Her Last Promise

by Kathryn Hughes

  ‘Well, here we are,’ Tom said, as he pushed open the door. We’d only walked across the plaza but my nose and cheeks were freezing. I headed towards the log fire in the hearth and held my palms out towards the flames.

  ‘Here, let me,’ Tom said. He took hold of my hands and rubbed them vigorously until I could feel the warmth returning.

  ‘Better?’

  I nodded, smiling. ‘Better.’

  He held out his arm, indicating the staircase. ‘Shall we?’

  ‘I suppose we should. Early start tomorrow.’

  We stopped on the landing outside our bedrooms and he turned my body to face his, his hands planted firmly on my shoulders. ‘Whatever happens, Tara, whatever we discover, I want you to know that I’m here right by your side. And if we don’t find Violet tomorrow or even the next day, then it doesn’t mean that we’ll never find her. I promise you we won’t give up until we have some answers, OK?’

  His tone was gentle, so tender and caring that I could feel myself welling up. ‘That means a lot, Tom, thank you.’

  He flicked me under my chin. ‘Hey, come on. We go way back, us two.’ He paused and looked me directly in the eye. ‘We loved each other, remember?’

  I’d never hated the use of the past tense more. ‘Yes, Tom, we did. We loved each other.’

  50

  The medieval hill-top village of San Sedeza was quite simply breathtaking. We had to park the car in a tree-shaded car park at the bottom of the hill and walk the rest of the way, dragging our suitcases along the rough track until we passed through an archway in the wall which surrounded the town. The village was a ramshackle labyrinth of secret alleyways and cobbled streets, the ancient houses leaning in so much it looked as though a stiff breeze would bring the lot crashing down. The sky was deceptively clear and blue because in reality the early morning air was frigid. I pulled the mink coat tight across my body and turned up the collar. ‘Wow, it’s like a film set,’ I marvelled. ‘Absolutely stunning.’

  After a great deal of searching alleyways, doubling back on ourselves several times, only to end up back where we started, we located the parador where we were to spend the next few nights. We were way too early to check in so we dumped our cases behind the tiny reception desk, strolled into the main plaza and decided to grab a coffee and a pastry before setting off for the monastery. I knew I was procrastinating because until somebody told me otherwise, I could hang onto the hope that my mother was still alive, somewhere.

  The bakery, or panadería as it said over the shop window, was laden with a saliva-inducing display of warm bread and cakes: pan blanco, pan rustico, almond cake and apple tarts. I stood and inhaled the hot, buttery fumes, feeling the tickle of icing sugar at the back of my throat.

  ‘I can feel my arteries closing up,’ said Tom as he gazed at the jumble of sugar-frosted churros.

  A young girl appeared from the back, wiping her hands down her apron. ‘Buenos dias. En que puedo servirle?’

  I looked helplessly at Tom.

  ‘Erm, dos espresso, por favor, y dos . . .’ he pointed to the glass display, ‘those things there.’

  ‘Leche frita, dos.’ She took two of the fritters, slid them onto a plate and dusted them with a puff of cinnamon.

  We sat at a table in the window overlooking the plaza, the early morning sun slanting across the cobbles. An old stork’s nest rested atop the bell tower and a nondescript black dog lay with its paws around a bone, licking off every last scrap of meat.

  ‘Bit different from the old caff we used to go in, eh, Tara?’

  My mind was elsewhere, wondering if my mother had ever walked around these cobbled streets. San Sedeza was the closest village to the monastery and the only village for miles around, so it was a possibility but by no means a given. Across the square a door opened and a woman came out, her red skirt swishing about her ankles, a white gypsy blouse tucked into her narrow waistband. Her hair was jet black and fell in waves around her face. There was no doubt about it. It was her. I jumped up from my seat and fled from the panadería.

  ‘Mum,’ I called as I got closer. ‘Mum, it’s me, Tara.’ In my haste, I tripped over a kerb and almost crashed headlong straight into her. She held her arm towards me, a flash of concern across her face. ‘Cuidado. Estas bien?’

  As soon as I heard her voice, I realised my mistake. ‘I’m sorry, please . . . I just . . .’

  I felt Tom’s hands on my shoulders. ‘Tara?’ He took hold of my hand and guided me across the plaza and back into the sanctuary of the panadería.

  I dabbed at my eyes with a napkin, feeling utterly stupid. ‘I’m sorry, Tom. I’m so desperate to find her that my mind must be playing tricks.’ I attempted a laugh. ‘That woman must only be about forty.’ I pushed the fritter away. ‘Here, Tom. You’ll have to eat it. I feel sick.’

  I felt my mobile phone vibrating in my pocket. ‘Who’s this now?’ I said irritably.

  ‘Might be Dylan?’ suggested Tom.

  ‘Not unless he’s run out of money . . . again.’

  I looked at the screen, my finger hesitating over the button for a second. My face must have betrayed my shock because Tom half-stood and touched my arm. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s that private detective bloke, Scotty Hamilton.’ I wasn’t ready for this and briefly toyed with the idea of letting it go to voicemail but Tom stopped me.

  ‘Answer it then.’

  The signal was not great and I missed a few words but I was able to get the gist of it. I thanked Scotty and ended the call.

  ‘Well?’ asked Tom

  I took a swig of my coffee, my trembling hands barely able to hold the cup. My heart was beating faster than was good for me and I fought to keep the memory of Larry Valentine from spoiling my cautiously optimistic mood.

  ‘Scotty’s not found Larry, but he has found a relative of his. His sister-in-law, Carol Valentine. She was married to Larry’s brother, Martin.’

  ‘And has this Carol heard from Larry?’

  ‘Nope. She says neither she nor Martin ever heard from Larry again; however, it transpires that Carol was the woman who spent the night at Larry’s the day before Mum and he left on holiday. Do you remember the lady who really owned Larry’s house telling us about the unmade bed and the lipstick on the glasses?’

  ‘Yes, I remember. So Larry was in bed with his own sister-in-law?’

  ‘It would appear so. Remember what he was like that morning? He was so late picking Mum up and she was frantic, worried he’d had a crash or something, and all the time he was in bed with his brother’s wife.’

  ‘Seems Larry had an awful lot of secrets. You were on to him straight away though, weren’t you, Tara? You had the measure of him, you knew something wasn’t quite right.’

  ‘Believe me, Tom, I wish I had been proved wrong.’ I stared out of the window at the now-deserted plaza. I hated thinking about that morning. The last time I ever saw my mother, I was as ticked off as any other fifteen-year-old who had thought she was off on holiday, only to find out that the invitation hadn’t extended that far. We hadn’t parted on bad terms though, Mum and me. I’d handed over the birthday present and wished her well. And I’d meant it. Hadn’t I? I was sure I had. I genuinely thought she deserved some happiness. I tipped my head back and inhaled a deep breath. ‘Shall we head off, Tom?’

  He pushed up his sleeve and looked at his watch. ‘Aye, we do really need to get moving. We’ve a bit of a drive and then a good couple of hours on foot to the monastery.’ He pulled some euros out of his wallet and approached the counter.

  The young girl took the money. ‘Gracias. You want . . . erm . . . take out? I can make for you?’

  I patted my rucksack. ‘No thank you. We’ve already packed something.’

  Tom was eyeing up the almond tarts. ‘We could take a couple of these, Tara. We’ve a long day ahead.’

  Before I could say anything, she’d wrapped up two tarts and was asking if we needed anything else.

  ‘These’l
l be grand, thank you,’ Tom replied, stuffing them into the rucksack.

  We left the panadería and made our way down the hill.

  ‘What else did Scotty say then?’ Tom asked.

  ‘There’s not much else to tell really. Carol wasn’t surprised that she never heard from Larry again because she expressly told him he had to move on with his life. Carol was Larry’s girlfriend but she left him and married his brother instead. He was devastated apparently.’

  ‘Oh heck, poor Larry.’

  I stopped and pinched Tom’s arm. ‘Oww, what was that for?’

  ‘Poor Larry?’

  He rubbed his arm theatrically. ‘Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.’

  ‘Larry abandoned my mum on the mountainside, just left her there all alone. If Br Isidore hadn’t found her she would have died and Larry would’ve as good as killed her.’

  ‘We don’t know that Larry left her.’

  ‘Tom!’ I was beginning to lose patience with this sudden apparent support of Larry. ‘Where is he then? Where’s the car? Where’s his body?’

  I stormed ahead, not waiting for an answer.

  ‘Tara, wait, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it.’

  He caught up with me. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘I was just trying not to jump to conclusions, that’s all.’

  ‘I know,’ I relented. ‘And you’re right, there’s so much we don’t know yet. I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a precipice ready to jump but not knowing whether I’ll fly or crash into the rocks below. My nerves are shot but I shouldn’t take it out on you, Tom.’

  He aimed the car key at the door and the indicators flashed. ‘Let’s go and see what we can find out then.’ He held the car door open for me. ‘You ready?’

  I slid into the passenger seat and stared at the winding road ahead. Who knew what we would find at the end of it. I looked up at Tom. ‘Yes, Tom, I am. I’m ready.’

  When you’d been married for as long as Ralph and I had, it was acceptable to drive long distances without speaking a word to each other. It didn’t seem awkward or unnatural and it wasn’t necessary to say something just for the sake of it. Tom and I drove along in a silence that was far from comfortable. The radio was playing but the cacophony of castanets and maracas was a little hard on the ears and difficult to tune out. I wasn’t so much annoyed as slightly perturbed that he’d shown some sympathy for Larry. We had already proved that the man was a liar and now it appeared he was a cheat as well. I didn’t waste one second feeling sorry for him.

  Tom turned off the radio and rubbed his ear. ‘Well, that was . . . um . . . different. Shall I see if there’s anything else on?’

  I looked out of the window at the fields rushing by, catching the occasional glimpse of cattle or goats grazing on the barren grasslands. ‘No, it’s fine, Tom. I just need a little peace and quiet to prepare myself for what’s next.’

  He didn’t look at me, preferring to keep his eyes on the winding road ahead. He reached across and laid his palm on my leg. ‘I understand.’

  I covered his hand with my own, applying enough pressure to let him know that I didn’t want him to remove it.

  The road continued to climb and wind for several miles, until I felt quite bilious. I’m not the best traveller. In this regard, as in so many others, I take after my mother.

  51

  The track to the monasterio could only be undertaken on foot. Fortunately, there had been plenty of warning signs to slow down because the tiny rudimentary car park was situated at the tip of a particularly nasty hairpin bend. Tom brought the car to a stop in front of a rustic post and rail fence, the only thing separating us from the edge of the precipitous gorge.

  We climbed out and peered over the edge, a cool but gentle breeze ruffling the trees on the opposite bank.

  ‘Wow,’ said Tom. ‘That makes me feel quite giddy.’

  I stared at the glittering river deep down in the canyon. ‘It’s spectacular, isn’t it?’

  Tom jostled the rucksack onto his back and took out a map, holding it at arm’s length as he struggled to read.

  I removed my reading glasses from the top of my head. ‘Here.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, positioning them on his face. ‘That’s better.’

  He studied the map, his finger tracing the outline of the river. ‘It’s quite straightforward really. We just follow the river for about five miles. Can’t go wrong. Shall we?’ He held out his hand to me.

  And because it felt like the most natural thing in the world, I took hold of it.

  The terrain was gently undulating rather than hilly but the stones underfoot were loose and the post and rail fence which surrounded the car park did not extend the length of the track.

  ‘It must be somewhere along this path that Br Isidore found Violet, I guess.’

  Tom was right. I stopped and looked around. ‘How on earth did she get here by herself? It makes no sense. It’s so isolated and she couldn’t drive. Who knows how far she’d crawled?’

  I quickened my pace, all at once desperate to reach the monasterio, to finally have the answer for which I’d been searching for forty years.

  Heads down, careful not to stumble, we ploughed on until round the next bend, the monasterio came into view. We both stopped and gazed at the sandy-coloured walls clinging to the cliffs. It was situated on a peninsula in the river, surrounded on three sides by water, almost an island, completely cut off from civilisation. I couldn’t imagine a more isolated place to live.

  Tom pulled at my arm. ‘Almost there, come on.’

  We stopped at the even narrower track which led onto the peninsula, steep drops either side of us now.

  ‘I . . . can’t breathe, Tom. Can we just sit for a minute?’

  My heart had begun to palpitate. It might’ve been the altitude, the exercise or perhaps just too much caffeine. Or the thought of seeing my mother again. Or finding out she was no longer alive. Suddenly I wasn’t ready for the answers.

  Tom sat down next to me. ‘I know it’s difficult, Tara. But surely knowing is better than not knowing.’

  I leaned my head on his shoulder. ‘I can do it, Tom. I just need to gather myself.’

  As we edged closer to the gates of the monasterio, I could barely put one foot in front of the other, my mouth was dry and my throat felt as though it had closed up. The huge wooden door with its giant black hinges was firmly closed. Tom tried to turn the ring but it wouldn’t budge.

  ‘Let’s go round the side,’ he suggested.

  We skirted round the crumbling walls until we came across another door, much smaller this time and slightly ajar. Tom pushed it open and I followed him into a small courtyard, with a covered well in the middle, the metal bucket swinging gently in the breeze.

  ‘Hola,’ shouted Tom.

  ‘Over there,’ I said, shushing him. ‘There’s the shop.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ he replied, making his way in the direction of my finger.

  I yanked him back. ‘Wait. What if . . . what if . . . my mother works in there?’

  He frowned. ‘Something tells me it’s not going to be that simple, unless you really believe in fairy tale endings. But if she is, then that’s a good thing, surely?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, Tom. I’m not prepared for this. I don’t think I can do it.’

  ‘Do you want me to go in first?’

  I nodded miserably, finding it hard to articulate my feelings. I sat on the edge of the well and watched as Tom disappeared into the shop.

  Five minutes he was in there. I had bitten off four fingernails as I’d rocked back and forth, my whole body clenched as tight as a boxer’s fist. I couldn’t imagine what was taking so long. It seemed pretty simple to me. Either my mother was in there or she wasn’t. Eventually, Tom appeared and walked towards me. I tried to interpret his body language as he came closer. A purposeful stride, a spring in his step, a slightly creased forehead but the hint of a smile on his lips.

  I jumped up as he appr
oached. ‘Well, what took so long?’

  ‘I’ve only been five minutes.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m just . . . go on then, tell me.’ I closed my eyes and waited.

  ‘I talked to a young monk in there, although his English is primary school level so most of what he said was in Spanish. From what I can gather, he’s only been here two years himself so he doesn’t know anything about Violet or even Br Isidore for that matter, but he said if we come back in an hour we can speak to one of the other monks, a Br Florian. At least I think that’s what he said.’ He tossed his head towards the shop. ‘It was a little difficult to interpret his hand gestures but Br Florian is either fifty years old or else he’s been here fifty years. I’m not sure what he was trying to tell me. Anyway, after much stabbing at my watch, I’m pretty sure he meant for us to wait around an hour.’

  ‘Oh my God, Tom. This could be it then. If he has been here fifty years then he’s bound to know Mum.’

  ‘I think there’s a very good chance, Tara.’

  He gazed up at the clear sky, at the huge birds soaring in pairs, chattering to each other. ‘Now we just have to tread water for an hour.’

  52

  Br Florian was a tall man, broad-shouldered with a calm demeanour. He seemed to glide along as though beneath his robe he’d been fitted with castors. His English was passable although his heavy accent made him sound like he was speaking with a throat full of catarrh whenever he tried to pronounce his aitches. With his shaven head, it was difficult to tell how old he was but I guessed at around seventy. He ushered us into his office, dusty wood panels on one side, a floor-to-ceiling bookcase on the other. It smelled of a second-hand bookshop, cracked leather and stale ink.

  Br Florian indicated two wooden chairs, stern and upright, not designed with comfort in mind. ‘Please take a seat.’

  He sat opposite us behind his desk, some sort of leather-bound ledger open in front of him. He closed the book and moved it to one side, which allowed him to clasp his hands together on the desk. ‘You have a long journey, no?’