He rose from the bed and opened the drawer in his desk, carefully lifting out the locket. ‘Violet, I know you don’t remember but I’m absolutely certain that this necklace belongs to you. I found it in the exact same spot where I found you. It cannot belong to anybody else. You know how isolated we are up here. The chances of someone else dropping a necklace in the same place, well . . . well . . . it is just too . . . I’m sorry, I can’t think of any English words to tell you.’
She reached out and took the locket, running her fingers over the inscription as she read it out loud. ‘Happy thirtieth birthday. Love Tara. Fourth of June 1978.’ She looked at Br Isidore. ‘You really believe this is mine? That I’m thirty years old?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, I do believe that, Violet Skye. And somehow we need to find out where you’ve been for the last sixteen years.’
She held the locket in her fist, shaking her head. ‘No, Br Isidore, no, I just can’t. I’m never going back.’
46
2018
Dylan stood up and walked shakily over to the lectern. He looked so handsome in his suit and thin black tie, his hair combed into a neat style rather than being left to its own devices. The paper in his hand quivered and my heart ached for him. I could tell he was nervous but when I’d asked him if he’d deliver the eulogy, he hadn’t hesitated, not for one millisecond. Before speaking, he took a sip of water and I silently praised the person who had had the foresight to place it there. He looked at me and smiled. I lifted my chin and sat up a little straighter. He could do this. Ralph clutched my hand and for a brief moment it was just the three of us again.
Dylan’s voice was loud and confident. ‘Beryl Ann Dobbs,’ he began. ‘Never have anybody’s initials spelled out a more inappropriate word.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Because my nan was as far from BAD as it’s possible to be. She may have been my great-grandmother but to me, my mum, my dad and all my mates for that matter, she was simply Nan. As a kid my favourite place in the whole world was Nan’s house.’ He stopped and winked at me. ‘Sorry, Mum.’ There was a murmur of laughter from the congregation. ‘The cupboards were always full of stuff which was forbidden at home: biscuits, pop, and where most people would have a fruit bowl, there was a permanent tin of Quality Street on the sideboard. Whilst Mum and Dad were at work, she’d look after me during the school holidays. She gave me sweets, lollies, took me to bingo, taught me how to play Brag, always for money naturally.’ He stopped again and wagged his finger at the congregation, doing a passable impression of Nan. “Never bet more than you can afford to lose, our Dylan” was her mantra. There was many a night where she fleeced me for all my spends. Next morning though, it would all be back in the old tobacco tin where I kept my pocket money.’ He glanced at the coffin, smiling. ‘She made ice cream floats, baked me my favourite chocolate and banana cake and when I was fourteen she introduced me to cider, allowing me just one glass one particular scorching afternoon.’ He grimaced in my direction. ‘Again, sorry, Mum.’ More laughter. I joined in even though Dylan was making me out to be worse than a boarding school dormitory mistress. I was only looking out for his teeth for heaven’s sake. ‘We were both like naughty schoolchildren,’ Dylan continued. ‘I had a good excuse of course, I was a schoolchild, but Nan was supposed to be the responsible adult. We were always up to something. I lost track of the number of times she said “Don’t tell your Mum, Dylan.”
‘She didn’t have the easiest of lives but I know she was grateful for every single day. And I also know life got better for her when my own mum, Tara, went to live with her in 1978.’
I glanced over at the framed photo of Nan, propped up on an easel beside the coffin. It was a black and white photo taken around the time I moved in. She wasn’t looking directly at the camera but off to the left somewhere, her head thrown back in laughter, the obligatory cigarette between her fingers and a long curl of smoke drifting in front of her face. It captured perfectly the essence of who she was.
‘It can’t have been easy,’ continued Dylan, ‘suddenly having a teenager come to live with you but it takes . . . took . . . a lot to daunt our Nan. She rose to the challenge and I think it kept her young. Even when she turned ninety she still had more energy than people half her age.’ He paused for another sip of water. ‘I feel immensely privileged to have had her in my life. She was courageous, playful, inspirational, tenacious and the stalwart of our family. You knew exactly where you were with her. She called a spade a shovel and she did not suffer fools. She spoke her mind but was never cruel or unkind. She was from an age that had never heard of political correctness but she was never mean and never intended to cause offence, although some of the stuff she came out with would make even the Duke of Edinburgh blush.’ There was more laughter and Dylan had to swallow hard before continuing. ‘But she wouldn’t want us to be sad today. As she was fond of saying, “I’ve outstayed me welcome on this Earth, every day’s a bonus now.”’ His gaze rested on the coffin. ‘Well, I’m sorry, Nan, you can’t have everything your own way because we are sad.’ He stopped and pulled a tissue out of his pocket. ‘In fact, we’re absolutely heartbroken.’ His voice finally cracked then and I couldn’t sit by and watch for a second longer. I was on my feet and by Dylan’s side in an instant.
I wrapped my arms around him and felt him go limp as he bent to rest his head on my shoulder. ‘I’m so proud of you, son,’ I managed. ‘And Nan would be too.’
Me, Dylan and Ralph were the first ones out of the crematorium. We stood in a row ready to greet the rest of the mourners as they filed out. Considering Nan was ninety-one, there was a good turn-out. She would’ve been happy with it. Sandra came out first, dabbing at her eyes and looking elegant in a black woollen dress, a string of pearls at her throat. She’d been a punk when I first met her all those years ago and we didn’t get off to a great start. When I looked out of Nan’s window and saw her standing in the queue at the ice cream van, I thought we could never be friends. I’d never seen so many piercings on one face. Nan thought I should give her a chance though. ‘I know it looks as though she fell face down into a box of fishing tackle,’ she said, ‘but she’s a nice kid really.’ Naturally, me punching her in the face didn’t exactly help us forge a close bond, but after I smashed up the headmistress’s office, she found a grudging respect for me and against the odds we became friends.
I was still smiling at the memory as Sandra gave me a hug. ‘I’m really sorry, Tara.’
‘Thanks for coming, Sandra. I appreciate it. It’s a hell of a long way from Bute.’
It was hard to think of something original to say to everyone, so I alternated between ‘thanks for coming’ and ‘nice to see you again’.
I was genuinely choked when Charlotte appeared in front of me. The girl worked at an end-of-life hospice. She could go to half a dozen funerals a week if she had time. ‘Charlotte, oh, Charlotte. I’m so touched you came. Nan was so fond of you.’
‘And I of her. There’s no way I’d have missed my chance to pay my final respects. I’m just sorry I didn’t know her when she was well. She sounds like a formidable lady.’
Tom filed out last and it was a joy to see him too. ‘Tom! You came.’
‘I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.’ He seemed to realise he’d said this as though it was something he was looking forward to. ‘What I mean is, I wanted to come.’
‘Well, I’m glad you’re here.’ I turned to Ralph. ‘Ralph, this is Tom Marshall. He’s a . . . um . . . an old friend.’ They shook hands politely. ‘And this is my son, Dylan.’
‘So I gather,’ said Tom. ‘That was some eulogy you gave there. Beryl would’ve been very proud of you.’
Dylan muttered his thanks and stared at his feet, clearly embarrassed by all the attention he was garnering.
It was only at the wake afterwards that I got to sit and have a proper chat with Tom. He was trying to cut into a Scotch egg with just his fork. ‘Use your fingers,’ I said. ‘You know you want to.’
He smiled, picked it up and took a bite. He chewed it quickly and swallowed. ‘I’m really sorry you didn’t have a chance to find Violet before Beryl died.’
I hesitated, wondering whether to tell him that Nan had thought I was Violet. I decided against it. That was just between me, Nan and Charlotte and that’s the way it was going to stay. ‘Mmm, so am I,’ I replied.
‘You’ll still go, though, won’t you? To Spain, I mean?’
‘Absolutely. It’s even more important that I find her now.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh?’
I brushed him off, not wishing to tell him about George just yet. ‘I’ll get Christmas out of the way and then go.’
He nodded over to where Ralph was chatting to Moira. ‘Will he go with you?’
‘Oh, God, no.’ I guffawed. ‘I’m not making that mistake again.’
Tom popped the rest of the Scotch egg into his mouth and tried to hide a smile, a knowing look in his eyes.
‘What?’ I said.
He wiped a napkin across his mouth. ‘The offer’s still open if you’d like me to go with you.’
I stared into his face, searching for traces of the teenager I was so in love with. He was long gone of course but as I gazed at him something stirred deep inside my rib cage. ‘Thanks, Tom, I think I’d really like that.’
‘Excellent, can I get you a drink from the bar?’
‘Please,’ I said. ‘A pint of cider.’
He returned with the drink and I carried it over to where Dylan was standing chatting up a pretty waitress. I shook my head and smiled. Dear Lord, did he ever have a day off? ‘Here,’ I said, holding up the cider. ‘This is from your nan.’
47
I hadn’t exactly planned to spend Christmas at home. I’d honestly thought Dylan and I would be at St Jude’s, making the best of it at Nan’s bedside, trying not to think about the fact it would be her last. Home from Newcastle for the Christmas holidays, Dylan had complained that the house was not looking its usual festive best and I was inclined to agree. I should have made more of an effort but I just couldn’t muster up any enthusiasm. I wrestled the artificial tree down from the loft and prised open its stiff branches. The fairy lights I had diligently packed away in a neat coil the previous year had somehow become an entangled mess entirely of their own volition.
I heard the front door open, followed by a set of keys being put down on the glass table in the hall.
‘In here,’ I called. ‘You’re just in time to help, Dylan.’
‘Erm . . . it’s me.’
I stood up, a string of fairy lights hanging over my arms. ‘Ralph! For God’s sake, how many times? You can’t keep letting yourself in to my house whenever you feel like it.’ I laid the lights across the back of the sofa and held out my palm. ‘Give.’
‘What?’
‘I want that key back, now.’
‘It’s on my key ring in the hall.’
‘Well,’ I said, exasperated. ‘Go and get it then.’
He slumped down on the sofa and started fishing through the box of decorations. ‘I will, in a minute.’ He held up a multi-coloured paper chain, somewhat crushed but nevertheless precious. ‘Our Dylan made this in Reception. His first Christmas in school.’
I sat down next to him, smiling at the memory. ‘He was so chuffed with it, wasn’t he? Came running into the playground with it and promptly tripped over and tore it in half.’
‘Bless him,’ Ralph said, picking up a snow globe. He shook it and Prague Castle was temporarily obscured by a blizzard. ‘Do you remember our first trip away together? Czechoslovakia as was.’
I took the snow globe and set it on the table. ‘Yes, Ralph, of course I do.’
He picked up the globe again. ‘Can I keep this?’
I grabbed it back, fully aware we were acting like two kids in the playground. ‘No, you bloody well can’t have it.’ I clutched it to my chest. ‘Did you want something, Ralph?’
He shuffled round to face me. ‘I’ve been thinking.’
‘Oh, God, you haven’t, have you?’
He ignored my tone and carried on regardless. ‘Why don’t we spend Christmas together?’
I resisted the urge to belly-laugh. ‘What? The three of us, me, you and Dylan?’
He opened his mouth to speak but the words seemed lodged somewhere he was unable to reach. ‘Erm . . . no,’ he managed eventually. ‘I meant all of us. You, me, Dylan, Susie and the girls.’
My first thought was to dismiss this preposterous suggestion with an imperious wave of my hand. Then I thought about Susie wrestling with the turkey, her perspiring face crimson as the twins tugged on her apron, mithering for her attention, Ralph desperately trying to distract them, whilst I sat back sipping my champagne and chomping on a metaphorical cigar. On a perverse level, maybe there was some fun to be had.
Ralph obviously took my silence as a sign I wasn’t keen. Then he had to go and spoil it. ‘We’re a blended family now, Tara, it would be natural for us to spend Christmas together.’
A blended family?
‘No, Ralph.’ I stood up and grabbed his arm. ‘What would be natural would be for me to haul you off this sofa and throw you out onto the street.’
He frowned, no doubt wondering what on earth he’d said to warrant this outburst.
‘We are not a blended family, you simpleton. You upped and left me for your pregnant secretary. There’s no blending here.’
Ralph swept his hand through his hair, leaving it standing on end, nutty-professor style. ‘When are you ever going to let that drop?’
‘Let that . . . let that drop?’ I was so angry I didn’t trust myself to say any more. ‘Get out!’
‘Come on, Tara, don’t be like that. I was only . . .’
‘Get out . . . get out . . . get out,’ I screamed.
He was still protesting as I propelled him down the hallway. ‘We could come here, I’m sure Susie could be of some help, set the table maybe, nothing too culinary, she’s not the best in that department and I could . . .’
‘Ralph,’ I commanded as I picked up his keys. ‘Shut up and take my key off that key ring immediately.’
He mumbled something about him being my next of kin and if anything was to happen to me then he should really have access to my place. I ignored his inane witterings, took the key and bundled him onto the doorstep. ‘Oh, and another thing.’ I paused for dramatic effect. ‘I want a divorce.’
Dylan had graced me with his presence for tea and then gone off out again on some mercy mission to his friend Callum, who had been dumped by his girlfriend because she’d decided she would rather be with her steroid-enhanced personal trainer. ‘He needs me, Mum,’ he’d protested.
I needed him too but of course I didn’t voice this. The day before I’d said goodbye to my beloved Nan, and tired as I was, I could’ve used the company.
I rested my feet in the hearth, watching the sparks rise off the new log I had just chucked into the wood burner. I closed my eyes, the tiredness crushing. Tears seeped out from beneath my eyelids as I remembered Nan. I hadn’t wanted to leave Manchester and move to Lytham, but the truth is Nan saved me. I might have had to go into care had she not been there for me and who knows how I would’ve have turned out.
The doorbell rang but I ignored it. I wasn’t expecting anybody and I certainly was in no mood for a debate with the Jehovah’s Witnesses, even though they were usually so cordial and only had my best interests at heart. After the second ring, I reluctantly heaved myself off the chair. Tom was standing on the step, an apologetic smile on his face, a bottle of red wine in his hands. ‘I thought you could use some company.’
I half-laughed, half-cried as I held the door open. ‘How perceptive. Go through to the kitchen.’
‘How are you?’ he asked, easing the cork out of the bottle.
‘I think my mood is best described as melancholy.’
He poured out two glasses and handed one to me. ‘I’ve . . . um . . . been doing a b
it of research. After the funeral yesterday, I couldn’t stop thinking about Beryl and Violet and those days . . . and us . . . and well, I Googled that monastery.’ He gave a small shrug. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Of course not.’ I gestured towards the fireside chairs. ‘Come and sit down and tell me what you’ve found out.’
He settled himself into the chair, Ralph’s chair as I still thought of it. ‘It’s still there, the monastery, home to around twenty monks, who keep themselves to themselves mostly, but they do produce soap and such like, oh and beer, would you believe? It all goes towards supporting the monastery. It’s not exactly a commercial operation but over the last ten years they’ve welcomed visitors, although it’s still relatively inaccessible to all but the most determined of tourists. The goods are sold in their gift shop and also in the nearby village of . . . erm . . . Bear with me a sec.’ He pulled a piece of paper out of his inside pocket and put his reading glasses on. ‘Here it is, yes . . . the closest village is called San Sedeza, which is in the province of Segovia.’
I’d already found out this information for myself ahead of my visit with Ralph, but I was touched he’d taken the trouble to look it up. ‘Thanks, Tom. That’s really kind of you.’
‘I’ve also done some more digging around on the subject of memory loss. Br Isidore mentioned a brain injury resulting in some sort of amnesia in the letter and there’s loads of stuff on the internet about that.’
He’d got my attention and I leaned forward, swirling the wine around the glass. ‘Go on.’
He looked at his notes again. ‘There are two types of amnesia, anterograde, where a person is unable to store and retain new memories, and retrograde, where a person cannot recall memories which happened prior to the injury. Well, I think Violet could have been suffering from retrograde amnesia.’
‘I’m not sure that’s right though, Tom. Br Isidore said she could remember things . . . disturbing things . . . from her childhood.’ I took a huge swig of wine. ‘She’s referring to the abuse from George.’ The wine left a bitter taste in my mouth.
Her Last Promise Page 26
