Annie's Promise

by Margaret Graham

  ‘So, where’re we staying then – is it somewhere your mother fixed up?’

  Fred nodded, edging the van in through an archway, his headlights reflecting back in the mist. ‘The things mothers do for their kids.’

  Sarah shrugged. ‘Don’t knock it, she’s taken good care of you, at least you’re not being blown to pieces in that little bit of “trouble”.’ She blew her smoke up into the air, running her hands through her short hair, cut by Sally last night.

  ‘Short, really short,’ Sarah had commanded.

  She felt it now, two inches left. They left the van, took a water bus, then walked down alleyways until they entered a courtyard. Ahead of them were double doors standing ajar. They heaved their stuff into the building. There was a smell of damp, and the plaster was crumbling on the walls.

  ‘Not a palace but who cares? Good old Mom.’ Fred led the way into a room on the right. ‘Marco,’ he called. ‘Marco.’

  Sarah followed him. ‘Who’s Marco?’

  ‘He’s the guy who looks after it for Mom.’

  Sarah looked round at the heavy furniture, the carpets on the walls. Ravi’s flat had carpets on the walls. Did his clinic? She shrugged, not caring. She was happy with her friends – why want anything else?

  ‘You own it?’

  ‘Sure, lots of Italians in America. We’re some.’ He bent and kissed her mouth, she kissed him back, liking the taste of him, that was all.

  They slept on an unaired bed that night and he kept her warm.

  They painted the next day, sitting in coats in San Marco Square and the glowing gold and white, the gold and grey of the façade took her breath away and her fingers moved, her mind worked.

  ‘Kinda good,’ Fred said, ‘But like I said, you’ve got to have some soul there too.’

  Sarah shrugged. She had no soul any more.

  They drank wine that night which they bought in Venice, and spaghetti cooked by Marco. They sucked at the strands and the bolognese stained their shirts, their chins, and she wouldn’t think of how it had once stained Davy’s. He had sent her away.

  They all took LSD and spun in the colours and the extension of consciousness and then lay in bed in the morning, all of them, and later played their guitars in the afternoon sunlight which was thin and cold, but what did it matter?

  Tom left Wassingham for Newcastle a month after he had returned with Davy. There was a chill wind and snow lay on the ground. Would the winter ever be over, would the waiting ever end? He parked his car and walked up the steps into reception.

  ‘I have an appointment with my brother,’ he said, shrugging out of his coat.

  She spoke into the intercom. Don came to the door of his office, his hair sleeker, greyer, his smile cold. ‘Come in, this is an unusual pleasure.’

  Tom shook the hand that was offered, holding it for a moment. It was soft and flabby. Davy’s was still so thin.

  Don returned to his desk, gesturing towards the chair Tom stood by.

  ‘Such a sad day when we said goodbye to Betsy. We were all most affected.’

  Tom nodded, sitting quite still. He wanted to smash his fist into that face again and again.

  ‘Yes, it was a great loss, especially at that time, with Davy as he was, and Sarah gone.’

  Don nodded gravely, his hands steepled, his fingers against his lips. ‘Yes, it’s been a very bad time for you all.’

  Tom nodded. ‘It has been the worst time of our lives and it’s far from over. You see, we don’t know where Sarah is, we don’t know what condition she’s in. It’s not fair, Don. Annie’s had more than enough in her life.’ His voice was level.

  Don nodded. ‘Ah yes, indeed, but life isn’t fair – these things happen, especially with children who … well you know, headstrong children.’

  Again Tom looked at that face, so empty, so cold. ‘Sometimes things are helped though, aren’t they, Don?’ His voice was still level, his eyes steady as he held his brother’s gaze. ‘I know who Sam Davis’s backer was.’

  Don’s eyes weren’t empty now, they were scared and his arms had slipped from the chair. He said nothing.

  ‘You see, Don,’ Tom’s voice was still quiet, level. ‘You see, I talked to my son as he groaned and wept and pleaded in the clinic for the drug Carl gave him. I listened to him in the weeks leading up to his discharge. I came home and looked up the names of the consortium because I knew that I’d heard the name of Sam Davis before.’

  Tom sat quite still, watching as Don wiped his mouth with his handkerchief. His hands were trembling. ‘I went to see Sam.’ Tom’s voice was conversational as he rose and walked round the desk and stood close to Don. ‘He told me that you had found out from Annie where the kids were staying. Sam moved Carl in. You gave your orders – that on the pretext of creating Sarah as a solo artist he was to break up the family by any means possible. Sam knew Carl was a drug dealer. You knew too.’

  Tom put his hand on Don’s shoulder. ‘I want to kill you, Don.’ His voice was still level. ‘I want to tear you limb from limb so that you suffer all the pain that can be suffered. I can’t though, can I, Don?’

  Don looked up at him, leaning back into the chair. ‘You see,’ Tom continued, ‘we live in a civilised society where people don’t ruin other peoples lives, or do they? What would you say, bonny lad?’

  Tom shook Don’s shoulder. ‘What would you say, I said?’ His voice was no longer level but full of hatred.

  ‘I didn’t know he’d get them on drugs. I was never told what was happening.’ Don was rearing back, his head arched away, waiting for the force of Tom’s blow.

  Tom removed his hand, wiped it with his handkerchief, which he dropped in the bin.

  ‘I remember others saying that – was it in 1946?’ he said, standing with his back to the window. ‘The thing is, Don, I don’t know what to do with you because I can hardly believe it, even of you. You did know he’d get them on drugs, didn’t you – now it’s important that you answer me properly.’

  The phone on the desk rang. Tom moved quickly, put his hand on it. ‘Tell your secretary on that thing,’ he waved to the intercom, ‘to hold all calls until further notice.’

  He waited while Don did so, his voice cracked and dry.

  ‘So tell me now, Don, you did know, didn’t you?’

  Don patted his mouth again, looking round the room, then back at Tom. ‘All right, I knew it was a possibility I suppose.’

  ‘Just for the hell of it, was it, Don? Or to get back at us finally, since you hadn’t killed the business. Kill the kids, kill the hearts of the parents? Hatred is a terrible thing. I should know. I feel it now.’

  Tom sat down again, leaning forward. ‘Did you know Teresa was with Sarah and Davy on their last night in England? She rang them, went to the club with them, went back with Davy and Carl. Did you know that Sarah found them having sex together?’

  He stared at his brother as the handkerchief fell from Don’s hand. ‘She was high on pot. Where is she now Don? Still in London?’

  Don gripped the table. ‘It’s not true, she’s a good girl.’

  ‘Oh it is true. I can get you the written statement if you like. Carl’s in prison now. He wrote it for me. I thought I’d show it to Maud.’

  Tom stood and walked to the door. ‘Don’t you come near us again. Don’t you come near any of us again and see to your own family, Don, not ours.’

  ‘The statement,’ Don gasped. ‘Maud.’

  ‘I don’t know what I’ll do yet, Don. I really don’t know.’

  He drove to Wassingham and walked into Annie’s kitchen where she sat by the range, her eyes sunken. She smiled when she saw him. ‘You look like Rudolph,’ she said. ‘You could lead an army to safety in the dark with that nose.’

  He stooped and kissed her. You could lead an army anywhere with your courage, he thought.

  He handed her Carl’s statement, watching as she pushed her hair back from her face, put on her glasses and read, waiting until she had finished befo
re saying, ‘I’ve been to see him.’

  He told her all that had been said. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ he ended.

  ‘Nothing. Too much damage has already been done. But I hate him with all my heart because our children didn’t stand a chance and we couldn’t protect them, Tom, or we didn’t, I don’t know which it is.’

  Sarah and Fred took the public boat to Torcello at the end of March, feeling the sun on their backs, their sketch pads and lunch in the bags they carried. They skirted the long brick wall of the island of San Michele, the white chapel and the blue-grey cypresses and she took out her crayons and matched up the colours, merging them, overlapping them.

  They passed Murano, saw the Grand Canal, then shingle, then glass factories and she sketched the shape of those, matching the colours again, falling and rising with the boat, taking no notice of the passengers, of Fred.

  The boat increased speed along the open avenue and Sarah sketched the pali, three, four, five to a bunch. She noted the electric lantern on one, the seagulls on another. They skirted the islet of San Giacomo in Palude and she sketched the trees choked with ivy.

  They slackened speed and chugged down the wide canal of Mazzorbo, past ugly little modern houses with their varnished and glazed front doors, their varnished and glazed little families. She turned away.

  They accelerated into Torcello.

  Fred led the way, walking ahead of her along a towpath beside the stagnant green canal which smelt of drains and fish. She stopped and sketched the marshland either side, and some vineyards. It was flat like Holland. How was he?

  She walked on, looking only to left and right, not thinking.

  ‘There’s honeysuckle and hawthorn in the summer,’ Fred called.

  There had been honeysuckle in Cornwall.

  They arrived at the cathedral. She sketched its plain brick façade, its six blind arches. They moved inside and Sarah sketched the simple, rich interior and the light which came through small circular panes on the south wall.

  ‘The wind’s too icy from the north,’ Fred said, looking over her shoulder. ‘There are some peacocks over there, on the inner plutei. They symbolise the Resurrection and the new life given by baptism.’

  She moved along, drawing their long, stretched necks as they pecked at the grapes in a bowl. Did she have a new life? She ate, drank, breathed, talked, slept, loved. She looked at Fred. No, she didn’t make love, she just kept warm. No, this wasn’t life – but what was life? She didn’t know any more.

  They ate lunch outside back to back, not talking, just eating, drinking. Afterwards Fred pointed to the campanile which stood a few yards from the east end of the cathedral. ‘We should climb that at twilight but now will do.’

  They climbed it and she sketched the island spread out all around, and the sea, and she noted the colours with her crayons.

  ‘At twilight the Adriatic seems pale, to the south the lagoon can be purple or green, depending on the sky. It’s kinda nice.’

  She looked at Fred, his beard, his loose shirt, his hands which drew competently, but not like Davy. She shut her mind, sketching Fred as he stood there. Was he nice? She supposed so.

  They walked back along the towpath, caught the boat and now the wind was fresh and cool and the light was fading. Another day had passed, thank God.

  They disembarked and walked silently from the boat, through a Venice sunk in shadow, the light behind the buildings turning them azure, lilac, violet, their shutters hard-edged and black. They turned into the courtyard, past the marble well-head, the empty flower urns standing on the moss-covered paving slabs, into the house where the sound of guitars and singing drifted from above.

  Marco came, his apron greasy, his face worried. ‘There are men at the trattoria asking about a girl called Sarah Armstrong.’

  That evening Fred took her to the station and put her on a train for Rome. ‘Let me stay,’ she said.

  ‘Look, Sarah, it’s been fun but I can’t have cops checking up on me. They’ll kick me out and I’ll be in Nam before I know what’s hit me. You’ll have to go. Use the money for a plane ticket. Just get the hell away from here.’

  ‘Please let me stay.’ She grabbed his arm.

  ‘Look, don’t cling, you’re a big girl, time you made it on your own. Don’t always need someone else, for Christ’s sake.’

  Sarah stood at the window as the train drew out, waving, but Fred had turned and was walking away. He didn’t look back. She was alone, quite alone, and his words echoed round her mind.

  Rome was like London, crowded, chaotic, noisy. She stayed in a small hotel that had bed bugs. She walked the streets, looking up at the Spanish Steps, at the stalls in the markets, at the artists, the students. She looked into the cafés but hadn’t the courage to go in alone and always Fred’s words echoed and that night she dreamt at last, of Carl, of Davy, and woke in the morning bathed in sweat.

  She ate breakfast alone. She bought a map and toured the Colosseum, looking up as a pimp sidled up to her.

  ‘All alone? Come with me.’

  She turned and walked away quickly, frightened, checking the map, going back to the hotel, lying on the bed. Don’t cling. Don’t cling. She didn’t eat that evening. She just lay on her bed, thinking. She lay awake all night, all the next day, hearing Fred’s voice, hearing Carl’s. ‘You only cured him so that you could cling to him.’ She heard her mother say years ago, ‘Let him decide. He might not want to go into art.’ Again and again she heard their voices until her head ached with the echoes of them all and in the morning she had travelled many miles and many years. She went out again to the Colosseum waiting as a pimp came up. ‘All alone? Come with me.’

  ‘Piss off,’ she said, staring at him. ‘It’s time I was alone.’ He moved away and Sarah finished looking at the Colosseum, before eating at a café. She rang the Dutch clinic from the café. The doctor said Davy had gone home. So far, there had been no relapse.

  She walked to the river and stood there, knowing she would never be the same again because she acknowledged now the fact that she had decided that they must cover up after Davy’s psychedelic pictures. She hadn’t asked him. It was she who had taken him to Cornwall. It was she who had changed from Newcastle to London to be with him. It was she who had not listened to Ravi as he warned her of the drugs. She hadn’t wanted to listen.

  She had never asked Davy what he wanted. It was what she wanted that had mattered to her. He had wanted to go home and she hadn’t seen it, or if she had she had ignored it because she wanted to stay, and now she knew that he had once loved her, and that she had seen it, and used it. She was as much a user as her mother and the knowledge broke her heart because all along it was Davy that she had loved, she knew that now. It had never been Carl.

  She stood until the sun went down and it was dark and there was just the sound of the city around her. She walked back to the hotel and packed her rucksack, heaving it on her back, and took a taxi to the airport, knowing at last where she was going.

  Annie listened to the Italian, straining to understand his broken English, her heart sinking as she did. Sarah had left before the private detectives reached her. Her friends had no idea of her destination.

  CHAPTER 23

  Sarah lay in the dormitory wondering how she could bear such heat for another moment. She rolled over and checked her watch. Midnight.

  ‘Lie still,’ the old woman in the next bed called out. ‘If you lie still the heat is not so bad.’

  Sarah eased on to her back, feeling the sweat running off her, smelling India all around her, hearing its music, seeing the shadows the street lamps cast through the curtainless windows. Ravi had been right, the landscape as she had flown into Delhi looked like lichen on a stone but nothing had prepared her for the smell, the noise of the streets, the number of people, the bikes, rickshaws, tongas.

  In the morning the old woman brushed her hair, twisted it up into a bun, her arms scrawny, her fleshless skin hanging, shaking.

  �
��I should have mine cut like yours. Have you had a broken love affair – my mother always said that those with broken hearts need to despoil themselves.’

  Sarah looked out of the window at the people who were buying from hawkers, eating chapattis in the street, others were scrabbling for scraps in the gutters. Some were still sleeping in corners.

  ‘I need to get to this clinic,’ she said, digging Ravi’s address out of her bag, handing it to the woman.

  ‘Take a bus, number nine. It’ll get you there. I’m going the other way. Every year I come – it beats Worthing.’

  Sarah stuffed her clothes into her rucksack.

  ‘So, you’re working at a clinic – atonement, is it?’ the woman asked.

  Sarah heaved the rucksack on to her back.

  ‘Something like that.’ She left the room.

  ‘Boil your water, don’t eat food from the street stalls for the first week, then you’ll be immune,’ the old woman called. ‘Remember, broken hearts can mend.’

  She walked out into the heat and the dust and the noise, joining the stream which ebbed and flowed, bright-coloured. Men hawked, spat betel juice. Street vendors called, children begged, pulling at her long cotton skirt, she kept walking. Past silk wallahs squatting cross-legged on the ground, past the derzie sitting on an old durrie sewing on a hand machine. She stopped to look but she had a bus to catch and sewing was of no interest to her now.

  ‘Carry your bag, missy?’

  She shook her head.

  An old Sikh in a white tunic and turban was weighing rice, lentils, flour, from baskets that stood on wooden planks. Their colours were good together. She should draw them but that was of no interest to her now either.

  On past the betel leaf shop, the toddy shop, stalls where ghee and cooking oil were sold, on and on through the hot bodies, with the heat on her head, the heat beneath her feet, in her lungs – and everywhere there was the ordure of India.

  Bikes were piled high on the roof of the bus, the seats were crowded, people stared but she turned from them as the driver lurched forward and eased into the sea of bikes, rickshaws, lorries. She looked out at the suburbs, peeling, shabby, dirty, the blacksmiths by their wagons, the VD clinic, the rickshaws which had died together like a farmer’s yard full of rusted equipment.