Tom took a step closer and whispered in her ear. ‘Fancy coming into town tonight?’ He ferreted in his back pocket and fished out a packet of ten Consulate.
‘Fags? Oh, I don’t know, Tom. Mum would go mad.’
‘Your mum’s not here, Tara. Come on, they’re menthol, five each. We can chain smoke them in Spud-U-Like.’ She imagined Violet and Larry winging their way to Dover, music blasting out of the radio, Violet’s hair whipping round her face, Larry laughing and resting his hand on her knee. They probably hadn’t given her a second thought since they sped away this morning.
‘Go on then, Tom. Honestly, you’re such a bad influence.’
A low gurgling sound from the back of the shop stopped them both. ‘Alf?’ Tara sprang forward, knocking over the paintbrush display as she raced to his side. ‘What’s up, Alf?’ He began to cough, his eyes watering as he thumped his chest. ‘Bloody hell, I feel as though I’m going to bring a lung up.’
She guided him to the stool behind the counter. ‘Sit here, Alf. Tom, fetch a glass of water.’ She massaged Alf’s shoulders until the coughing subsided. Tom handed him the water and he took a grateful gulp. ‘Aye, that’s better. I think I must’ve swallowed a fly or summat.’ His chest heaved with the exertion, his eyes still watering.
Tara glanced over Alf’s head at Tom. I’ll stay in with him tonight, she mouthed. Tom went to protest but she silenced him with a look, no words necessary.
Violet had never travelled on a ferry before, or any kind of boat for that matter, so how was she to know that she’d be as sick as a dog? Larry had been sympathetic at first, but half an hour into the crossing, he’d grown tired of holding back her hair as she vomited over the handrail. ‘Violet, love, you’ve nothing left, come inside and sit in the warm.’
Her shaky legs would not co-operate. ‘You go, Larry. I’ll just stay here. How much further to go?’
He looked at his watch. ‘Another hour, just under maybe.’
‘Oh God, no.’ She turned away and retched again, her stomach muscles aching. She felt Larry rubbing her back, small circular motions which served no purpose other than to irritate her further. ‘Larry, will you just go back inside and leave me alone.’ She couldn’t imagine a more unedifying sight.
To his credit, he did hesitate for a second or two. ‘Well, if you’re sure. They’re serving a nice scampi in the basket in the restaurant and I am a little peckish.’
Scampi! The juices began to flood her mouth again. Was he doing this on purpose? She wafted him away, gripped the handrail and fixed her gaze on the black horizon.
It felt like a miracle. Within thirty seconds of driving off that blessed ferry, all her biliousness had evaporated. Her stomach was hollow and her mouth felt like the bottom of a budgie’s cage but here she was in France. Abroad, for the first time in her life. It was dark as they left Calais and driving on the wrong side of the road unnerved her. She looked at Larry for reassurance, his forehead registering a slight frown as he navigated the unfamiliar roads. She leaned across to kiss him but he visibly recoiled and nodded towards the glove box. ‘Your breath stinks. There’re some extra strong mints in there.’
‘What’s the matter, Larry? You seem annoyed with me for some reason. I can’t help it if I was seasick. I’ve never been on a boat before. Unless you count those pedal boats in the shape of swans down the local park.’
He didn’t speak but kept his eyes focused on the road ahead, the clenching of his jaw further confirmation that he was in a foul mood. She lolled sideways and rested her head on his shoulder. She felt him stiffen and tighten his grip on the steering wheel. ‘Please relax a bit, Larry, we’re on holiday now. Don’t spoil it.’
She would later spend more time than was good for her reflecting on what happened next. Larry seemed to snap and brushed her arm out of the way more savagely than he had surely intended. His hand hit her in the face, the sharp diamond of his signet ring catching her on the lip. The shock rendered her speechless and she didn’t cry out, but merely turned and stared out of the passenger window, the metal tang of blood mixing with her bitter tears.
25
It wasn’t exactly how she’d planned to spend the school holidays. She should have been pegged out on the beaches of St Tropez or Cannes or whatever other pretentious place Larry had lined up for them. And yet she was happy here, minding the shop for Alf while he was tucked up in bed. Turned out he hadn’t swallowed a fly as he’d self-diagnosed but had developed some sort of chest infection. The doctor had been and prescribed some antibiotics which still sat on his nightstand, untouched.
‘I’m not going to bother with all those fancy medicines. Never did owt for my Ethel.’ He brandished the pot of mustard powder at Tara. ‘Here, this is what we need. One part dry mustard, three parts flour, mixed with a little water.’
Tara took the little yellow box. ‘Plain or self-raising?’
‘Yer what?’
‘The flour? Plain or self-raising?’
‘It doesn’t matter, Tara. I’m not asking you to bake a cake.’
Tara mixed up the mustard poultice in the kitchen, the smell making her eyes water. Alf was a stubborn so-and-so. It was a good job Violet was away because she’d have force-fed him his pills, with as much finesse as a plumber unblocking a drain. ‘Here we are, Alf. Open up your pyjama top.’
She sat down on the bed and waited for Alf to undo his top, fighting the instinct to take over as she watched him fumble with the buttons. She managed not to gasp as he revealed his chest. The skin was so pale it had a silvery hue to it and his ribs were clearly visible. So much for all the weight he was supposed to have gained. Tara took the spatula and spread the mixture over his chest, smoothing it out with the precision of a master sculptor. Alf closed his eyes, a faint smile on his lips, his breathing becoming a little more rhythmic. ‘I wish you’d take the tablets, Alf.’
He lifted a hand. ‘Stop fussing, Tara. This is fine. I can feel it working already. These old-fashioned remedies are much better. I remember when I were a lad, we rubbed lard on my grandad’s back.’
Tara wrinkled her nose. ‘Lard?’
‘Aye, he went downhill really fast after that.’
In spite of herself, Tara laughed. ‘This isn’t funny, Alf. Shall I ring your Judith?’
Alf’s eyes flew open. ‘What for?’ He grabbed Tara’s arm. ‘You think I’m done for, don’t you? What did the doctor say? Tell me, Tara.’
‘The doctor said you should take your pills, Alf.’
‘He didn’t say anything about me popping my clogs then?’
The thought had never occurred to her. Alf was a tough old boot, he’d go on for ever. ‘You’re not going anywhere, Alf.’
‘Actually, I need to point Percy at the porcelain, love.’
This was where she drew the line. She would cut his toe nails, clean his false teeth and spread obnoxious unguents onto his chest, but toilet stuff was not in her remit. She called downstairs. ‘Tom, can you come up here for a minute?’
She passed Tom on the narrow staircase. ‘Toilet, is it?’ he asked, only the trace of a grimace on his face.
‘’Fraid so. I’ll mind the shop.’
She stopped beside the telephone in the hall and picked up the receiver to check for a dial tone. It had been two weeks since Violet and Larry had left and in all that time Tara had not heard a thing from them, not even a lousy postcard. But today was Violet’s birthday, she had promised to call and Tara knew Violet would not let her down.
France had been a revelation to Violet and nothing at all like she had gleaned from magazines, books and daft comedy programmes. She hadn’t seen a single Frenchman wearing a striped t-shirt with a string of onions round his neck and a beret on his head. She could spot a native French woman from the other side of the street though. They were always immaculately dressed, usually in some sort of flowing white ensemble with large sunglasses and huge floppy hats protecting their delicate skin from the sun. They seemed to exist on tiny cups of s
trong black coffee, fizzy water and Gauloises. Violet pulled down the sun visor and peered in the mirror, hardly recognising the tanned face which stared back at her. Her eyes and teeth stood out against her darkened complexion. She smoothed out the skin on her neck and turned to Larry, raising her voice to compete with the rush of wind. ‘You don’t think the sun’s aged me, do you, Larry?’
‘No, I don’t, Violet. You’re even more beautiful than when we stepped off that ferry. Mind you,’ he chuckled, ‘that shade of green really didn’t suit you!’
She’d been careful to apply the sun cream, avoided the midday sun and had religiously applied the After Sun. Larry’s skin had taken on the hue of a freshly creosoted fence and his sandy hair now sported blonde highlights that any self-respecting woman would have paid a fortune for at the hairdresser’s.
‘How long until we’re there?’ asked Violet, not for the first time on this trip.
The day before, they had left France, crossed the Pyrenees and were now heading to a medieval village in central Spain which Larry had been told about by a toothless indigent farmer, who had sold them a jug of milk.
He glanced down at the map, the car drifting to the left.
Violet instinctively reached for the steering wheel ‘Careful, Larry. Here.’ She grabbed the map. ‘Let me look. What’s the name of the village again?’
‘San Sedeza. Only another half hour, I reckon, but it’ll be worth it from what that chap was saying.’ He placed his hand on her bare thigh, moving it slowly upwards. ‘I cannot think of a more special place to spend your thirtieth birthday.’
‘Thank you, Larry,’ she sighed. ‘It’s going to be perfect.’
She fell silent and played with her necklace. ‘It’s a pity we couldn’t find a working phone box though. I promised Tara I would ring today.’ She unclipped the chain and held the locket in her hands. ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it, Larry? She must’ve saved up for months to be able to afford this. And to have it engraved too. It’s so special.’ She dug her nails into the side and prised open the locket. Tara’s face beamed back at her and Violet had to swallow hard to quell the unexpected tears.
The old farmer had certainly not exaggerated the medieval splendour of the hill top village. Surrounded by a wall, it was replete with cobblestoned streets and crumbling biscuit-coloured cottages, their window boxes festooned with vivid red geraniums. A tired-looking donkey pulling a ridiculously overloaded cart ambled past, flicking away the flies with his furry ears.
In the distance, forested hills stood out against the unblemished sky.
‘My God, Larry. It’s stunning,’ Violet said, fanning herself with the road map. ‘That was quite a climb but worth it.’
Larry took hold of her hand. ‘Shush, listen.’
There was no road noise, no sound of conversation, no music blaring, only the scratching of cicadas in the trees above. Larry had parked the car under the shade of a pine on a piece of scrub land at the bottom of the hill. They’d soon learned that the sun was capable of heating the red leather seats to the point where third-degree burns were a serious possibility. Cars were prohibited from entering the village itself, a law that was enforced by the narrow archway in the wall which only a donkey cart was capable of squeezing through. Violet was still struggling for breath after the steep climb. ‘Can we just sit for a minute, Larry? Here on this wall.’
Larry pointed at the sky. ‘Look at that.’
Forming a protective peak with her hand, she followed his finger. ‘Wow, what are they?’ A large bird with a fluffy white head and an incredibly wide wingspan soared on the thermal currents.
‘Griffon vultures,’ Larry confirmed. ‘I read about them in the guide book. Carnivorous, they are. They feed on the carcasses of dead animals. Bloody good eyesight too. From the air they can spot a carcass from four miles away.’
Violet nudged him. ‘I didn’t know you were into birds, Larry.’
He stared at her for a second. ‘There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Violet.’
He unfolded a piece of paper and read the name of the hostelry which the old farmer had recommended. ‘He’s probably on some sort of back-hander,’ he muttered. ‘Goes on all over the world.’
‘This whole village is asleep,’ whispered Violet as they walked into the square. She pointed to the green shutters on the windows. ‘Look, the houses have their eyes closed.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Larry cursed, looking at his watch. ‘They must all be having a siesta.’
‘It feels a little creepy.’
A black dog lay on the cobbles underneath a veranda, his belly heaving up and down, his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth. He lifted his head as he heard them approach. ‘Don’t touch him,’ warned Violet. ‘He’s probably got rabies.’
‘He hasn’t got rabies, Violet. You pay too much attention to the scaremongering tactics of the Daily Mail.’ Larry clicked his fingers at the dog who hauled himself to his feet and waddled over, his tail wagging languidly. ‘Hello, fella. Where is everybody then?’
‘Larry, he’s a Spanish dog, he won’t understand English.’
‘Oh, right, because if I’d spoken to him in Spanish he would have given me a coherent answer, I suppose.’
A young girl appeared from the back of the panadería. Her sunken eyes were rimmed with fatigue, her sallow skin looking as though she never saw the light of day. She wore a thin cotton dress which may have fitted her once, but now hung shapelessly from her slender frame. ‘Can I help you?’ she offered.
Larry showed her the piece of paper and the young girl looked down at the scrawl. ‘Over there.’ She pointed across the main plaza. ‘It’s . . .’ She stopped at the sound of a voice calling from inside the panadería. ‘Gabriela, who are you talking to?’
She passed the note back to Larry. ‘Sorry, I’ve got to go.’ She disappeared into the shop, her shoulders hunched, her lank hair falling round her face.
‘Strange girl,’ said Violet.
‘Mmm . . .’ agreed Larry. ‘I’ve seen more vibrant-looking corpses.’
26
It was gone five by the time they were able to secure the room at the inn and they were both ready for a little siesta themselves. Larry threw himself down on the bed. ‘It’s hard work doing nothing all day.’
Violet crawled on beside him. ‘You’re not doing nothing though, Larry. You’re driving for miles on end, on the wrong side of the road, squinting into the bright sun. It’s a wonder you’re fit for anything come the afternoon.’
He rolled onto his side and stroked a finger along her collarbone. ‘How about a little nap then?’ He peeled the straps from her sun dress.
‘Oh no, Larry, I’m all hot and bothered. Let me take a quick shower.’
She went to move off the bed but he grabbed her wrist and hauled her back. ‘It’s fine, Violet.’ In one swift move he manoeuvred her onto her back and straddled her, pinning her arms above her head as he leaned down and kissed her neck. She lay captive beneath him, his weight almost too much to bear, his unshaven skin chafing against hers. She instinctively crossed her legs but he prised them apart again and wedged his knee in between. ‘No,’ she screamed. ‘Stop.’
‘What’s the matter? You’ve never objected before.’
She closed her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Larry. I know it wasn’t your intention to be . . . forceful but it’s just when you held my arms like that . . . it reminded me . . .’
‘Forceful? Jesus Christ, Violet. What do you take me for? I was only being playful.’
She imagined another face hovering above her, one pitted with old acne scars, a bulbous red nose testament to his drinking habits. She could almost taste his sour breath. She opened her eyes again and looked at Larry. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered as a hot tear slid backwards and soaked into the pillow.
Larry climbed off her and flopped onto his back. ‘What’s going on, Violet?’
‘Nothing: it’s not you, honestly.’ She propped herself up and looked him in th
e eye. ‘You haven’t done anything wrong, Larry.’ She laid her head on his chest, his breathing slowly returning to normal. ‘I promise you, Larry. It’s not you.’
For a long time they lay in silence watching the lazy fan above them, each hypnotic revolution making their eyelids grow heavier. Violet succumbed and closed her eyes. She felt Larry nudging her. ‘Oi, sleepy head, look lively. I’ve arranged a special treat if you feel up to it.’
Violet yawned and stretched her arms, injecting as much enthusiasm as she could muster into her reply.
‘Ooh, sounds mysterious, Larry. Where’re we going?’
‘I’m not telling you. Just be ready in half an hour with your glad rags on.’
Tara thumbed through Alf’s battered address book, searching for Judith’s telephone number. In spite of what Alf said, Tara thought his daughter deserved to know that her father was poorly. She wouldn’t need to put herself out to the extent of making a two-hundred-mile journey north, but she could at least send a card. There was nothing listed under Bickerstaffe though, nor indeed Judith. Perhaps she used a different surname now, one that was more suited to the high echelons of power within the corridors of Westminster. It only took a few more minutes to find her number under ‘O’ and Tara smiled to herself at Alf’s simple categorisation of his daughter – Our Judith. She dialled the number, hoping that Judith wasn’t working late, but thankfully she picked up on the third ring.
‘Judith Bickerstaffe.’
‘Oh . . . er . . . hello, Judith. It’s Tara here. Tara Dobbs.’
‘Tara Dobbs from?’
‘Erm . . . from Manchester. Me and my mum lodge with your dad.’
There was a brief pause and Tara realised Judith must be expecting the worst news. ‘Don’t worry, your dad’s not dead,’ she blurted out. ‘He’s . . . just . . . erm . . . poorly, a chest infection. The doctor’s been and told him to take some pills, which he won’t, but he needs plenty of rest and me and Tom are looking after him so you don’t need to worry but I just thought . . .’
Her Last Promise Page 15
