the first pot of paint and placed it on the window sill, then another, until she had a row of ten. The next row contained eight pots, then six and so on until she had to stand on tiptoe to place the last one on top. Frowning in concentration, she jumped a mile when Tom grabbed her waist from behind. ‘Tom, what’re you playing at?’
‘Sorry, I couldn’t resist, you seemed miles away.’
‘I was. I’ve got a lot on my mind.’
‘Revision?’
‘No, nothing to do with bloody exams, you fool.’ She stopped and looked around for Alf. ‘Where is he?’
Tom nodded towards the back. ‘Gone to answer the phone, why?’
‘Can you keep a secret?’ Tara whispered. ‘I mean it, you can’t tell anybody.’
‘Why, what is it?’
Tara shook her head. ‘No, you have to promise first, cross your heart.’
Tom laughed. ‘What
are you . . . six?’
She thumped him on the arm. ‘Do you want to know or not?’
‘Alright then,’ he relented. ‘Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.’
Tara lowered her voice as she heard Alf shuffling back into the shop. ‘Meet me at the café in the bus depot after work, say five-thirty.’ She turned to Alf. ‘What’re you grinning at?’
‘That was our Judith on t’phone. She’s coming to visit tomorrow.’ He reached for his jacket off the back of the door. ‘I’ll have to get summat in, you two mind the shop, will yer?’
Tara sat fidgeting with her glass of milk as she waited for Tom, running her finger round the rim of the glass. Even with the warmth of the spring day, the paraffin heater was blazing away in the corner, the diesel fumes from the buses outside adding to the stuffiness of the busy café. She waved at Tom as he came in, his face breaking into a broad smile as though he hadn’t seen her for weeks. He plonked himself down in the chair opposite, speaking in hushed tones. ‘I don’t think I was followed.’
Tara laughed. ‘You daft apeth. I just didn’t want loads of questions from Mum and Alf, that’s all. They’re bound to think we’re on another date.’
‘We could be.’
She swallowed the flutter of excitement. ‘Could we?’
He shrugged. ‘Do you want to?’
‘Do you?’
He reached across the table and took both her hands in his. ‘Yes, I do. Now can we stop all this dilly-dallying and just admit that we would both like to go out on another date?’
‘OK, I’d like that.’
‘Well, I’m glad that’s sorted. Now, what’s all this about a secret?’
Tara puffed out her cheeks as she pondered where to begin. ‘You know me mum’s . . . erm . . . boyfriend?’
‘Larry? Yes, you might’ve mentioned him once or twice.’
‘Well, we went round to his gaff last week for the formal introduction. He lives in this massive house in Hale.’
‘Nice.’
‘I don’t trust him, Tom. You should see the place; no way is it a bachelor pad. There’re plants everywhere, frilly towels, the lot. Even satin cushions on his bed. It’s just not a bloke’s taste.’
‘Perhaps he had help from one of them interior designers. He’s rich, isn’t he? That’s what they all do. They don’t wander into Alf’s for a couple of tins of paint. They have people for that sort of thing.’
She reached down for her handbag. ‘There’s something else.’ She took out the framed photo and laid it on the table between them.’
‘What’s this?’
‘I found it at Larry’s in the downstairs toilet, buried beneath a pile of towels.’
‘And you stole it?’
‘Borrowed,’ she emphasised. ‘What’s he gonna do? I’m sure he was hiding it, so he can hardly ask me about it, can he? Besides, even if he knows it’s missing, he doesn’t know I was the one who took it. It could have been Mum or even Alf.’
Tom studied the photograph. ‘You think this is his wife and kid, do you?’
‘I think it could be.’
‘Well, maybe they’re not together anymore and this is just a painful reminder, so he keeps it hidden.’
‘He told Mum he’s never been married and doesn’t have any kids. Why would he lie about that?’
When Tom didn’t answer she pressed on with her theory. ‘I think he is married and I think she still lives there and he’s just using my mum. You know, having his cake and eating it.’
‘But your mum stays there sometimes, doesn’t she? I’m sure his wife would have something to say about that.’
Tara rubbed her hands over her face. ‘There’s something else.’
‘Go on.’
‘Over the fireplace in the big lounge is this huge blank space, no pictures, nothing.’
‘So?’
‘It looks odd, all that bare space. Anyway, on one of my visits to the loo, I took a closer look. There’s a faint black mark, sort of rectangle-shaped.’ She rocked back in her chair, folding her arms in triumph.
‘Erm . . . I’m not with you, Tara.’
‘Don’t you see, there’s usually a picture hanging there. A picture of Larry’s wife probably, her and their sprog.’
‘Bloody hell, Tara, you thought of joining Charlie’s Angels?’
‘There’s more. I had a peek upstairs when they were all knocking back the old vino. One of the rooms is all decked out for a little kid.’ She prodded the photo on the table. ‘A little kid like this one. Sindy dolls, a massive Palomino rockin’ horse thing, hair bobbles on the dressing table.’
‘But surely your mum must’ve seen this room too. Hiding a couple of pictures is one thing, but a whole room?’
Tara wrinkled her nose. ‘I know, that bit doesn’t make any sense.’
‘None of it makes sense, Tara. Isn’t Larry taking you on holiday soon? How could he do that if he was still married?’ He touched her lightly on the back of her hand. ‘Do you think you’re just looking for problems because you don’t like the fact Violet’s spending so much time with him? Perhaps you feel a bit left out.’
For the past fourteen years it had just been the two of them. Violet had had boyfriends before but never anything serious. Having to share her mother was new territory for Tara and she had to admit that she was finding it all a bit weird. But her mother was blind where Larry was concerned and Tara had to trust her own instincts. She looked at Tom. ‘Maybe, you’re right, but I have to find out for sure. I’m going to ask Mum.’
20
She’d promised to help Alf get ready for the ‘Royal visit’ as he called it. Everything had to be perfect for Judith, nothing was to be left to chance. Tara was sure there’d been military campaigns waged with less planning. To her credit, Violet was mucking in too. Larry had suggested driving out to the countryside with a picnic basket as the weather was so unseasonably warm, but for once he’d had to take a back seat. Tara watched as Violet weighed out the flour, her tongue sticking out of the side of her mouth as she placed the tiny weights on one side of the scales, delicately adjusting them until they balanced.
‘What’re you making, Mum?’
‘Victoria sponge, although God knows what it’ll be like. I told Alf they sold Victoria sponge at the Happy Shopper but he was having none of it.’ She turned and looked at Tara, a smudge of flour across her top lip. ‘It has to be home-made for our Judith.’ She looked out of the window. ‘And to think I could be laid out on a rug by the side of the river sipping champagne and nibbling on strawberries.’
‘Do you love Larry, Mum?’
Violet tipped the flour into a bowl before answering. She wiped her hands on her apron and joined Tara at the table. ‘Yes, I think I do.’ She cupped her hands around Tara’s face. ‘But not as much as I love you, Baby Girl. You’ll always be number one in my life so don’t you forget that. Larry’s kind to me, so generous and although I don’t like relying on a man, it does feel good not to have to worry about where the next meal’s coming from for a change.’ She paused, taking the time to let her words sink in. ‘What’s the matter? Don’t you like Larry?’
It seemed like the right time to take the plunge. ‘He’s alright I suppose, but how much do you know about him?’
‘Enough.’
‘Mum, I’m not proud of myself and please understand that I was only looking out for you . . .’
Violet backed away. ‘What’ve you done, Tara?’
‘Last week, at his house, when you were all drinking after the meal, I had a little look round.’
‘Snooping, you mean.’
Tara looked down at the plastic table cloth, tracing the red and white checks with her finger. ‘There’s a room upstairs that obviously belongs to a little girl.’
Violet’s arms were folded now, a frown registering on her brow, her silence making Tara unsure whether or not to continue. ‘Erm . . . well, I also found a photo hidden away of a woman and her daughter.
’ Violet still didn’t speak. ‘And . . . and . . .’ Tara floundered. ‘In the lounge, there used to be a big picture over the fireplace, but he’s taken it down and I think . . .’
‘The Haywain,’ Violet said.
‘What?’
‘The Haywain. It’s a painting by Constable. Larry’s sent it away to be re-framed.’
‘Oh, right . . . well . . . um . . . what about that room then?’
‘It’s Becky’s.’
‘Who the hell’s . . .?’
‘His niece. She comes to stay sometimes. He keeps a room for her. It’s a big house, he’s not got any kids of his own and he’s close to his sister.’
Tara thought about the photo stuffed under the towels. ‘His sister?’
Violet nodded. ‘Do you have anything else to say?’
‘I just don’t want you to get hurt, Mum. I’m sorry.’
‘Tara, you don’t need to look for problems, OK?’ She gestured around the spartan room. ‘Don’t you think we have enough to worry about? Do you think this is the kind of place I wanted to raise my daughter? This wasn’t part of the grand plan. Living over a bloody hardware shop, without a proper job and with a lonely old man who thinks . . .’
Tara glared at her mother and nodded towards the door, where Alf stood listening.
‘Who thinks what, Violet?’
‘Oh, Alf, I didn’t see you there.’
‘Obviously.’
‘I’m sorry, Alf. You know we love living here. I don’t know what would’ve happened to us if you had not taken us in that night. Please don’t think we’re ungrateful.’ She kissed him on his cheek. ‘And we’re both very fond of you.’
‘Aye, and I’m fond of the pair of you an’ all.’
Violet released her grip on his arm. ‘Anyway, I need to crack on with this cake. What time’s her ladyship coming?’
‘Four.’ Alf scuffed his foot on the lino. ‘We need to have a bit of a spring clean in here too.’
Her Last Promise Page 12
