Her Last Promise

by Kathryn Hughes

  ‘Oh, you’ve been here before then?’

  ‘Once or twice. Penny liked it.’

  I shuffled in my seat. ‘Was Penny your wife?’

  ‘That’s right, she was.’

  I struggled to think of something to say. I could talk about my ex all day long because he was still a living, breathing person who barged into my life with annoying regularity. Talking about a late spouse, though, that was a whole different ball game. ‘Erm, do you still miss her?’ I cringed and took a slug of my gin. Why did I always say the wrong thing? Of course he must miss her.

  ‘Yes, I always will. The girls help though.’

  I wiped my lipstick off the glass with my thumb. ‘Yes, I’m sure they do. How old are your daughters?’

  ‘Meg’s twenty-one and is on a gap year in Thailand and Hannah’s eighteen. She’s at uni studying the club scene and drinking culture of Liverpool.’

  I frowned. ‘Really? That’s a course now, is it?’

  He stared at me. ‘No, it’s not. It was a joke. She’s doing geography.’

  God, I’m so dense at times. ‘She’s the same age as our Dylan then. He’s studying medicine at Newcastle.’ I tried to keep the pride out of my voice and just managed to stop my chest from inflating.

  Tom gave a quick whistle. ‘Wow, he must be very bright.’

  ‘Yeah, he takes after his dad.’

  ‘Hey, don’t do yourself down, Tara.’ He picked up the menu again. ‘Come on, how about we have this sharing platter thingy for starters and then the fish pie? Unless there’s something else you’d prefer?’

  I slammed my menu shut. ‘It sounds perfect.’

  There was more dabbing at the iPad as the waitress took our order and then she plonked down a basket of bread which we hadn’t ordered and neither of us particularly wanted and yet I knew we’d have cleared the lot before our starter arrived. It’s something to do with your hands and helps to fill the silences.

  ‘Tom,’ I began, as the gin loosened my tongue. ‘I really did love you, you know.’

  He put a slab of rock-hard butter on his bread and made a futile attempt to spread it. ‘And I loved you too.’ His words were coated with sadness and I swear his voice almost cracked.

  An unexpected lump formed in my throat and it had nothing to do with the doughy bread. ‘And you never forget your first love, do you?’

  He rocked back in his chair and laughed, instantly lightening the mood. ‘Do you remember the first time we . . . you know . . .’ He lowered his voice ‘Did it?’

  I could feel myself blushing like the fifteen-year-old I was back then. ‘How could I forget?’

  It happened when he came to Lytham. Nan went off to bingo and we took advantage of the empty house. We lay on my single bed, the bright orange walls crowding in on us, Leo Sayer’s ‘When I Need You’ on the turntable. For years after I couldn’t listen to that song without crying. We were both nervous and whilst Tom was no choir boy, he did lack the experience to make me feel as though I was in capable hands.

  ‘There was an awful lot of fumbling as I recall.’

  Tom dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. ‘Didn’t last too long either, did it?’

  I groaned inwardly. I hadn’t had nearly enough alcohol to make this conversation comfortable. ‘Well, it was a long time ago. I expect we’ve both learned a few moves since then.’

  The waitress saved me by bringing over the sharing platter on a huge breadboard. ‘Any more drinks?’

  ‘I could use another,’ I said to Tom.

  ‘Make it a large one,’ he told the waitress. ‘And I’ll have a Diet Coke.’

  ‘So,’ he said when she’d gone. ‘You’re divorced.’

  I wasn’t quite sure how to answer. ‘Not divorced, separated. We’re not on bad terms though. We can just about manage to be in the same room.’

  ‘Oh well, that’s nice,’ he declared. ‘Best to be grown-up about these things, especially when kids are involved. Dads always seem to come off worse in a divorce or separation, don’t they? You know, having to have visiting rights to see their own kids, it must be . . .’

  I cut him off. ‘Ralph left me for his pregnant secretary actually.’ I had to nip this sympathy for Ralph thing in the bud. I gave a tight smile as Tom held his loaded fork midway between his plate and his mouth.

  ‘Oh . . . how . . . well, I mean, that’s . . .’

  I dismissed his concern with a flick of my hand, warming to my theme. ‘Been cheating on me for years, he had. Serial adulterer. I thought he’d calm down a bit in his old age, but no, he gets his dozy secretary pregnant and she spawns twins.’

  Tom choked on his food and took a swig of Diet Coke. ‘Twins?’

  ‘Mmm . . . you couldn’t make it up, could you?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Tara. You don’t deserve that.’

  ‘Oh,’ I replied in mock surprise. ‘Apparently, I do. Once I’d had Dylan I didn’t pay Ralph enough attention. I put the needs of my baby before a thirty-seven-year-old man-child.’ I realised I needed to stop. I felt my chest flushing and that’s not a good look for anybody. I took a deep breath and pushed my fingers into my breastbone. The first burning sign of indigestion was on the horizon.

  ‘But you’re not divorced?’

  Tom said this in a manner which led me to think he wasn’t convinced that Ralph was the philandering, duplicitous two-timer I made him out to be.

  I moved some food around my plate whilst I searched for a convincing answer I’m not even sure I’d believe myself. ‘Divorcee,’ I said eventually. ‘It’s such a . . . disappointing label. It just reeks of failure.’ I felt the tears begin to prick. ‘Anyway, that’s enough about my troubles. Let’s just enjoy our meal, shall we?’

  The rest of the evening passed by in a rather pleasant mixture of reminiscing, talking about what we did now and our respective children. We hardly noticed the elephant in the room. Or rather the one in my handbag.

  We were on our coffees before Tom brought it up again. ‘Shall we have a look at that letter then?’

  I glanced around the restaurant. It was still lively, the music was a little too intrusive and I could see a waiter coming around the corner with a birthday cake ablaze with candles. There was much whooping and clapping as the birthday boy spotted his cake before his friends broke into a chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’. For some reason, we all joined in, even though most of us didn’t know him from Adam. ‘I’d prefer to wait until I get home,’ I said.

  ‘Oh,’ said Tom, looking crestfallen. ‘I thought you didn’t want to open it alone.’

  ‘I don’t. I was hoping you’d come in with me.’

  ‘Of course I will.’ He brightened. ‘Shall I ask for the bill then?’

  34

  I was annoyed but not surprised to find the kitchen a complete tip when we got back.

  ‘Dylan’s home,’ I said to Tom by way of explanation. I didn’t want him to think I was this slovenly. ‘Honestly, all he had to do was heat up a ready-made lasagne and yet it looks as though he’s prepared a feast for the court of Henry VIII.’

  I began to clear away. I couldn’t imagine why Dylan had had to use so many cooking implements and dishes, all of which had failed to make their way into the dishwasher.

  ‘Surprise visit,’ I continued as I chiselled away at a blob of lasagne. ‘Some party in town or something.’ I indicated the chairs by the wood burner. ‘Have a seat, I’ll be with you in a minute, I just need to . . .’

  Tom draped his jacket over the chair and sat down. ‘Tara, I can see what you’re doing. Come on now, that’s enough. Leave all that. It’s time.’

  He was right of course. The time for procrastination was over. I took the letter out of my bag and sat down in the chair opposite Tom. I passed it over to him. ‘Will you read it for me?’

  ‘Yes, if you’re sure.’ He positioned his glasses on his face, slid his finger under the flap and pulled out a wad of pages. He cleared his throat and looked at me. ‘Ready?’
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  I was holding my breath and couldn’t speak so I closed my eyes and nodded. I could hear the rustle of the paper as Tom unfolded it. He began to read, his voice steady and reassuring. I was so grateful he was there with me.

  Monasterio de Justina

  Province of Segovia, CASTILLA y LEON,

  KINGDOM OF SPAIN

  16th May, 1981

  Dear Tara

  My name is Br Isidore and if my instructions have been followed, then you now have in your hands a locket. One which you will recognise, even though it may be many years since you last saw it.

  It was 5th June 1978 when I found it. The day was unforgivingly hot and under my hair shirt and heavy white robes I was itching and sweating. I had been walking for around three hours when I found I could go no further and I was forced to sit down and rest. I lay back on the rough stubble and closed my eyes. At first I thought I was dreaming but then I felt it again, a brush stroke as soft as gossamer (I think this is the correct word) on my cheek. I sat up and there it was about an arm’s length away from me sitting on the petals of a yellow flower – a butterfly, a Mazarine blue. I rose to my feet and the butterfly flew on ahead then landed on a nearby bush and waited. I followed it along the dirt track almost in a trance as it fluttered from bush to bush, its bright blue wings guiding me. It was then I noticed it. It was the splash of red that caught my eye. The dress she was wearing had come up to her thigh and I tugged it down to save embarrassment. Her eyes, they were closed and her dark hair was thick with blood. I do not know how long she had been like this, lying out in the sun, but her lips were dry and cracked and her shoulders and chest were blistered. She had blood and rough skin on her knees, grazes, I think is the word. On her hands too. Like she had been going like a baby on her hands and knees. I put my arms under her shoulders and eased her head into my lap. ‘Where am I?’ she whispered. It was as though she had fallen from the sky and it was a miracle that I had found her. I looked around for the Mazarine blue. It had gone.

  I gathered the girl in my arms. Before setting out from the monasterio, as well as wearing my hair shirt, I’d chosen to walk without sandals for I knew each painful step would atone for my sins and bring me closer to God. On and on I walked, ignoring the agony of my lacerated soles and the sweat running into my eyes. I began to recite the Lord’s prayer and the girl’s eyes fluttered open at the sound of my voice. Every excruciating step was a reminder of what I had done, a reminder of the events that had brought me to this place and why I had to atone. I held the girl in my arms, like a mother would hold her baby. She was of slender build but even her meagre weight was beginning to make me tired. My back ached and my hair shirt beneath my robe scratched at my skin, rubbing away the layers and leaving a raw mass which I knew would make sleep impossible later.

  By the time I arrived back at the monasterio I was on the point of exhaustion, severely dehydrated and almost delirious with pain. I hurried to my cell and laid the girl down on my bunk.

  I dabbed at the mixture of blood and hair with a wet cloth, making her wince. I asked if she could tell me her name but she shook her head, then closed her eyes. Several minutes passed before she opened them again. ‘Violet,’ she said. ‘My name is Violet Skye.’

  My dear Tara, thank you for bearing with me. My English is not bad, I think. It has certainly improved over the last three years. Communicating with Violet has helped with that. When I first found her, I had no clue as to her identity. She wouldn’t talk much and seemed distant and afraid. It was about a week later when I returned to the place I had discovered her. I thought perhaps she may have been carrying a handbag or something. Scratching around in the sandy soil I saw something glinting in the sunlight. It was a silver locket bearing the inscription: Happy 30th Birthday, Love Tara. 4.6.78. There was a photo of a young girl inside. Is that you, I wonder? Are you Violet’s sister, daughter, niece, friend? When I showed it to Violet she frowned and pushed it away, saying it wasn’t hers and she had never seen it before. I think she’s wrong. We are so isolated up here that the chances of someone else losing a necklace in the exact same spot that I found Violet are just too remote to envisage. To this day, some three years later, all I know is her date of birth and her name. It’s important for you to know that Violet does have some memories but they are not happy ones. It’s clear that she has suffered some sort of traumatic brain injury, evidenced by the wound on her head. This has resulted in a degree of amnesia but she is able to recall somewhat disturbing events from childhood.

  Now the time has come for me to take my solemn vows. I am permitted one last visit home to say goodbye to my family but I did not make that final visit. Instead I went to England. There was nothing I could say to convince Violet to go with me so I went alone, without telling her. It was the only way I could think of to help her. The locket has been placed in a safe deposit box and the key to that box and this letter have been given to the oldest firm of solicitors in London that I could find. I have engaged the services of a private investigator to trace your whereabouts, recompensing him with everything I have. I have no further need for it. If he is successful, then he will inform Irwin Fortis and they will contact you.

  Tara, I have no way of knowing whether his search will be long, short or even fruitful, but I hope that now you are reading this letter, you will at least have some answers. We will take care of Violet here for as long as she wants us to. She has no happy memories of her past life, but I can assure you she is safe here with us. And she is happy now.

  With my sincerest best wishes,

  Brother Isidore

  Tom finished reading and exhaled a shuddering breath. ‘Well, well, well.’

  I can’t imagine how I must have looked. My face was wet with tears and my eyes stung behind my contact lenses. ‘She . . . she didn’t leave me, Tom.’

  He shuffled off his chair and sat down on the floor at my knee. He passed me his handkerchief.

  ‘What the hell happened to her, Tom? How did she end up like that?’

  Tom peered at the letter again. ‘This letter certainly presents more questions than it answers.’

  ‘Give me that, will you?’ Tom handed me the letter. ‘16th May 1981. That’s thirty-seven years ago. How did it take so long to find me?’

  Tom thought for a second. ‘Well, for a start they didn’t have the right name and thirty-seven years ago we didn’t have records as readily available as they are today. There was no internet with websites dedicated to finding our ancestors.’

  I flipped to the last page of the letter. ‘And what does he mean by “disturbing” events from her childhood? This is just too much to take in.’ Another thought occurred to me. ‘Do you think there’s a chance she’s still alive? She’d only be . . . what . . . seventy?’

  Tom smiled, his knees cracking as he struggled to his feet. ‘There’s only one way to find out.’

  Offering his hand, he pulled me out of the chair. We stared at each other for a second. His hand was warm in mine and I could smell the Imperial Leather on his skin. ‘Go to Spain, you mean?’

  ‘You’ve nothing to lose, have you?’

  He was right, I hadn’t. I’d been forced to grow up without the one person who loved me above all else, without my guiding light, my beautiful, funny, talented mother. I didn’t just want to find her, I needed to. And time was not on my side.

  35

  1978

  Violet stared out of the window, absently caressing the stubble just over her right ear. She couldn’t remember them shaving her head and yet the proof was right there under her fingertips. The graze had healed over but the bone underneath was still tender and the bruise still visible, although it had gone from dark purple to a greeny-yellow. Nine days had crawled by since Br Isidore had found her and not one of those days had passed without her wishing she’d died. The brothers were kind enough but most of them didn’t speak any English and kept their distance.

  There was a hesitant tap at the door. ‘Come in.’

  Br Is
idore stuck his head round. ‘You awake?’ His dark eyes were half-closed and his whole body seemed to sag under the weight of his robes. Although it was still early for Violet, Br Isidore’s day had begun before sunrise with Vigils, an hour-long scripture followed by the reciting of twelve psalms he’d had to learn by heart. Straight after that, the brothers attended Lauds, another hour-long service in which Br Isidore confessed he had to chew on peppercorns to stop himself nodding off.

  ‘How are you feeling today?’ he asked. Violet could listen to his melodic accent all day.

  ‘No pain, just . . . numb.’

  He scratched away at his chest beneath his robe, his face twisted with obvious discomfort. ‘Well that is something.’

  ‘What’s the matter, Br Isidore? You look as though you’re the one in pain.’

  ‘No pain, Violet, more like . . . oh what is the word now . . . irritante. It’s the hair shirt. I’m wearing it to remind me of my sins.’

  She smiled. ‘You? A sinner? I’ve never met a more caring, compassionate man in all my life.’ She stopped and frowned. ‘At least I don’t think I have. I can’t remember.’

  ‘There’s something I need to talk to you about.’

  ‘I know. I heard you and Br Florian talking. I obviously couldn’t understand what you were saying but I heard my name and his body language spoke volumes.’

  ‘No,’ he said, emphatically. ‘You have this wrong. Br Florian is as worried about you as I am. You have a life, Violet. Somebody, somewhere, they miss you, no?’

  She shook her head. ‘There’s nobody missing me, Br Isidore. I might as well have died out there on that mountain. In fact, I wish I had.’

  ‘No, no, no . . . you mustn’t say that.’ He lifted his leg and kicked the door shut. ‘I have found something that I think is yours. Ayer . . . I mean, er . . . yesterday, I go back to the place where I find you. I think maybe you have a bolso with you or something that I missed before.’