Annie's Promise

by Margaret Graham

  At the end of August Annie cooked supper while Georgie was at the pigeon club and said, ‘Would you like us all to go on holiday, it might make the time pass more quickly for you, Sarah? You still look tired.’

  Sarah lit a cigarette, avoiding her mother’s eye, waiting for the comment again but Annie said nothing, after all, she had smoked, how could she complain about her daughter?

  ‘No thanks, Mum, I’m too old to go with you and Dad, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Then go and give Betsy a hand tomorrow in the creche. I’m not asking you this time, I’m telling you. We’re all working very hard and you are not.’

  Annie put down the pork chop, passed the apple sauce. Sarah looked at it, stubbed out her cigarette.

  ‘We have lobster quite often you know, I find it suits me more than meat.’

  Annie put down her knife and fork. ‘Well hard bloody luck, you’ll just have to put up with this.’

  The next day Sarah helped Betsy in the creche and she wiped noses and read stories to the children, sitting them on her knees, but hating it. She wanted to be in the world she knew, not here, with all these people and kids who never looked beyond the bloody slag heaps.

  That evening she arrived home and there was a postcard from Carl.

  Should be having a lovely time, but am not. Miss you, miss you, miss you. Carl.

  She made tea for her mother and cooked steak because Betsy was coming then sat with them all, talking and laughing, feeling the card in her pocket, touching it, smiling to herself. That night her mother made cocoa and brought it into her, sitting on her bed, sipping.

  ‘So, you’ve heard from him.’ Annie’s face was kind.

  Sarah nodded.

  ‘A long one I hope.’

  ‘Yes, sort of.’

  ‘Oh?’ Annie said quietly.

  ‘A postcard if you must know.’ Sarah’s voice was hard, defensive because what right had her mother to ask? She had no right, for God’s sake.

  ‘He cares for me, he’s there for me, always there.’

  Annie said dryly, ‘Not this minute though, business comes first eh, even before letters?’

  Sarah flushed and put her cocoa on the bedside table, it was revolting, thick, horrible. She wanted a joint, speed, anything but this woman sitting on her bed criticising Carl.

  ‘You should know about business coming first,’ she hissed. ‘And why are you still in this stupid little house – you own a factory, we could be in Gosforn, somewhere smart.’

  Annie just sat there, gripping her cup, then she said slowly, ‘We’re here because it’s our home, and besides we can’t afford anything else because we plough the profits back into the business and then split what’s left over. You know that.’

  ‘But it’s so boring, so small. There’s a world out there, Mum, a world that left this place behind ages ago.’

  Annie stood up, looking into her cocoa. ‘I know there’s a world out there and that it’s exciting, stimulating. I felt I had to leave once too, Sarah, and I did, and then I came back because I wanted what it had to offer. I do understand how you feel.’

  She stopped and kissed her daughter but there was no warm arm flung around her neck as before, just the heat of her daughter’s damp skin and the confusion in her eyes.

  Annie walked from the room. Dear God, why weren’t there any lessons in being a parent?

  Sarah left for London early, she couldn’t stand being suffocated by her family any longer, she would rather be alone.

  CHAPTER 18

  Carl and Davy arrived back in October, just before the start of term when the leaves were falling from the trees and there was mist morning and evening and a crispness in the air. They burned their paraffin heaters and Sarah put Davy’s pale drawn looks down to sleeping in dank rooms and too many hours playing in smoky bars.

  Carl agreed. ‘Oh yes, it was tough, but it’s done him good.’

  They rehearsed on Wednesday and there was a hard edge to Davy’s playing, and his fragile melodies were gone. In bed Carl said they were the best he had heard in a long while and flipped her a tab, and they made love as she had remembered, though better, deeper, surer, sharper.

  Carl planned more gigs for them, including a week’s tour in November in the Midlands so they all played sick at college and laughed and sang in the van as Carl drove up to Leicester where it was cold, and the audience uninterested. They slept in the van too, eating in a fish and chip bar, using public conveniences which were cold and smelly. Carl made a phone call the next day, before they should have left for Northampton.

  ‘I have to go back, bit of business has come up. Tim’s got the itinerary, I’ll see you in London on Sunday. Just be good, all of you.’

  They drove to Northampton and Sarah cursed his business, his college work, his contacts, because she wanted to be the whole of his life and if they had to sleep in a van she wanted to be next to him. They played Davy’s music that night and the audience roared and clapped to it, dancing round the tables, calling for more.

  That night Sarah couldn’t sleep because the adrenalin was pumping in her body and the van was cold, the floor hard, the whole bloody thing was impossible, she thought, turning over and over. The next day she felt sick with tiredness, and her voice was flat when she sang. Davy handed her water during the break and she saw that his hands were trembling.

  ‘For God’s sake, you’re tired too. why are we doing this?’

  He grinned, his thin face creasing. ‘I’m not tired, Carl sees to that. Here, take one of these tonight.’ He handed her an orange and blue pill. ‘It’s Tuinal, it’ll help.’

  She looked at it. ‘Mm, I always did like the orange smarties.’

  She sang and played but Davy started to make errors and she was glad Carl wasn’t there. In spite of what Davy said, she knew it was only tiredness. She used the public lavatories that night then crawled into her sleeping bag, taking the pill, feeling her mouth becoming sticky, then dry and she slept as though she’d never wake, and couldn’t wake when Davy shook her, beating him off, feeling her head pounding, her mouth dry.

  ‘Go away, let me sleep.’

  He laughed. ‘Come on, let’s have the Prellies, they help, I promise you, it makes it all possible.’

  She took his flask from him and swallowed the upper, hanging her head on her knees, watching as Arnie took one too, Tim refused. ‘I’d sleep through an earthquake.’

  They drove hard the next day, making for North Wales, sweeping along the rugged coast where the waves broke on to the shore, and she wanted to run along the beach and dance and shout and so they sang all day instead because their hearts were pounding so fast, their energy bubbling as it had never done before.

  They played and it didn’t matter that they made mistakes, because they were leaping on the stage, repeating riffs, bending towards one another, eyes glistening, voices shouting, lapping up the applause, the whistles, the screams.

  They took downers in the van, uppers the next morning and there was no ache for Carl, no guilt about Wassingham, just success, exhilaration, excitement and again the next day, and the next and it was all so easy. They bought more pills from a guy at the last club, refusing cocaine and heroin. ‘We’re not into that,’ Sarah said. ‘We’re not druggies.’

  They worked hard the next week to catch up on college work and used the Tuinal and Prellies to keep them going for that too. On Saturday Sam Davis asked them into a studio to do a practice demo tape. Sarah’s hands were trembling too now but all she had to do was sing, not play, and she rasped out the hard edged music.

  It was a one-track studio and when they made a mistake they had to repeat the whole number again, and again and again.

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ Carl shouted at Davy, ‘get it right.’

  Sarah looked at Davy’s trembling fingers, at her own. ‘Leave him alone, for God’s sake. He can’t help it, can’t you see he’s tired?’

  They tried once more but even after three hours the engineer was not s
atisfied with their performance and Carl threw his coat over his shoulders and talked to Sam, shaking his head, looking across at them, while Sarah stood with Davy. ‘It’s OK, we’re just tired.’

  Sam walked them to the taxi. ‘You should think of going solo, you know. Davy’s a better composer. He could write your stuff for you, he knows you so well.’

  Sarah nodded, kissing the old man’s cheek, smelling the gin on his breath and she smiled. ‘We’re a group,’ she said, then slid across the seat. They drove back in silence with Carl sitting stiffly beside her. He left them at the bottom of the steps. ‘Bit of business,’ he said, not turning, leaving them there.

  Tim and Arnie left. ‘Get some rest, Davy, it’s not the end of the world,’ Tim said, walking with Arnie back to his pad for a curry.

  Sarah put her arm through Davy’s. ‘Come on, let’s get on. We’ve those designs to finish for Mum and you’ve your course work, remember.’

  That night Carl returned and dropped some hash on to Davy’s lap. ‘Try this, it’s new. Arnie told me where I could get some.’

  Sarah paid him from the tin, watching as Davy heated it, wanting it, wanting Carl, glad that his anger was over, that he said nothing more about Davy. She did not need Tuinal tonight, and neither did Davy. They didn’t have any uppers left for the morning but they woke in time, cycling to college, feeling the cold sweat beneath their macs, the pounding of their heads.

  ‘We’d better be careful of those smarties, bonny lad, hash is safer and the tabs. Let’s stick to those.’

  Carl held her in bed that night, having spent the evening with her and Davy, listening to the Beach Boys, to Dusty Springfield, to the Rolling Stones and it was better than any party, it was heaven, just the three of them, Sarah thought.

  ‘You do understand now why I won’t leave the group?’ she breathed in his ear that night as she floated into sleep.

  ‘Yes, I understand, my darling, never doubt that.’

  There was a letter from Annie in the morning, asking if they had managed to sort out any more samples as they hadn’t received any for three weeks.

  But not to worry at all, if you haven’t time. We are getting the hang of it here now, so can just carry on.

  Sarah swore and knocked on Davy’s door, entering, looking at the design he was drawing, the swirling, swooping shapes, the vortex of colour. ‘Brilliant, but not for Wassingham, lad. And our masters call. We’re very late with the samples. I’d forgotten.’

  They sewed all week, their hands steadier now, their seams straighter, but Davy couldn’t get the textile design right, and so they left it for a few days then went back and rechecked the students’ dresses which were far from perfect. They unpicked seams, working far into the night, drinking too much coffee, and Carl slept in his own room because he was trying to catch up on lectures and seminars – when he wasn’t out, doing business.

  ‘What business?’ Davy asked, as he unpicked the last of the mini skirts.

  ‘He never says,’ Sarah replied, her voice muffled with pins, and they laughed together. ‘I’ll swallow one in a minute and probably end up top of the hit parade.’

  Davy looked up at her. ‘D’you want to go solo, Sarah? I don’t mind. I love me art you know.’

  Sarah put down the shirt she was working on. ‘I know you love your art but it’s fun isn’t, this music business? I mean, it’s opened so many doors, we’ve met so many people, so why should I want to go solo? Anyway, Carl’s forgotten about that particular bee in his bonnet.’

  Davy grinned. ‘Rob’s still in the debating society at Leicester, you know. Wonder if he ever lifts his head out of his books, or opens his mouth to sing.’

  ‘Don’t ask for miracles, Davy. Anyone who stays on to do an MA is seriously deranged. I mean, he even works when he gets home.’

  ‘Or goes debating with me da,’ Davy said, picking up the shirt again, finishing off the seam, throwing it on to the pile. ‘That’s about it.’ He smiled but there was an edge to his voice.

  Sarah switched on the iron. ‘Don’t forget you’re named after your da’s cousin and me mum says he loves you very much.’

  Davy just nodded.

  They completed the designs on Saturday afternoon, but Sarah still had her own clothes to make for the party they were going to that night with Carl. As she lined up the seam beneath the needle, she suddenly remembered that she should have met him for lunch at the Bistro. It was the second time she had forgotten that week and she closed her eyes, enraged at herself, running to his door, knocking to apologise but he wasn’t back.

  She packed up the samples, boxed and addressed them, then pressed her own dress and heard him come up the stairs, heard him stop outside her door and she turned, holding the last sample as he came in.

  ‘I’m so sorry, darling,’ she said. ‘I was so busy, I just forgot.’

  He walked over to her, snatching the dress from her, ripping it, throwing it in her face, punching the boxes to the floor, kicking them, then turned on her, his face furious, red, thin-lipped and she flinched as he raised his hand, then dropped it.

  ‘For God’s sake, now I know how your father felt,’ he raged. ‘You’re just like her, working working. You “forgot” on Wednesday, you “forgot” today. And what about the parties you missed on Thursday, and on Tuesday. It’s important to me that you’re there, you help me, you help my business but it’s only you that matters, isn’t it? You’re just like your mother. If I lost my ruddy leg you’d leave me in the hospital too wouldn’t you, and rush back here and get your business on the road and bugger anyone else. You use everyone, like she does, look at her making you and Davy work like this. Just like you make me work for you, fixing up gigs, tours, God knows what …’

  He slumped on to the cushions. ‘And what about your rehearsals? Those go to the wall too, damn the group.’

  Sarah picked the ripped dress from the floor. There were threads all over the table, all over her tights, her skirt. She went to him but he brushed her off, striding from the room.

  ‘The address of the party is in my room, come and find me if you’ve got bloody time.’

  She bathed in cold water, smoked a joint, collected Davy and took a taxi to Fulham, hearing the sitar music as she climbed the stairs, and thinking, always thinking.

  She looked for him. He wasn’t there. Would he come or would he think she was like his mother, leaving him alone? Would he still think she was like her own mother, using him? There was a deadness inside her, a vacuum of darkness and she smiled at Davy and took the wine he brought.

  ‘It’s my fault you rowed, isn’t it?’ he asked, his pale face thin and worried.

  She kissed his cheek. ‘No, bonny lad, it’s not your fault, nothing to do with you, just with me.’

  They sat with the others on cushions covered in Indian cotton, listening to the eerie twang of the sitar music, drowning in its resonance, sinking into its dreams and all the time she thought but felt nothing, gripping the cushion, wanting to jump off the roundabout again, stand and sort her mind out, in peace.

  The musicians stopped and drank wine, and she leaned back on cushions watching as the men rose, stretching their limbs, easing their fingers and she was surprised that they did anything so mundane in this darkened room, full of incense and India.

  There were drawings of Hindu gods on the walls between the hanging carpets, and she looked around, sipping the wine which was not Chardonnay but just plonk. There was one drawing beside the window which looked familiar and she moved closer, peering at it.

  ‘Do you like it?’ a sing-song voice asked behind her.

  Sarah nodded. ‘I have a paper knife at home with that design on it.’

  ‘So, that is Tara, one of the Hindu goddesses, or you would say Star but whether you use Hindi or English, it is still a beautiful name. Shall we call you that. Aren’t you to be Carl’s star?’

  She turned now, slopping her wine, dusting off her dress as she looked at the Indian who had been playing the sitar.r />
  He smiled. ‘Forgive me, I have the advantage of you. Your Carl rang earlier to say he had been held up and asking me to take care of you, if you arrived. He described you rather well. I am Ravi.’

  Sarah smiled, the vacuum filling now because Carl had thought of her, had forgiven her.

  ‘I think Tara is a little previous, don’t you? I’m a student and my name is Sarah Armstrong. My father was in India, you know.’

  Ravi led her back to the cushions. ‘No, I didn’t know. Where?’

  Sarah told him, asking him if the plains were really as hot as her parents had said.

  ‘They certainly are much hotter than your English summers.’

  She asked him then where he lived. ‘North of Delhi. My father runs a clinic which is open to all castes, all faiths, but run by Christians, many of them converted. I am finished here now, a truly fledged doctor and soon to return to add my help.’

  Annie nodded. ‘And you also play music rather well. We like music too but there isn’t time for everything, is there?’

  Ravi leant back, waving to the saffron-robed shavenheaded monk who was now leaving, having tapped out mantras on his prayer beads since Sarah arrived.

  ‘It’s kind of you to say I play well. I’m not sure how well but I was taught by an old man who was one of the Maharajah’s musicians. The poor old thing is living in splendid solitude near my father’s compound but that is what he wishes and it is to our benefit because he has told us many stories of those glittering times.’

  Sarah listened to tales of splendour, of indulgence within the fort and longed for a joint, feeling restless, feeling the trembling in her hands, longing for Carl. She looked for Davy, he was taking a tab and she tried to catch his eye, but he wouldn’t look.

  She looked down at her hands, gripping them tightly, seeing the red weals that the scissors had made. Carl was right, she was doing what her mother had done, forgetting everything for her own ends. She no longer heard Ravi, just thought of her mother who had rushed from hospital to start her dream business, who had shouted at her da, forced strawberry ice cream down him. He wouldn’t have lost his leg, but for her bloody business. She should have nursed, even Terry and Aunt Maud said that.