Annie's Promise

by Margaret Graham

  On Saturday they put on scarves and coats and went with Arnie, because Davy insisted that they should. ‘Never let it be said that we’re wet, eh, bonny lass.’

  She put her arm through his, following the others to the meeting place, slowing their pace so they could be at the back though there had never been any trouble, Arnie had told them. But Davy was still too fresh from drugs for any of this, God damn it.

  ‘Come on,’ Arnie called, beckoning them forward.

  ‘There’s no need to be at the front,’ she said, holding him back.

  ‘Yes, there is,’ Davy replied, his eyes dark.

  The march began and they were in the fifth row, pressed between too many people. They walked slowly, chanting, holding up fingers in the peace sign, looking out for hecklers, seeing only support from the passers-by.

  They sat on the ground in the road while a sociology lecturer talked of the obscenity of war, the hopelessness of the US involvement, this bullying by a superpower. The ground grew colder and harder and the police just stood in front of them, waiting until the cold soaked into their veins, smiling at them, joking with them.

  ‘Load of bloody rubbish,’ Tim said. ‘I’m getting nothing from this but piles.’

  He stood up as others were doing and Davy grinned at Sarah. ‘So this is what Rob spends his weekends doing, is it? We could do a few more of these. I’ll write to Da tonight.’

  They ambled away with the crowd, seeing the banners held high, hearing the chanting, feeling hungry. They peeled off with others down a side street of small shops, following a banner, which suddenly dipped and disappeared. There was a scream and now they were piling up one on top of the other, and those in front were turning, pushing through them, rushing, knocking into them. Sarah looked at Carl.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, what’s happening?’

  He was standing on tiptoe, trying to see. ‘Wait here, we’ll go and find out.’ He grabbed Davy’s arm, pulling him through those who were trying to escape.

  ‘No, leave him here,’ Sarah yelled, rushing after them, forcing her way through, seeing a crush of black leather jackets, the bicycle chains that were being swung round the air, the punches. A gang had attacked the marchers.

  ‘Bloody flower people,’ she heard.

  ‘Don’t like war? Take a bit of this.’

  A stone was hurled and there was Davy, still being held by Carl, still being dragged forward. ‘Let him go, come back.’

  Carl turned and saw her, let Davy go. She saw him turn to look at her, and there was blood on his forehead so red against his white face.

  She moved towards him, looking for Carl. ‘Get out, get away,’ she screamed then looked for Davy again, but he was pushing through the scrum, running away, running. ‘Wait for me,’ she called, turning to follow him, seeing his face as he swung round. She tried to shake off the hands which held her.

  ‘Leave him, let him go.’ It was Carl holding her arm, but she still struggled to be free because she had seen the look in Davy’s eyes.

  Arnie came running from the front, his clothes dishevelled, one eye swollen. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here too.’ They ran, with Tim catching them up, his shirt torn, Arnie shouting out, ‘I can’t understand it, there’s never been any trouble before. Why pick us?’

  Davy came back late that night and went straight to his room. She went to him. He was sitting in the dark, plucking the sitar.

  ‘Don’t turn on the light,’ he said, his voice flat, slurred.

  She knelt next to him, smelling the beer on his breath. ‘I ran too, we were so frightened.’

  ‘You ran towards me, I ran away,’ he said, his voice calm. ‘Now I want to be alone.’

  She kissed his cheek, unable to forget the look of selfdisgust in his eyes as he had run that afternoon.

  ‘Your da would have been proud you were on the march at all,’ she said, but he didn’t reply.

  CHAPTER 21

  Annie looked up at the sky on 5 November, seeing the rockets explode in the air, hearing Betsy’s soft laugh as she stood by Black Beauty’s stable. ‘I wonder if the kids have fireworks in London.’

  Betsy shook her head, her breath coming quickly. ‘Too busy playing their Indian guitars, what did you call them, sitals?’

  Annie smiled. ‘Nearly there – sitars. Gracie and I have been back to the shop in Newcastle where we bought their first guitars. They’re getting us new sitars for them in time for Christmas. Tom’s going to tell them about his decision to start a one-off silk printing division the year after next. Then it’s there if they want to get involved. They might not of course but they’re so talented and Tom can’t wait to work alongside his son.’

  ‘Took some time for him to wake up, didn’t it?’

  Annie smiled. ‘I know but we all make mistakes. I know I have, but I never thought being a parent would be so difficult. How did you cope, Bet?’

  Bet shook her head, moving slowly over to Annie. ‘I didn’t, lass.’

  Annie put her arm round her. ‘Oh yes you did. I remember you covering for us with Da when we hammered out those lead coins in the allotment for the fair. I remember you coming and holding me after I heard Mrs Maby and Francy talking about Mam taking poison. Oh yes, you did cope, Betsy, and don’t let anyone tell you different. Now, inside and get your feet up – do as the doctor said or he’ll be round with a big whip. We’ve got to get this blood pressure down so no more chocolates.’

  She squeezed Bet’s arm, helping her into the warmth of the kitchen, loving her.

  Sarah did enjoy fireworks on Guy Fawkes Night, laughing with Carl as the Catherine wheel whizzed off its nail in Sam’s London garden.

  ‘Bit of a damp squib,’ Carl shouted and everyone groaned.

  ‘Davy would have enjoyed that,’ Sarah said, taking a glass of wine from Sam.

  ‘How is he, still off the hard stuff?’ Sam ducked as a rocket exploded well above him. ‘Damn things, don’t know why I have them.’

  ‘Oh yes, either Carl or I or one of the boys stays with him when he’s out. He’s with Tim tonight, but you’d have been proud of him at Woburn, Sam. He played so beautifully, the hippies loved him.’

  Sam sucked his cigar and the smell reminded her of Uncle Don. ‘Hippies don’t buy records,’ he said. ‘We need what the market wants.’

  Sarah shrugged. It didn’t matter, she wasn’t fussed about music any more. All that mattered was that Davy was well.

  ‘You just wait until you hear him,’ she repeated.

  They ate caviar and smoked salmon and she refused LSD because she had work to do when she returned home, and she must check on Davy.

  She smoked pot, enjoying the taste, the drifting, and nodded as Carl kissed her and patted his briefcase. She murmured against his cheek, ‘Fine, go and do your business, I’ll just stand here and wish I had a sparkler,’ she smiled at him, caught his hand and kissed it.

  Sam walked into the study, shutting the door behind him. ‘My backer wants her in a proper recording studio by the New Year, what the hell’s going on, Carl? The bum recording didn’t work, heroin didn’t. He’s still there for God’s sake, larger than life.’

  Carl lit a cigarette, picking a piece of tobacco off with his finger. ‘Not for much longer – trust me, we’re almost there. I organised a nice little diversion at a demo the other day, should just flip him over. The rest of the family’s out of the picture so she’ll be ripe for the picking soon, then we’ll all get our money.’

  Sarah found Davy in his room, drunk, lying in a stupor on the bed. ‘Must have been one hell of a party, bonny lad,’ she said quietly as she eased his shoes from his feet. He struggled up, kicking her from him. ‘Leave me alone.’

  She laughed. ‘OK, but you’re going to have a head like a punch bag and a mouth like the bottom of a budgie’s cage in the morning.’

  She kissed his forehead and he gripped her arm and whispered, ‘Better than a pigeon loft though.’

  She was still laughing as she eased into be
d beside Carl, feeling his arm around her. ‘He’s going to be all right,’ she said. ‘I thought the demo might push him over but he’s going to be fine.’

  Carl took Davy out the next night while she wrote up her notes, and then finished the long skirts that the girls from Arnie’s college had ordered. Davy didn’t get up the next day.

  ‘Delayed hangover,’ Carl told her as she cycled away in the morning.

  In the evening he told her that there was a gig the next week. ‘So Sam can hear the new sound, he’ll tell us how he thinks it will go.’

  Davy was too tired to practise much in the week, and when he played at the gig he was clumsy and the hard edge was back in the music. That night she checked his arms for needle marks but there were none.

  Carl shook his head. ‘He’s just lost his touch, that’s all.’

  ‘He’ll never lose his touch, he’s too good. He’s just tired, too much booze. He’s not on heroin again, I know, I’ve just checked. I’m getting paranoid about this, it’s ridiculous. I’ll be ripping everyone’s sleeve up the moment they have a runny nose, or feel knocked out.’

  She couldn’t settle, thinking of the change in Davy, in his music, what could she do? She smoked the joint that Carl gave her and sucked the hash, it made her sleep.

  Carl took him out the next night, and the next and she was grateful, kissing him with passion, moving with him into the small hours of the morning, smoking the present he had brought her back, drifting because it was easier than thinking, than being paranoid.

  On Saturday morning Carl talked to her of going solo but she shook her head. ‘No, I told you, we do everything together and we do make a good sound – if only you could have heard us. But I’d rather not bother at all if it makes him this tired.’

  Carl’s voice was angry as he replied, ‘It’s not music making him tired. He’s just weak, you know, physically, emotionally, look at the way he broke and ran at the demo. God, the booze he’s put away since then – it’s all too much for him, you’d be doing him a kindness you know. Tell you what, I’ll bring it up when we go out tonight.’

  Sarah laughed. ‘Again, that’s every night, no wonder he’s so tired in the day. He’s got work to catch up on at college, he was late in this morning, Tim told me. Don’t be too late tonight, darling, we mustn’t get him run down again.’

  Carl put his hand on her arm. ‘You’re right. I just thought I’d take him for a light meal, take him out of himself. Come with us if you want to, but I was hoping you’d run up a shirt for Sam. I’m getting him interested in your gear – could be another opening for you and Davy.’

  Sarah stayed in and worked, wishing that her parents could see Carl and the way he cared for them both. She smoked the joints that Carl left her.

  On the Wednesday of the first week in December the phone rang.

  Sarah ran down the stairs when Ma Tucker called up.

  ‘It’s a Teresa Manon for you, Sarah.’

  ‘Terry, what are you doing in London – are you in London?’

  ‘It’s Teresa actually, and yes I am in London. Doing a Cordon Bleu course, you know. Mummy’s idea.’

  ‘Of course,’ Sarah said.

  ‘Thought I’d pop round Friday, catch up with the cousins.’

  Sarah smiled with relief.

  ‘Sorry, no can do. We’re playing at Smokey Joe’s, what a shame.’

  ‘Lovely, I’ll meet you there.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ Sarah said.

  She told Carl that night, and he laughed. ‘God, not another one of you.’

  ‘Oh she’s different. Our Terry’s a one-off, but Teresa please. Must make sure Davy knows, he’s none too keen on that particular little item.’ She started to move towards the door and he grabbed her. ‘Give the lad a break, he’s having a rest – Tim’s taking him out later.’

  Sarah gripped his hand. ‘Tim said he thought he must be taking too much hash, he thinks he’s too … oh I don’t know.’

  ‘For God’s sake, you’re like a dog with a bone. You’ve got to learn to trust the lad, though he’s so well chaperoned he must doubt that anyone does. Or don’t you trust us either?’ His voice was cold and Sarah hugged him. ‘I just get worried.’

  ‘He’ll be all right. We’ll put on a good show for the cousin and have a look at how he’s coming along at the same time. I mean, Sarah, if he’s not interested and is slacking off we ought to let him take a back seat. It’s not fair to drag him to rehearsals if he’s bored.’ Sarah felt his arms tighten around her.

  ‘He’s not bored, I’ll never forget his face at Woburn, he looked so happy. It’ll come back, you wait and see.’

  Davy went with Tim and Arnie to Smokey Joe’s and was sitting with Teresa at a table when Sarah and Carl arrived, listening to her talk nineteen to the dozen, smiling gently and, dear God, he looked as he had done when he was on heroin, but how could he be? He played as though he was. Sarah felt the coldness in her as they sat at the table in the interval, drinking tonics and she looked again at Davy’s arm, but he wore his sleeves rolled up, and there were just old scars. Nothing.

  She turned to Carl whispering, ‘I don’t understand, I know there’s something wrong. Has he been doing coke?’

  Carl shook his head, taking her hand, whispering back, ‘I told you, I’ve been looking after him. He’s just tired, bored. He doesn’t want to play any more and he’s had a bit of hash.’

  Perhaps then, they should stop these gigs, all of them, though she didn’t say that, not yet. She would tell him tomorrow because she didn’t want to play without Davy, but neither did she want to drag him down as it was doing.

  Teresa was telling Tim about the profiteroles they had made today, and how Daddy loved them.

  ‘How did you get my phone number, Teresa? I keep meaning to ask you.’

  ‘Daddy gave it to me. I suppose he got it from your mother – how is your mother? Still nicking people’s houses from under them?’

  Teresa was smoking a joint which Carl had given her, her lips were glistening and her breath smelt of gin. Sarah said, ‘My mother doesn’t nick houses. She owned it in the first place, you always seem to forget that.’

  Her voice was tight with rage and she wanted to slap this stupid drunken girl.

  Carl pressed her shoulder. ‘Joe wants you back on.’

  She shrugged him off, then felt sorry. She looked at Davy lolling next to Teresa.

  ‘Take him home,’ she begged Carl. ‘We’ll talk about it in the morning. I’m due to finish at two.’

  She, Tim and Arnie played, and Sarah’s voice was rough with anger at her cousin but why? She didn’t like her mother, did she? She looked for Davy, not knowing what the hell was going on, but they were going, Teresa too, and now there was more rage and fear because Carl was smiling, his hand was on Teresa’s back.

  They played until midnight only and by then her throat was raw and her feet swollen but the applause was loud.

  ‘I’ll pay you until two. You were good but we’ve got this Blues group who want to do a couple of hours. You’d do even better on your own,’ Joe said, paying her.

  ‘I don’t like being on my own,’ she snapped, walking out of the club, her eyes stinging from the smoke, looking for a taxi. Where the hell were they all?

  ‘Coming on to a club?’ Tim called to her. She shook her head.

  She started walking, looking over her shoulder, hailing one. It stopped. ‘Hurry please,’ she said, telling him her address.

  Davy’s door was ajar, she pushed it open, turned on the light and saw him lying on the bed, a syringe dangling from his ankle vein. She moved so slowly towards him, her arms like lead as she touched him. ‘Who gave this to you Davy? Who?’

  He turned to her, his eyes opening slowly, his mouth in a gentle smile. ‘He’s so kind to us, always so kind.’

  ‘Who, Davy?’

  ‘Why, Carl, of course, he helped me. He’s got it in his case. It’s always in his case.’

  She touched his cheek and let
him lie quietly now, but took out the syringe, bleached it, put it away in his box, cleaned up his ankle and only then went to Carl’s room.

  She tried the door quietly. It was locked. She inserted the key that he’d given her so long ago, turned it, then the handle and entered.

  Teresa was in his arms, both were naked, groaning, heaving, their skins sheened with sweat in the lamplight. She threw the key on the bed. It glinted.

  Carl saw it, saw her, started up. ‘I thought you were staying until two?’

  He pushed Teresa away, throwing her clothes at her. She stared at Sarah, then laughed. ‘I rather like your golden boy.’

  ‘Get your bloody clothes, Terry, and get your stupid little backside out of here, or do you want to end up a junkie too?’

  She stopped and threw the girl’s shoes at her, not looking at her now, only at Carl who was scrabbling for his pants, and trousers. ‘Get out, I said.’ Sarah shrieked now. ‘Or I’ll tell your bloody father.’

  Teresa stopped dead at this, then scrambled into the rest of her clothes. ‘Don’t tell him, Sarah. Please don’t. I’m sorry,’ the girl was edging past her.

  ‘Get out you little fool and stay away from filth like this, you’ll save yourself a lot of grief.’

  Carl stopped, his trousers almost on. Sarah heard the door slam behind her. She moved towards him. ‘Why have you tried to destroy him? Why?’

  Carl brushed back his hair with his hand. ‘Come on, darling. I’d had too much to drink, Terry was coming on strong, I’m sorry, I only love you, you know that.’ He moved towards her. She pushed him away.

  ‘Why did you give him drugs?’

  Carl looked amazed. ‘Me, drugs. He’s not on drugs, is he? We took such good care of him.’

  She looked around the room, looking for the briefcase. There, by the window. She dived for it, clicked it open. There were the packets, the syringes, the fixing belts, the pills, the uppers and downers. He was moving in on her. ‘Put the case down, Sarah. Don’t do anything stupid.’

  She stood with it poised at the lower pane. ‘One shove and it goes through, Carl. Why?’