She swivelled round. ‘Is he here?’
‘No, no, he’s back in England. You’ll have to come and visit, you and Leo, you could come and stay and we could . . .’
She laughed. The same throaty sound that had filled my childhood. ‘Steady on, Baby Girl, we’ve . . .’
I clutched her arm, making her jump. ‘What . . . what did you just call me?’
She wafted her hand in front of her face. ‘Oh, sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking.’
‘That was . . . that was . . . I mean, you used to call me that . . . Baby Girl. Even when I was a teenager you sometimes used it in spite of me asking you not to.’ My words were coming out in a rush, tripping over each other in their eagerness to be heard. ‘It was the last thing you ever said to me when you left with Larry. “I’ll miss you, Baby Girl.”’
She turned towards me, scrutinising my face as if she would be required to recall every detail later. She reached out and smoothed her palm over my cheek, tears standing in her eyes. ‘Baby Girl,’ she whispered. ‘Yes, I remember.’
Epilogue
The first stone hits his window with little more than a tap. Outside their voices are high and fearful, as they dare each other to knock on the door. He’ll give it a few more minutes before opening it and letting them have what they want. He’s resigned to the fact that it will always be like this, no matter how much he moves around.
He throws another chunk of wood into the fire, thinking about the choice he made which ultimately led him to this ramshackle house he’s forced to call home. He could have stayed in that night and watched the new glorious colour television whilst drinking his boss’s whisky. Or he could’ve gone down to the local snooker club and simply blended in with the locals. But no, he’d been distracted by the poster outside The Amethyst Lounge.
He coughs as the room fills with smoke. The chimney must be blocked again. His mind wanders back to the night that changed everything. He’d noticed she was being harassed, trying to fend off the unwelcome advances of some creep who had just bought her a drink. He’d gone to her aid, like the gentleman she thought he was. He had never meant for her to fall for him. He was living a lie and their relationship could never have been anything more than a casual dalliance. Carol was the one he was meant to be with.
He pulls the rug over his shoulders and nestles into it. He’s cold but can’t afford another log on the fire just yet. He gazes down at his hands, the fingers stained with nicotine, his long nails harbouring dirt underneath. The diamond signet ring has long gone, the Rolex too and the cash he’d taken from the safe. The only things he’d walked away with on that dreadful night.
He remembers the car going over the edge. He can still feel the air whooshing past his face and the feeling of weightlessness as the car seemed to float before settling on a ledge halfway down the cliff. It was almost dark, the smell of petrol hung ominously in the air and he knew he needed to get away. Violet wasn’t in the passenger seat. He’d definitely checked. He was sure he had. But he was confused, disorientated and he’d panicked. It hadn’t taken much of a push to send the car the rest of the way down to the river. The flash blinded him and the ferocious heat singed his face but he saw it disappear under the water, the flames doused, steam rising into the air. In spite of his own agony, he’d looked for her, calling out her name, even though his burned throat struggled to emit more than a croak. He spent hours looking, crucial hours he could have spent getting medical attention for himself. She must have still been in the car as he’d pushed it off the ledge. He had as good as killed her. He was too much of a coward to return to England and face the consequences of his actions. He would no doubt be looking at a stretch in prison for stealing the car, money and jewellery from his boss. He couldn’t face going back to Tara and telling her what he’d done to her mother. He’d had no choice but to disappear.
He often wonders if he made the right choice. By now he would have paid the price for his crimes and been free to move on. Spain may be a vast country but there’s really no place to hide. The tormentors always find him in the end. He’s an easy target.
He runs his finger down his cheek and onto his neck where the scar tissue is thickest.
Another stone hits the window, this time with such force a crack appears. They will never leave him alone. As he opens the door, two boys cling to each other, their faces alive with excitement and just a little fear. He whips off his hood and watches as they both scream, tripping over each other in their haste to get away. Now they’ve found him, he knows they will be back and there will be more of them next time.
Only two days pass before another mob of boys creeps towards the hut under cover of darkness. The beams from their torches sweep across the grimy window and they realise to their disappointment that the monster has gone. All that remains is a dirty rug and dying embers in the grate.
As always, Larry Valentine has left nothing to chance.
Acknowledgements
There are many people involved in bringing a book to publication and I am indebted to the hard-working, inspirational team at Headline: Mari Evans, Jen Doyle, Viviane Basset, Vicky Abbott, Becky Bader, Frances Doyle, Hannah Cawse, Becky Hunter, Rhea Kurien and the Headline Rights team. Special thanks go to my talented and patient editor, Sherise Hobbs, whose insights and suggestions make for a better book. Thanks also to my agent, Anne Williams, for her guidance and expertise.
I am also grateful to Sonia Murillo Álvarez at La Academia in Cheadle, Cheshire, who kindly read the manuscript and corrected my Spanish. Any remaining errors are my own.
Thanks to my husband, Rob, who once again has supported me throughout the whole process, especially as my driver, photographer and translator during my research trip to Spain, and to Mum and Dad for continuing to tell everybody they ever meet that their daughter is an author.
Finally, to the readers who take the trouble to contact me directly, thank you. You brighten my days and keep me going. I want you to know I really appreciate it.
Author’s Note
The inspiration for this novel came as the result of a family cycling holiday in 2017. Our trip began in the historic city of Segovia, about an hour’s drive from Madrid. Although we only had to cycle around fifty kilometres each day, the terrain was punishing and the June heat relentless. Our accommodation each night was pre-booked and our luggage moved on for us. We were given helmets, water bottles and a map and then left to our own devices.
Each town or village we stayed in had its own charm and personal welcome but it was the tiny medieval town of Pedraza which impressed us the most. The town stands at an elevation of 1,073m in the Segovian foothills. We had to dismount our bikes and push them up the short but steep hill to enter the town through an archway in the walls. At the heart of the town is the main square or Plaza Mayor and it really was like walking onto a film set. I was so inspired by the place that I decided it would be a wonderful setting for a book.
The next day’s cycling took us into Las Hoces del Rio Duraton National Park. The vertiginous limestone cliffs rise a hundred and fifty metres above the river which has carved out the deep canyon for centuries.
We consulted our maps and we were told we could make a ten-kilometre detour to visit the Hermitage of San Frutos, which stands on a peninsula in the river. After much moaning from the kids, aged 23 and 19, my husband and I got our way and off we set along a winding track made of nothing more than rubble.
After securing our bikes to the rickety fence, we then had to walk another couple of kilometres to the hermitage itself. The area is home to the largest colony of griffon vultures in Europe. The hermitage is no longer inhabited but it was here around the year 680 that Saint Frutos did penance with his brother and sister, Valentin and Engracia. The setting is spectacular and further fuelled my imagination. As we sat under the shade of a tree, enjoying our packed lunch whilst marvelling at the winding river below, I had no idea then that the Hermitage of San Frutos would become the Monasterio de Justina or that Pe
draza would become San Sedeza.
Photographs © Robert Hughes
The Inspiration for
The Amethyst Lounge
Although The Amethyst Lounge is a fictional place, readers from Manchester and the surrounding area may recognise it as The Golden Garter in Wythenshawe.
The building is now home to Gala Bingo but in its heyday The Garter, as it was affectionately known, was the place to go for the ultimate night out.
The Golden Garter opened its doors for the first time on 7 October 1968, when none other than Bruce Forsyth topped the bill. Customers could enjoy a three-course meal, which would set you back fifteen shillings, (or seventy-five pence), whilst being entertained in the plush surroundings. The waiting staff all wore green and gold striped waistcoats as they catered for up to 1,400 guests. Anybody who was anybody, and plenty who had yet to make it, graced the stage at The Garter, including Dusty Springfield, Norman Wisdom, Eartha Kitt, Lulu, Bob Monkhouse, Tommy Cooper, Olivia Newton John and The Bee Gees. The final show took place on 27 December 1982 with a performance from The Fortunes.
For a longer trip down Memory Lane, visit www. thegoldengarter.co.uk or www.wythenshawe.btck.co.uk.
No one grips your heart like Kathryn Hughes . . .
Available now
Her Last Promise Page 31
