Her Last Promise

by Kathryn Hughes

  ‘A bolso? I’m sorry, Br Isidore, I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘You put your things in. Like your money and your pasaporte.’

  ‘You mean a handbag?’

  ‘Ah, si, si, a handbag. There was no handbag but I did find this.’ He reached into his pocket and brought out a silver chain, a heart-shaped locket on the end. He dropped it into her palm.

  She gave it a cursory look before handing it straight back. ‘It’s not mine.’

  ‘Look again, Violet. It has an inscription.’

  She moved away and resumed her position at the window. Br Florian was scattering corn for the chickens, his white robe blowing in the gentle breeze. ‘I’ve told you, it’s not mine.’

  He ignored her protests. ‘It says “Happy 30th Birthday, Love Tara. 4.6.78.”’

  The chickens were clustered round Br Florian’s feet, their heads bobbing up and down as they scratched around in the dust for the corn. He picked up a basket and lifted the lid on the hatch box, taking out several brown eggs.

  ‘Violet?’

  ‘Br Florian is collecting the eggs. It’ll soon be time for breakfast.’

  ‘Forget the breakfast, Violet. This is importante. It is perhaps . . . I’m sorry, I don’t know the English word . . . but it is a pista. It might lead us to find out where it is you come from.’

  She closed her eyes. She didn’t know who she was exactly or where precisely she had come from. She knew one thing for sure though. She had no desire to return.

  ‘If this is your necklace, Violet, then this Tara, maybe she be worried out of her mind.’

  ‘Br Isidore,’ she said firmly. ‘If that necklace did belong to me, then that would make me thirty years old. That’s just not possible, Br Isidore, and I’ll tell you why, shall I?

  He sounded as though his patience was about to desert him. ‘Si, please do.’

  She placed her hands on her hips, squaring up to him. ‘Because I’m only fourteen, that’s why.’

  He responded with a laugh, although it wasn’t an unkind laugh, more of a disbelieving one. ‘You are not fourteen years old, Violet Skye.’

  She folded her arms, her stance even more defiant. ‘You don’t know me, Br Isidore. How dare you say that?’ She raised her fists and pounded them into his chest.

  He took a step backwards, gently taking hold of her wrists. ‘Violet, please. In this moment you act like a fourteen-year-old but this is not helping.’

  She stared into his face, his eyes full of concern, but it could just as easily have been pity. She let her arms hang limply by her sides. ‘I’m sorry.’ She rubbed at her temples. ‘I’m just so confused.’

  ‘When is your birthday?’

  She sighed and positioned herself at the window again, staring into the distance at the dappled sky, the sun casting a watery glow over the mountains beyond. She couldn’t turn round to face him, couldn’t bear to see the despair in his eyes. She leaned her head against the cool glass. ‘I can’t remember.’

  She felt his hands on her shoulders. ‘Come, sit down.’ She allowed herself to be guided to the small wooden table in her cell. Even though the monks insisted they were not prisoners she found it ironic that their rooms were referred to as cells. They were certainly spartan; just a bed and a desk at which to work and study and take meals alone if they so desired.

  Br Isidore pushed her gently into the chair. He prised the locket open with his thumbs and laid it on the desk. ‘Do you know her?’

  Violet bowed her head and squinted at the photograph of a young fresh-faced girl, her head tilted as she smiled for the camera. ‘She’s very pretty.’

  Br Isidore lowered his head and peered more closely. ‘Si, she certainly is, but do you know her?’

  She could hear the hope in his voice, almost pleading with her to remember something. After all he had done for her, she hated to disappoint him. She snapped the locket shut. ‘I’m sorry, Br Isidore, but no, I don’t.’

  36

  They stood at the end of the tree-lined avenue, hesitant, bewildered and with no idea what it would achieve, but they’d both agreed it was better than doing nothing.

  ‘Are you sure you’re ready for this?’ Tom asked.

  ‘The only thing I’m sure about is Mum was due back eight days ago and I just know something is very wrong.’

  ‘But she’s hardly likely to be holed up at Larry’s house.’

  ‘I don’t have anywhere else to look, Tom. Do you have any better ideas?’

  He sucked in his breath. ‘Come on then.’

  Tara nodded and moved forward, each step taking her nearer to finding out what had become of her mother. Perhaps she and Larry had fallen out and he had returned on his own, abandoning Violet in a foreign country, forcing her to make her own way home. She could imagine Larry doing that. She had never liked him.

  The wrought iron gates were open and Tara quickened her pace as she stomped across the gravel, the urge to find answers suddenly overwhelming. She pressed so hard on the doorbell that it became stuck and continued to emit its piercing sound even after the door had been opened. ‘What on earth . . .?’ Tara stared at the woman as she fiddled with the doorbell, loosening the button until a blessed silence descended.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  It was difficult for Tara to get her words out, not because she couldn’t think of anything to say but quite the opposite. She lurched towards the woman, her pointed finger almost connecting with her chest. ‘I bloody knew it.’ She turned to Tom. ‘I told you he was married, didn’t I? She’s the one from the photograph. Where is he and what’s he done with my mother?’

  It was to her credit that even in the face of this doorstep ambush, the woman retained her composure. ‘If you could just stop shouting for a minute, I might be able to help you.’

  Her quiet tone and calm demeanour enraged Tara even more. ‘Your husband has been having an affair with my mother.’

  ‘Tara,’ said Tom. ‘Calm down, this isn’t her fault. She’s been wronged too.’

  The woman took a sharp intake of breath, the first flash of doubt registering in her narrowed eyes. ‘My husband is here with me and I can assure . . .’

  Tara was panting so hard she was on the verge of hyper-ventilating. She reached out to Tom for support. ‘Well go and fetch him, then; let’s see what he’s got to say for himself.’

  A deep voice came from somewhere within the house. ‘Who is it, darling?’

  He appeared at his wife’s side a second later. His jet-black hair was slicked back as though he had just climbed out of the shower and a soapy smell clung to his dark skin. He wore the whitest, crispest shirt Tara had ever seen, the top few buttons undone to allow her a good view of the gold chain round his neck.

  The woman introduced him. ‘This is my husband.’ She pointed at Tara. ‘This one here says you’re having an affair with her mother.’

  ‘No, not him,’ dismissed Tara. ‘He’s not the one. It’s Larry who’s having an affair with my mother. I don’t understand; where’s Larry? You’re his wife, aren’t you? I’ve seen your picture.’ She barged her way past them both and stood in the hall. ‘Larry, Larry,’ she shouted. ‘Get down here now and tell me where my mum is.’

  ‘I’m really sorry about this,’ said Tom. ‘There’s obviously been a misunderstanding. We’re looking for Larry Valentine. Do you know where he is?’

  A look passed between them before the man opened the door a little wider for Tom. ‘I think you’d better come in.’

  Nothing made sense anymore and, verging on hysteria, Tara bolted up the stairs, two at a time.

  ‘She’s just upset,’ Tom said. ‘Her mum’s missing and . . .’

  The man offered his hand. ‘Look, I’m Christopher Carter and this is my wife, Nancy. And you’re right, Larry Valentine does live here.’

  They could hear Tara upstairs, crashing around, slamming doors, all the while calling out for Larry.

  Nancy looked at her husband. ‘I’ll go.’
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  They were seated in the conservatory, Christopher Carter in the big peacock chair, everybody staring at him expectantly. It was like a horrific episode of Jackanory. Christopher touched his fingertips together, drew a deep breath and closed his eyes. Tara glanced at Nancy, who fiddled with the necklace round her throat.

  ‘OK,’ began Christopher, so loudly that Tara jumped. He slapped his thighs, stood up and began to pace the floor like a police officer who was just about to crack a major case. ‘My wife, myself and my daughter left for South Africa in January. I had some business to attend to.’ He absently rubbed at the diamond signet ring on his little finger. ‘I’m a jeweller,’ he explained, even though nobody had asked. ‘Anyway, we extended the trip to take in the Garden Route, a safari lodge, the wine lands and what have you, before flying on to Australia, where we expected to remain until the end of June.’ He nodded towards Nancy. ‘My wife has family there.’

  ‘But it’s not the end of June yet,’ Tara interrupted.

  ‘Well, that’s families for you,’ said Nancy, with a small laugh. ‘Let’s just say we had perhaps outstayed our welcome.’

  Tara shuffled to the edge of her seat and leaned forward. ‘You said Larry Valentine lives here. Where . . .?’

  Christopher held up his palm to silence her. ‘I’m getting to it.’

  Nancy’s patience seemed to run out. ‘For God’s sake, Christopher, put the poor girl out of her misery.’ She turned to Tara. ‘Larry does live here, but not in the house. He lives in a converted garage in the garden. He’s our gardener-cum-chauffeur-cum . . . oh, I don’t know, handyman, I suppose.’

  Tara opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. Her brain could not come up with a coherent question and her instinct was to laugh. It was all too much to take in.

  ‘So,’ interjected Tom. ‘Larry’s not wealthy then? This house doesn’t belong to him . . . the cars . . . everything?’

  ‘All mine,’ said Christopher. ‘Larry was supposed to be house-sitting for us whilst we were away.’ He turned to his wife. ‘I said it was a bad idea, but . . .’

  She skewered him with just a look. ‘Not now, Christopher.’

  ‘We came back a little earlier than expected and Larry was nowhere to be found. He obviously left in a hurry because the bed . . . our bed . . . was unmade and there were two glasses of champagne, one stained with lipstick, on the bedside table. The ashtray was full of cigarette ends too and some of them had lipstick on.’

  Tara frowned. ‘But my mum didn’t stay here the night before they went away. He picked her up at Alf’s, he was late and . . . in any case, she doesn’t smoke.’

  Nancy raised her eyebrows. ‘Mr Valentine certainly has a lot of explaining to do, it would seem.’

  ‘Obviously the police are involved,’ said Christopher. ‘I’ve reported the Jag as stolen, plus there’s some money missing from the safe and a diamond necklace belonging to my wife has also been taken, as well as other bits and bobs of jewellery.’

  Tom looked at Tara. ‘It seems like we’ve all been taken for a ride.’

  Tara clenched her jaw, her eyes misting over. ‘If he’s hurt my mum, I mean it, Tom, I’m going to kill him. If it takes the rest of my life, I’m going to track him down and I swear to you, I am going to kill him.’

  37

  Tara laid the red sequinned dress on the bed and placed the tissue paper on top before carefully folding the dress into a neat square. The long fishtail dress was a little more awkward to pack and she decided to roll it up instead to minimise the creases. She glanced around the spartan bedroom, now stripped of its adornments. The cracked washstand had gone to the tip, the flea-bitten curtains had been torn down and stuffed into the rubbish bin. The only item of furniture remaining was the cast-iron bed she had shared with her mother but that too was on its way, sold to a young couple who had recently married. They had declined to take the mattress though and Tara could hardly blame them. It dipped so much in the centre that she and Violet had often found themselves huddled together in the middle of the night, pinned down by the sheer weight of the bed clothes, rogue springs digging into their hips.

  Tom stood in the doorway. ‘You ready?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’ll never be ready.’ She pointed to the two suitcases by the door. ‘Not much to show for fifteen years, is it?’

  Tom picked up the cases. ‘Dad’s downstairs. Come on.’

  ‘You go ahead. I’ll just be a minute.’

  She closed the door behind him and took the mink coat off the hook. It’d been stuffed inside a pillowcase since Alf died, hidden away from Judith’s grubby little paws. Alf’s dying wish was for Violet to get that mink and Tara was determined that Judith wouldn’t snaffle it. She gripped the iron bedstead and inhaled the familiar biscuity scent of the room. She would never forget this place and the refuge it had provided her and Violet when they had been so desperate. She would always remember Alf’s kindness, his companionship and his funny little ways, which had endeared him to them both. She ran her hands over the tally marks she had drawn on the wallpaper behind the bed. Like a hostage counting off the days he had been held, she too felt like a prisoner, a prisoner of circumstances which were out of her control. She counted them again, even though she knew how long it had been since Violet had failed to return. Thirty-eight days, almost six weeks. Tara had never felt more helpless. The police were only vaguely interested in finding Larry Valentine because he had stolen the car and jewellery, and seemed reluctant to entertain the notion that he had kidnapped Violet. Tara didn’t know where to ask them to look, couldn’t even narrow it down to a country. As far as the police were concerned, Violet had gone off with Larry willingly and was probably in on the whole duplicitous episode. Now, the shop and flat had been sold and not for the first time in her life, Tara was being moved on against her will.

  The journey west had taken a little over an hour and for that entire time, neither of them had said a word, each lost in their own thoughts. As the sea came into view and they joined the coast road, Tom nodded out of the window. ‘Be nice living by the sea, Tara.’

  She pulled a face. ‘It’s Lytham, not the Bahamas, Tom.’

  ‘Still, beats the wet streets of Manchester though.’

  ‘It looks boring, there’ll be nothing to do. I bet it’s full of old people. People like my nan.’

  Tom’s father had also been quiet, preferring instead to listen to his fancy 8-track with the volume turned up unnecessarily high in Tara’s opinion. He pulled up outside a newsagent’s and turned off the engine. Tara felt as though she’d gone deaf.

  ‘Thank Christ for that,’ she muttered.

  ‘I’m just popping in here for the Pink,’ declared Mr Marshall.

  ‘The pink what?’ Tara asked Tom when he’d got out and slammed the door.

  ‘The newspaper. He wants the football results to check his coupon. He’s been doing the pools for years and every week he’s convinced he’ll win the jackpot.’

  ‘Hmm . . . it’ll take more than a pools win to solve my problems.’

  Tom leaned across and kissed her on the mouth. ‘Gives us a few more minutes together.’

  ‘Do you think we’ll ever see each other again, Tom?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said emphatically. ‘Yes, we will, I promise. I could get the coach or the train and when I get a job I’m going to start saving up for driving lessons.’

  ‘I wish I’d left school already. It’s going to be awful not seeing you.’

  ‘I know, but I’ve got to knuckle down and find a job. Keep me mum and dad off me back.’

  ‘Eh up, your dad’s here.’ She shuffled over to her side of the seat.

  Mr Marshall threw his pink newspaper onto the passenger seat and rifled through the glove box. He took out the A–Z and flicked to the index of street names. ‘Righteo then, let’s have a look here, shall we?’

  Tom leaned in between the front seats and handed a piece of paper to his father. ‘It won’t be in there, Dad. Here, I’v
e written the directions down on this.’

  Ten minutes later they pulled into Elm Close, a tiny cul-de-sac surrounded by eight nearly identical semis, the colour of the front doors being the only discernible difference between them. A couple of kids were playing hopscotch in the middle of the circle and did not look best pleased when Mr Marshall honked his horn and sent them scurrying to the pavement.

  A chap who was crouched down messing about with the exhaust on his motorbike wiped his brow and looked across at them. He narrowed his eyes and blatantly peered into the car. In another house, the curtains at an upstairs window twitched, the occupant within no doubt having a good gawp.

  ‘Well, here we are then,’ announced Mr Marshall, for want of anything more useful to say. ‘I’ll get your cases out.’

  ‘This is it then, Tom.’ Tara had promised herself she would not cry. She pressed her closed fist into her lips.

  Tom nodded towards number eight. ‘Doesn’t look too bad.’

  ‘Compared to some of the places I’ve lived, it’s a palace.’ She turned back to him. ‘I’ll never forget you, Tom. I couldn’t have got through the last few weeks without you by my side.’

  He stroked her cheek. ‘Don’t make everything sound so final. This isn’t goodbye.’

  ‘It is, Tom. We need to be realistic.’ She gazed around the cul-de-sac, her eyes settling on number eight. The windows were shrouded in net curtains which were possibly once white but now had a greyish hue. The garden gate hung on determinedly by one hinge and a solitary garden gnome with only one arm sat by a dried-up pond. ‘This is my home now, Tom. Until Mum gets back anyway.’

  ‘Hopefully that won’t be too long then. I’ll pop into Alf’s from time to time,’ said Tom. ‘Check the new owners haven’t heard anything from Violet.’

  ‘Thanks. They’ve got this address so my mum will know where to find me . . . . if she wants to.’

  Mr Marshall opened the back door. ‘Are you two coming or not?’

  ‘I’ll write,’ said Tom. ‘And I’ll phone too, on Sundays when it’s cheaper.’