‘Leave it all to us, Alf. You just take a seat over there from which you can issue instructions. Tara, fetch the dustpan and brush.’
‘Why me? I thought I was helping with the food.’
‘Tara, don’t argue, you can do both.’
A few hours later, the three of them stood back and admired all their hard work. The little square table creaked under the weight of the food. Tara had made fish paste and cucumber sandwiches, cutting off the crusts at Alf’s insistence, but saving them for the birds as he was not fond of waste. There were several Tupperware bowls filled with crisps, Twiglets and cheesy balls, cocktail sausages on sticks and a jar of pickled onions. Violet’s sponge had pride of place in the middle on one of Ethel’s cake stands, a thick dusting of icing sugar disguising the fact she had left it in the oven a little too long. The tinned peaches had been decanted into a crystal fruit bowl and the evaporated milk poured into a matching jug.
‘You’ve done me proud, girls,’ said Alf. ‘I’ve never seen me kitchen looking this clean.’ He glanced down at the lino. ‘I’d forgotten what colour that was.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Now, how about a small sherry whilst we wait for our Judith?’
‘Not for me, thanks, Alf,’ said Tara. ‘If it’s owt like that Cinzano, I think I’d be sick.’
‘Right you are. Violet?’
‘Go on then. Just a small one for me, Alf.’
By the time five o’clock came, Violet had had one too many sherries and coupled with the fact she had nothing in her stomach was beginning to feel rather light-headed. ‘Is she always this late, Alf?’
‘Um, well she’s very busy. You know what politics is like, things can ’appen when you least expect them.’
‘Can I have a butty, Mum? I’m starving.’
‘Tara, what’ve I told you? People in Africa are starving, you’re just feeling a bit peckish. Alf, can Tara have a sandwich?’
He looked at the clock. ‘Give it another half hour can you, lass?’
‘But . . .’
Violet glared at her. ‘Alf said wait.’
At six o’clock Violet’s stomach was rumbling so loudly, Alf was on the verge of calling a plumber.
She patted her stomach. ‘Goodness me, I’m sorry about that.’
‘You need to eat, Mum,’ Tara urged. ‘We all do.’
‘Alf?’ asked Violet. ‘What do you think? Shall we start without her? It is getting rather late.’
Alf peeled back the net curtain. ‘Aye, perhaps we better had.’ His breath had fogged up the window and he wiped the glass with his sleeve before continuing to gaze down the street. ‘She’ll be here. She’s a good lass really, just so driven. Her career is very important but she won’t let her old dad down.’
Violet handed round the plates and Tara loaded hers up, wolfing down sausages as she did so.
‘Hmm . . . that’s better,’ she mumbled.
‘Tara, please don’t talk with your mouth full.’ Violet stared at the empty plate on Alf’s lap. ‘You not eating, Alf?’
‘Oh, I will soon enough. I’ve just got butterflies in me tummy, I’m that excited to see our Judith.’
Out in the hall, the telephone rang and Alf began to rise from his chair. ‘That’ll be her.’
Violet pressed him back down. ‘Leave it to me, Alf. I’ll go and find out what time she expects to arrive.’
She closed the kitchen door behind her before lifting the receiver. ‘Hello.’
‘Oh! Who is this?’ The question came out on a huge yawn. ‘Oo, excuse me.’
‘It’s Violet, who’s speaking, please?’
‘Can I speak to Alf Bickerstaffe?’
Alf Bickerstaffe. How many Alfs did she think lived here? ‘Is that Judith?’
‘Yes, is he there?’
‘You’re over two hours late,’ Violet hissed. ‘Where’ve you been?’
‘I’m sorry, who are you?’
‘I’m the mug who’s been working her fingers to the bone preparing for your state visit. Now what time will you be here?’
In the long silence that followed, Violet could hear the sound of glass clinking and a voice saying, ‘Where shall I put these empties, Jude?’
‘Erm . . . I’m not coming, something’s come up, something important.’
‘Something more important than seeing your own father?’
Judith’s voice adopted a hard edge. ‘Look, you . . . you . . . whoever you are, I don’t have to answer to you. I’m not coming, alright? Tell him I’ll be in touch.’ She slammed the phone down, leaving Violet protesting to the dial tone.
She returned to the kitchen, clasping her hands together to stop them shaking with rage. She looked at Tara and shook her head. Alf was staring out of the window again, his back to them. ‘She’s not coming, is she?’
‘She said she’s really sorry but she’s been called into work on some kind of erm . . . political . . . emergency. Obviously, she couldn’t say what it was about because it’s all top secret. She thought she would be able to get away but now it looks as though she might have to work through the night.’
‘Work through the night? Well, it must be something big then. Poor Judith, she works too hard.’
Hmm . . . parties too hard more like. ‘She was so looking forward to seeing you and is really disappointed. She told that Mrs Thatcher that she really had to travel to Manchester to see her dear old father but she wasn’t to be swayed apparently. I mean, you can believe it, can’t you? From what I’ve seen on the telly, that Mrs T is not to be argued with.’
‘So, she’s not coming at all then?’ Alf’s plaintive expression made it difficult for Violet to speak. She swallowed down the mixture of anger and sadness. ‘No, she’s not, Alf. I’m so sorry.’ She took hold of his hand. ‘How about I cut you a nice big slice of my cake, eh?’
‘Aye, go on then. No sense in it going to waste, is there?’
Violet picked up the knife and plunged it into the cake, causing a puff of icing sugar to rise into the air.
‘Perhaps I’d better ring her,’ said Alf. ‘Check she’s alright. I don’t want her to think I’m not worried about her.’
Violet handed him his plate of cake. ‘No, Alf, you can’t ring her. She was ringing from the office. She’s in a top-secret meeting, been squirrelled away all day, she has, and it was only on a visit to the loo that she managed to sneak out and make the telephone call.’
Alf smiled. ‘Ah, that’s our Judith all over. So considerate. I hope she hasn’t been worrying about me all day.’
Violet stared at him, biting her lip. ‘I’m sure she hasn’t, Alf.’ She turned to Tara, who was on to her third piece of cake. She spoke through clenched teeth. ‘She’s a bloody selfish cow, that’s what she is.’
‘It’s your birthday in a couple of weeks, isn’t it?’ Tom stood clutching the stack of firelighters Alf had asked him to put in the back on account of folks not wanting to start fires now that the weather had really warmed up.
Tara looked up from the till. ‘Yes, it is. Fifteen, eh? God, I feel old.’
Alf gave a snort from the corner of the shop. ‘Wait until you get to my age, then you can complain about gettin’ old.’
‘You’re off on your hols shortly after, aren’t you?’ asked Tom.
She nodded. ‘Mmm . . . and I’ll have to take an extra week off school.’
‘Lucky you. Listen, I was wondering if you fancied doing something for your birthday? Nothin’ flash, I’m not made of money.’ He nodded towards Alf. ‘Not on what he pays me.’
Before Tara had a chance to answer, the shop bell rang and Violet breezed in, her hands full of shopping bags, Larry trailing after her. ‘Wait until you see this lot, Tara. Larry’s been treating me to a few bits for our holiday.’ She dumped the bags on the counter and began to pull out bikinis, sarongs, a big floppy hat and an enormous pair of sunglasses.’ She kissed Larry on the cheek. ‘Thanks again, darling, you’re too kind.’
He took hold of her chin and pressed hi
s lips to hers. ‘Worth every penny, Princess. You’re going to look ravishing. I’ll be the envy of every bloke on the French Riviera with you on my arm.’
Violet could not keep the excited squeal out of her voice.
‘Did you hear that, Tara? We’re going to St Tropez.’ She delved into a bag and brought out a pair of tight denim shorts. ‘We didn’t forget you, love. Larry chose them.’
‘Gee, thanks, Larry.’ Tara held the shorts at arm’s length. The Sindy doll she’d had as a kid would have struggled to get into them. ‘But you really shouldn’t have.’
Larry dismissed her comment with a wave of his hand. ‘It’s nothing.’ He patted Violet’s bottom. ‘Now come on, let’s get you upstairs and you can model this lot for me.’
Tara glanced at Tom as she stuck her finger in her mouth and heaved. ‘Pass the bucket,’ she whispered.
Larry and Violet were lying together on top of the bed, their legs entwined, as Tara entered the room. They didn’t even make any attempt to pull apart. ‘Don’t mind me,’ Tara said, shrugging off the tabard she wore for the shop. Violet had taken to bringing Larry back to Alf’s of late. Mercifully, he couldn’t stay the night, not with there only being the one bed, but Violet was keen to let Larry see the cramped conditions in which they were forced to live. She was convinced it was only a matter of time before he invited them both to live with him in his mansion. Tara was none too keen though. She couldn’t stand the thought of having to watch them pawing each other on a daily basis, plus it would mean catching two buses to school instead of one.
‘I’m going to make a start on the tea, Mum. Larry, are you staying?’ she asked, wondering how on earth she was going to divide a pork chop into two.
‘Oh, no, nothing for me and Violet, we’re going out for a meal.’
‘Again?’
Violet scrambled off the bed. ‘Come with us, Tara. That’s alright, isn’t it, Larry?’
He nodded. ‘Fine by me, love.’
‘Nah, you’re alright. I promised Alf I’d do those pork chops for him. I don’t want to let him down.’
‘You’re a good kid, our Tara, but it’s Saturday night. Would you really rather spend it with an old man in this . . .’ she gestured round the room, ‘this . . .’
‘I’m going to the pictures with Tom later,’ interrupted Tara. ‘So you can swan off guilt-free.’
‘Don’t be like that, Tara. We’d have loved you to come with us. We’re going to try out that new Indian.’
‘Well have a great time then. Erm . . . excuse me.’ She rushed down the stairs. Tom was just turning out the lights and preparing to lock the front door. ‘Tom, don’t go.’
He turned around, his hand on his chest. ‘Tara, you frightened the life out of me. What do you mean, don’t go?’
‘Mum and Larry are going out. I wondered if you’d like to stay and have her pork chop. It seems daft you going all the way home only to come back later for the pictures.’
‘Hmm . . . I suppose it does. We always have a chippy tea on a Saturday so I’ll have to ring me mam and let her know. Do you think Alf’ll let me use the phone?’
‘If you put your tuppence in the pot he won’t mind. Go on.’
She was quite proud of her effort, even though any idiot could grill chops and boil up some potatoes and peas.
Alf scraped round his plate, licked his knife and declared it the best meal he’d ever eaten. ‘You’ll make someone a good wife one day, Tara lass.’
Her face instantly colouring, she changed the subject. ‘Alf, you know on Wednesday?’
‘Wednesday? What about it?’
‘Would you come into town with me and help me choose Mum’s birthday present. I want to get her something special. I’ll be back from school about four so we can go then.’
‘Wednesday’s half-day closing, lass.’
‘Oh, yeah, course. Thursday then. I won’t stay behind at school for badminton.’
‘What about young Tom here? Can’t he go with you?’
‘I suppose he could but I really want you to come with me, Alf.’ She patted Tom’s arm. ‘No offence.’
Alf pushed his chair back from the table, placed his hands on his knees and stood up as straight as his curved spine would allow. ‘That’s settled then, Thursday it is.’ He shuffled over to the sink and squirted a blob of Sunlight into the bowl, the lemon fragrance instantly quashing the smell of cold boiled potatoes and congealed fat. ‘I’ll do t’pots,’ he declared. ‘You two go and put your feet up.’
Tom held onto Tara’s hand for the short journey between the kitchen and the bedroom. ‘Thanks for tea, it was lovely.’
‘Well, it was hardly Cordon Bleu,’ she replied, smoothing the crumpled eiderdown. ‘Erm . . . there are no chairs, just . . . well . . . this.’ She indicated the bed.
Tom hopped on, leaned back against the pillows and clamped his hands behind his head. ‘I’m going to miss you, you know.’
Tara climbed on beside him, making sure she kept to her side and didn’t venture into the no man’s land between them. ‘It’s only for three weeks. I’ll be back before you know it.’
Tom turned on his side, his hand propping up his head. ‘Come here.’
‘What?’ Tara laughed. ‘I am here.’
‘Come closer,’ he whispered.
She glanced towards the door.
‘It’s alright. Alf’s not going to bother us. He’s not that clueless. Come on.’
She shuffled a couple of inches to the left and lay as rigid as an ironing board, her arms by her sides, her eyes fixed on a damp patch on the ceiling. She felt the mattress bouncing as Tom edged closer to her and then his breath was on her cheek. ‘That’s better.’
She desperately wanted to turn to look at him but knew if she did their faces would only be inches apart. He was bound to move in for a kiss and she was sure she still had a bit of pork chop wedged between her front teeth.
‘Tara?’
She ran her tongue round her mouth, searching out any debris from the evening meal. ‘Yes.’
‘What do you fancy seeing at the pictures?’
She exhaled a calming breath and tugged at her collar to let some air out. ‘I don’t mind . . . you choose.’
‘We could just stay in and . . .’
Tara leaped off the bed as though she had been electrocuted. ‘And what?’
‘Calm down, Tara, why’re you so jumpy?’
She glanced towards the door again. ‘I’m not, it’s just what if Mum comes back or Alf barges in wanting to know if we want a cuppa? It would be just like him.’
‘We’re not doing anything wrong, Tara.’
She sat down so hard on the edge of the bed that a spring in the mattress gave a loud cartoon-style boing. ‘I really like you, Tom.’
‘Good, because I really like you.’
‘I don’t want to rush things.’
He cast his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Well, I’d never have guessed.’
She whacked him across the arm, not quite as playfully as she had intended. ‘Let’s just go to the pictures, shall we?’
‘Deal, as long as we can sit on the back row.’
21
‘What did you have in mind?’ asked Alf.
Tara peered in the jeweller’s window. ‘Hmm . . . I’m not sure, but I’ll know it when I see it.’
‘How much have you got saved up, lass?’
‘Oh, enough, I hope.’ She linked her arm through Alf’s. ‘Come on, let’s have a look inside.’
In spite of the brilliant sunshine outside, the interior of the shop was dark, the only light coming from the spotlights directed onto the glass display cases. A man in a pin-striped suit shuffled forward, his hands clasped in the prayer position. ‘May I help you?’
‘I’m looking for a present for me mum,’ ventured Tara. ‘Something special. It’s for her thirtieth birthday.’
‘Well we have quite a selection. Do you have a budget?’
Tara dug her hand into he
r back pocket and fished out ten dog-eared pound notes. The jeweller raised his eyebrows. ‘Is that it?’
Tara nodded. ‘It’s all I can manage.’
‘In that case I think you’d be better served by visiting the indoor market. I don’t mean to be rude but . . .’
Alf stepped in, jabbing his finger at the jeweller. ‘Get yer key and go and open that cabinet over there.’ He jerked his head towards the window. ‘The one with all them silver necklaces and whatnot.’
The jeweller stared at them for a long moment, gave a half-bow and silently retreated to safety behind the counter. Wordlessly, he opened a drawer, took out a small brass key and opened the display case. He pulled out a navy-blue velvet cushion, the silver necklaces sparkling under the warm lights. ‘This one?’
Alf nodded and placed his elbows on the counter. He took out his glasses and peered more closely at the jewellery, pointing to a silver heart-shaped locket. ‘Can we have a look at that one?’
‘Certainly, sir.’ The jeweller carefully lifted the necklace and laid it across Alf’s palm. ‘It’s a beautiful piece, if I may say so. High-grade silver, 1960s, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘What, you mean it’s not a new ’un?’ asked Alf.
‘It’s second-hand, yes, but as you can see it’s in immaculate condition, no scratches and the inside is pristine too.’ He dug his nails into the edge of the locket and prised it open. ‘See.’
Alf turned to Tara. ‘What do you think?’
She took the necklace from him and held it against her chest. ‘It’s gorgeous.’ She fingered the stylised foliage design which had been engraved on the front. ‘I could put a photo of me inside. That would be really special.’
Alf nodded. ‘How much?’
‘Thirty pounds.’
Tara placed the locket back on its velvet cushion. ‘Sorry for wasting your time. Come on, Alf.’ She turned to leave.
‘Wait,’ Alf said, turning to the jeweller. ‘We’ll give you twenty-five.’
‘Alf, come on, I’ve only got ten.’
He ignored her, took out his worn leather pouch and retrieved a roll of notes. ‘Twenty-five,’ he tried again. ‘What do you say?’
Tara edged forward. ‘Alf, what’re you doing?’
Her Last Promise Page 13
