Her Last Promise

by Kathryn Hughes

  ‘Slow down, will you,’ interrupted Judith. ‘Do I need to come up?’

  ‘No, you don’t need to make the pilgrimage north, but he’d love to see you, I’m sure.’

  Judith let out an irritated sigh. ‘I’ve got a lot on here. Just put him on, will you?’

  ‘Oh, sorry, no, he can’t come to the phone. He can’t manage the stairs, see.’

  There was a brief silence, filled by Judith tapping her fingernails on something. ‘Well, thanks for letting me know then. Leave it with me, erm . . . what did you say your name was?’

  She was about to furnish Judith with the answer when she felt the vibrating of the floorboards, accompanied by Tom’s thunderous footsteps as he vaulted down the stairs. ‘Tara, quick. It’s Alf.’

  ‘I’ve got to go.’ Without affording Judith the courtesy of a goodbye, she slammed down the receiver and followed Tom up the stairs.

  Tom pointed to the bed. ‘I found him like this. I’d only gone into the kitchen to fetch a glass of water.’

  Tara knelt by the side of the bed and took hold of his hand. ‘Alf, can you hear me?’

  She placed her ear on his chest, relieved to hear the faint thrum of a heartbeat. ‘Alf,’ she tried again, gently shaking his shoulders. She turned to Tom. ‘Call an ambulance.’

  With the lengthening of the shadows, the relentless heat of the sun had abated. They had been driving for almost an hour, climbing in altitude until Violet’s ears popped and her stomach groaned in protest at the lack of food. She could feel a trickle of sweat running down her spine and fretted that when she eventually climbed out of the car the fabric would be stained a darker shade of red. She knew that this evening would be forever ingrained on her memory, one she would be able to tell her grandchildren about. They would listen wide-eyed as she retold the tale about how their grandfather had proposed in a mountain-top restaurant, surrounded by bougainvillea-covered terraces, the scent of pine trees, rosemary and lavender hovering in the air.

  They were escorted to a table in the corner, only a dry-stone wall separating them from the river at the bottom of the gorge far below. Violet peered over the wall, a sickly feeling in the pit of her stomach, but whether it was excitement or vertigo, she could not tell. ‘Where did you find this place, Larry? It’s in the middle of nowhere.’

  He tapped the side of his nose. ‘I have my sources.’ He clicked his fingers at the waiter. ‘A bottle of your finest vintage cava, please.’

  Violet shuffled in her seat. This was it, there was bound to be an engagement ring in the bottom of her glass. She picked up the menu but out here in the sticks it was all in Spanish. It’d been bad enough grappling with the menus in France but at least she had retained some words from her school days.

  Larry reached over and plucked the menu from her hands. ‘No need to look at that. We’re having the house speciality.’

  ‘Oh, and what’s that?’

  ‘Suckling pig.’

  ‘Suckling pig?’

  ‘That’s right. Cochinillo, they call it.’ Larry cleared some space on the table as the waiter arrived with the cava and opened it with a flourish. He raised his glass to hers. ‘Happy Birthday, Violet.’

  She clinked her glass against his. ‘Happy Birthday to me.’ She peered into her glass before taking a careful sip.

  ‘Anyway,’ she continued. ‘This suckling pig.’

  ‘What about it?’ he asked, refilling his glass.

  ‘It sounds like a baby pig, you know, a piglet.’

  ‘It is, Violet. Slaughtered between two and six weeks usually. Only ever been fed on its mother’s milk. After six hours on the spit it just falls off the bone. Delicious.’ He smacked his lips and laughed.

  She took a swig of her cava, squinting at Larry through her glass. Not for the first time an unwelcome nugget of doubt crept in, almost unobserved but nevertheless hovering in the shadows. It was difficult to identify with any certainty but Larry was different somehow. It had all started on the morning he collected her for their holiday. Turning up late and in the wrong car, meaning Tara had been left behind. Violet had been so excited about the holiday that she’d overlooked the way he had behaved but something had not been quite right then. He was cold, distracted and picky, as though she got on his nerves. Even on the ferry when she’d been sick, his patience had run out and she’d felt like a nuisance. And then of course there was the split lip. He had been full of remorse and she’d believed him when he said it was an accident. But was it? She began to feel light-headed and it had nothing to do with quaffing cava on an empty stomach. She stood up. ‘Larry, I just need to go to the bathroom.’

  She leaned over the sink and stared into the mirror. How much did she really know about Larry? Had the fact he was wealthy turned her head? God, she hoped she wasn’t that shallow. She twisted the cold tap and held her wrists under the flow. Perhaps she was so desperate to forge a secure future for herself and Tara she had grabbed onto Larry the way a drowning man grabs onto a life belt. She sat down on the edge of the toilet and pinched the bridge of her nose. Did she really love Larry or did she love the idea of being a suburban housewife whose only worry was where the next invitation to cocktails was coming from? Larry already had a gardener and a domestic help who did all his ironing so there would be nothing for her to do but . . . but what? Larry would be out at work all day and she hadn’t even got to the bottom of what it was he actually did. Whenever she’d enquired he’d simply patted the back of her hand and muttered something about brokering stocks and shares, whatever the hell they were. Her life would be an endless round of coffee mornings and Tupperware parties. She peered round the door and stared at him. He was handsome, no doubt about that. He was generous too but there was something that didn’t quite fit. He could be moody and had scant regard for her feelings sometimes. ‘Oh, Violet Dobbs, you silly cow. Why didn’t you ask yourself all these questions before?’ She should’ve listened to Tara. She stared at her reflection, the rush of heat to her cheeks visible through her tan. She tilted her head and stared at the ceiling, her voice a cautious whisper. ‘I’m so sorry, Tara. I should have listened to you. Larry’s not right for me . . . for us. I don’t know why I couldn’t see that.’ She inhaled a purposeful breath. Saying the words out loud made her more determined. ‘I promise you, Tara, I’ll never, ever put a man before you again. It’ll just be the two of us from now on, Baby Girl.’

  Picking up the threadbare towel, she blotted her face and returned to the table.

  Larry took hold of her hand. ‘You look a little flushed, Violet.’

  ‘Do I? Well it’s flippin’ hot, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’ve ordered the pig.’

  ‘Oh, um . . . great.’

  He let go of her hand and reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small black box. He passed it over the flickering candle. ‘For you.’

  Violet had waited for this moment most of her adult life. She should be feeling euphoric but instead her mouth was so dry she almost choked. ‘What . . . what’s this?’ she managed, taking the box.

  ‘Open it.’

  Steeling herself, she lifted the lid. Her gasp of relief must have been audible to the diners at the adjacent table. ‘Oh, Larry! It’s . . . lovely.’

  He grabbed hold of the box and took out the thin silver chain, a single oval-cut diamond hanging from it. ‘Two carats,’ he confirmed. He pointed to Violet’s throat. ‘Now get that thing off and I’ll put it on.’

  Violet clasped the locket. ‘Well, I’ll put yours on another time. I’d rather wear this one for now.’

  Larry clenched his jaw then drew in a deep breath through his nostrils. When he finally spoke, his voice was measured, bordering on menacing. ‘You’d rather wear that cheap tat than a diamond necklace? Have you any idea what that cost?’

  ‘Well, it’s just that Tara’s not here, I’ve not been able to speak to her and it makes me feel close to her.’

  Larry shook his head. ‘Women! I’ll never understand them.’ He shou
ted over to the waiter, not even affording him a polite click of his fingers. ‘Oi, Manuel, fetch us a bottle of the Rioja, will you?’

  The waiter frowned but he had obviously picked up on the word Rioja because moments later he appeared with the bottle and placed it in the middle of the table. Without a word, he uncorked it then tipped a small amount into each of their glasses. Larry stared pointedly after him before picking up the bottle and filling his glass to the top.

  ‘Careful, Larry, you’re driving, remember.’

  He slammed down his glass. ‘Give it a rest, Violet. It’s like coming away with the Gestapo.’

  ‘The roads are awfully winding, and there’s a bloody steep drop into the gorge.’

  ‘Feel free to drive if you’re worried.’ He took a gulp of the wine.

  ‘I can’t drive, Larry, as full well you know.’

  ‘Don’t lecture me then.’

  Her vision was blurred, the tears standing in her eyes ready to spill out with just one blink. She stared at Larry until she could stand the stinging no more. She closed her eyes and two fat teardrops rolled down each cheek.

  ‘Oh, Christ Almighty, here come the waterworks.’ Larry passed her a napkin. ‘Here, you’re making a show of us.’

  Violet dabbed her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry, Larry,’ she sniffed. ‘I’m just a bit emotional because I miss Tara. We’ve never been apart for so long and I’m worried about her.’

  ‘That kid can look after herself, from what I’ve seen.’

  ‘She’s only fifteen. We shouldn’t have left her.’

  Larry relented with a sympathetic smile. ‘Look, we’ll ring her tomorrow if you like, I promise. We’ll drive around until we find a phone box and to hell with the expense.’

  Violet blew her nose as delicately as she could. ‘Thank you, Larry.’

  ‘Good, now can we just enjoy our evening?’ He craned his neck in search of the waiter. ‘Where’s Manuel with that bloody pig?’

  Tom and Tara sat in the visitors’ waiting room. The bright orange plastic chairs had not been designed for comfort, or ease of cleaning, given the layers of grime that were embedded in their pores. The smell of stale body odour mingled with the antiseptic spray the nurse had just dispensed with a look of distaste.

  Having been unable to absorb a single word, Tara flung the magazine back onto the coffee table. ‘What’s taking them so long?’

  ‘They’re busy, Tara,’ said Tom. ‘Don’t worry, Alf’s in the best place now. They’ll make sure he gets the medication he needs.’

  She glared at Tom. ‘Are you saying this is all my fault? Because I didn’t insist he took the tablets?’

  ‘I’m not saying that at all, Tara. Alf’s a grown man capable of making his own decisions.’ He squeezed her hand, injecting a forceful note into his voice. ‘None of this is your fault.’

  She laid her head on his shoulder. ‘If anything happens to him . . .’

  He cut her off. ‘It won’t.’

  Violet clung onto Larry’s arm as they left the restaurant, a combination of Rioja, high heels and a patch of rubble masquerading as a car park making her unsteady on her feet. Although it had got off to a rocky start, the evening had not been a total disaster after all. She had had to steel herself when the waiter delivered the suckling pig on a silver platter. He had lifted the dome with all the drama of a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat and there, curled into the foetal position, his once-pink skin darkened by the flames to a sizzling bronze colour, lay the piglet in all his porcine glory – head, trotters, curly little tail, the lot. He looked as though he was asleep in his cosy nest of lettuce.

  Larry opened the car door for Violet and she slid into the passenger seat. He leaned in and kissed her full on the mouth, his lips still coated with piglet juice, his breath reeking of red wine. She wafted him away. ‘Are you sure you’re OK to drive?’

  ‘God, not this again, Violet.’ He gestured with his hand across the valley. ‘There’re no coppers round here. And even if I do get pulled over,’ he patted his breast pocket, ‘I’ve got wads of cash in here.’

  The sun had dropped behind the hills hours ago and yet it still wasn’t quite dark. The sky looked as though it had leaped off an artist’s easel with its hues of violet and navy. Deep down in the gorge below, the emerald river snaked its way along the valley floor, carving out the canyon just as it had done for millions of years.

  Violet leaned against the head rest while Larry fumbled with the key, blindly trying to find the ignition and cursing under his breath. The car finally coughed into life and he ground the gears into reverse. ‘Right, let’s go for a spin, shall we?’ He produced a bottle of Calvados from between the seats. ‘How do you fancy an al fresco nightcap?’

  ‘It’s a long journey, Larry. Can we just get back to the village first?’

  ‘God, Violet, when did you become so boring?’ He wedged the bottle between his legs, revved the engine and then sped off with such gusto a shower of gravel flew up from beneath the tyres. Violet gripped the sides of her seat as the throaty engine roared in protest, crying out for Larry to change up a gear.

  She stared at the white needle on the speedometer, slowly advancing towards sixty. She shouted above the noise of the engine. ‘Larry, are you insane? Slow down, will you?’

  He turned to face her, laughing. ‘Whoa! It’s exhilarating, Violet.’ The needle quivered its way towards seventy and Violet covered her face with her hands. She felt Larry grappling with her, trying to prise her fingers away from her face. ‘Come on, Violet, relax, you’re in safe hands.’

  ‘Keep your bloody safe hands on the wheel, Larry,’ she snapped, but the rush of wind carried her voice away. ‘This isn’t the way back either. Why are you climbing further up the mountain? Larry, listen to me.’

  He took the first bend far too fast, the car seemingly tipping onto two wheels as she was flung into Larry. She screamed, instinctively grabbing for the steering wheel.

  ‘What’re you doing you daft cow?’ He pushed her back into her own seat. ‘Are you trying to get us killed?’

  She was crying now and this time she didn’t care if he noticed. ‘Larry, please. I want to go home. I want to get back to Tara.’

  But he merely grinned and pressed his foot to the accelerator.

  27

  2018

  I’d chosen a table that was partially screened by pot plants but still afforded me a view of the front door, thus ensuring that I would see him before he saw me. I’d arrived deliberately early because the last thing I wanted was a hurried entrance, me huffing and puffing, face like a beacon and tripping over my words. I picked up the menu and studied the drinks list. When did ordering a coffee become so complicated? Just when you think you’ve got to grips with the difference between a cappuccino and a latte, along comes a flat white or a cortado and something termed a chai latte which turns out not to be coffee at all but a syrupy mix of frothy milk and spices.

  ‘Are you ready to order?’ The waitress was at my side, pad and pen poised.

  ‘Not quite. I’m waiting for a friend.’ I swirled my finger above the table where the remains of the previous occupant’s beverage was still in evidence, along with the crumbs from his flaky pastry. ‘Would you mind clearing all this away?’

  She looked at me as though I’d asked her to take in a family of refugees, then called to a colleague who I gathered must be beneath her in the hierarchy of the village tea rooms. ‘Toyah, fetch a cloth and come and clear this lot up.’ She gave me a sweet smile and assured me she would return when she saw I had company.

  Outside, a gale gathered momentum and every time the door opened, a gust sent the wind chimes into overdrive. The metallic jangling was starting to get on my nerves.

  I sat fidgeting for another ten minutes until finally, along with a mini tornado of leaves, he came through the door and stamped his feet on the mat. I half-stood and called out his name. ‘Tom, over here.’

  He looked my way and for a split second I could te
ll he didn’t recognise me. Sure, he knew it must be me because we’d arranged to meet here, but forty years is a long time in anybody’s book and I knew I looked nothing like the fifteen-year-old I was the last time we’d seen each other.

  ‘Tara,’ he cried, slotting his umbrella into the stand. He came over, his arms outstretched, and gave me a kiss on both cheeks. ‘You haven’t changed a bit.’

  I was about to suggest he needed a pair of glasses when the waitress appeared again. ‘What can I get you?’

  Tom smoothed out his wind-ruffled hair. ‘Oh . . . erm . . . just a pot of tea, please. Tara?’

  ‘Oh, go on then, pot of tea for two,’ I confirmed.

  ‘So,’ he began. ‘This is nice.’ He splayed his hands on the table. ‘Forty years, eh?’

  I was surprised by how good it felt to see him again. He still had all his hair and his own teeth from what I could make out. He was a little grey round the edges, but the years had been kind to him. He didn’t really look like David Essex now but I suppose David Essex doesn’t look like David Essex any more either.

  ‘Yes, a lifetime,’ I replied.

  ‘I couldn’t believe it when Mum said you’d been in touch.’

  ‘I couldn’t believe she still lives in the same house.’

  Tom shook his head. ‘She’s immovable. Ever since Dad died she’s become even more determined to stay in that house. All the memories are there, she said. I pointed out that she’ll still have her memories wherever she lives, but she’s a stubborn so-and-so. The only way she’s leaving is feet first.’

  I glanced at his left hand. ‘You’re married, I see.’

  He only hesitated for a second. ‘Widower, actually. Been two years now.’