The Promise

by Michelle Vernal

  She yawned and stretched not knowing what time it was, but the dull light peeping through the gap where the drapes didn’t quite meet signaled morning had broken. She heard the drone of the radio in the kitchen beneath and guessed her mum would be going about her morning routines before heading off to her part-time job at the Asda Superstore. If that were the case, then it would be around 8 a.m. which meant she’d slept for twelve hours solid. She wondered if her dad had already left for work. The temptation to snuggle back down to sleep tugged at her, but she fought off the urge and pulled herself upright. The sooner she got herself back into a routine the better. Her hand fluttered up to her hair. Yes, as she’d suspected her curls were matted. She probably looked, given its current colour as though she had a laurel wreath atop her head.

  ‘I bet you never woke up looking anything but gorgeous, and I guarantee you brushed your teeth before bed each night,’ she muttered to Princess Di. She was normally diligent on that front, but from the sour taste in mouth, she guessed she’d missed last night’s session. Jet lag, that was her excuse, and she was running with it. That was when the events of that afternoon on the back roads of New Zealand’s South Island came flooding back, as they had each morning since it had happened. She whimpered and dived back down under the duvet cover pulling it tightly over her head. How she wished it had all been one of those horribly real nightmares; she wished she was a turtle with a hard shell who could hide away forever inside it.

  Her breath was hot under the weight of the bedding as she wondered again why it was her that had been the one to make Ginny Havelock a promise she wasn’t sure she could keep. It was a question she’d asked herself on the plane. What had kept nagging at her as the hours between meals ticked away in economy class was Ginny’s connection with Wight—an island that was now just a ferry ride away. Her thoughts were interrupted by a tapping on her door. It was followed by, ‘Yoo-hoo, Dizzy Izzy. Are you awake?’

  ‘No. Go away Mum; I’m still asleep.’ Isabel heard a snuffling, and a whimper as the door creaked open. ‘Don’t let that bloody dog near me; I’m not in the mood for fending him off.’

  ‘Don’t shout Isabel You know he doesn’t like it. Come on, out you go Prince Charles,’ Babs cooed.

  She heard her mum step into the room, and even under her covers could smell the floral notes of her favourite perfume, Yves Saint Laurent’s Paris. Isabel’s Dad, Gary or Gaz as he was called more often than not bought his wife a bottle each birthday. With the knowledge her supply would be topped up annually, she sprayed each morning liberally. A split–second later a dragging, scuffling commotion sounded signalling, Babs was dragging her beloved corgi from the room. The door clicked shut, and a mournful howling erupted from the hallway.

  ‘He’s just happy to have you home,’ Babs said.

  By the proximity of her voice, Isabel knew she was standing beside the bed. At least, Prince Charles had been banished. Life was bad enough without that bloody corgi making advances. From the time he was a pup he’d decided the one true love of his life, was Isabel.

  ‘Come on now Izzy. Out from under there. I’ve got to head off in a minute, but I wanted to see my girl before I go.’ There was a gentle tug on the duvet. ‘I’ve bought you a cup of tea. I bet you’ve missed good old English tea. I made it extra strong and put sugar in it; there’s a plate of marmalade toast too. Dad’s already left for work, but he’ll skip footie practice tonight to be home for a proper family tea. Your favourite, pie, proper mushy peas, and mash.’

  Isabel emerged from the duvet like a crumpled butterfly from its cocoon and pulled herself up to a sitting position. She’d been astounded when her dad, a self-declared couch potato and borderline obsessive Saints fan, had taken up football once more after a forty-year hiatus.

  ‘You’ll have to do something about that hair if you want to find yourself a job young lady.’ Babs eyed her daughter’s hair with a frown and Isabel knew she was envisaging her with the softly waving brown locks of the Duchess of Cambridge. ‘That colour reminds me of flipping mushy peas. It’s the worst I’ve seen you with yet. Whatever possessed you to dye your hair green?’

  ‘I like it. It’s different.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with being normal, you know, Isabel.’

  ‘How’s Dad getting on with his late-life crisis?’ Distraction was the best course of action, Isabel decided, and personally, she loved mushy peas.

  It worked. Bab’s sigh was as weighty as Isabel’s duvet as she shoved her hands into the pockets of her Asda issue black pants. ‘Honestly Izzy. That man of mine—your father. He’s doing my head in and all. Truly, as much as I love him, he comes home every Saturday afternoon moaning and groaning. He’s got a perpetual limp because he’s pulled his ruddy groin muscle or some other body part he’d forgotten he had. I tell you what though I’m not going to rub him down with that smelly wintergreen anti-inflammatory stuff anymore. I’ve had it. I’m officially on strike. He can do it himself from now on, and I hope he forgets to wash his hands before he piddles.’

  ‘Mum!’ Isabel snorted.

  ‘Well, I mean come on, he does nothing physical for nearly fifteen years aside from lifting a few boxes at work and then decides to go and run around a muddy field, kicking a ball with a bunch of other old farts who all think they’re teenagers. It wouldn’t have crossed his mind to go and do Latin American dance classes with his wife if he felt the sudden urge to get off the settee now, would it?’

  ‘Ah Mum, you know he’s got two left feet when it comes to dancing, and it could be worse. He could’ve taken up with a nubile twenty-something or gone out and put a Porsche on credit.’

  ‘He’d never get out of a Porsche. Too low to the ground and the twenty-something wouldn’t stick around for long, not with his recurring groin injury,’ Babs muttered.

  ‘Too much information.’ Isabel reached over and took a sip from the mug. The tea was strong and sweet, just how she liked it.

  Her mum’s eyes narrowed as they focussed on the patch of skin on the inside of Isabel’s elbow. ‘You’re eczema’s playing up I see. I hope you haven’t been scratching at it. You know it only makes it worse.’

  ‘I know, and I haven’t,’ Isabel lied.

  ‘I have a pot of your cream still in the bathroom.’ She got up and resembling the Green Lantern in her uniform whirled out of the room, reappearing a second later brandishing a tub of ointment. ‘There you go pop that on it, nice and thick. Now, I’d better make tracks. I’ll be home around two-ish, and I expect to find you showered and dressed with some good news to report.’

  ‘Ah come on Mum, I only got back yesterday. You can’t expect me to go to the job centre.’

  ‘Oh yes, I can. You had all of yesterday afternoon and last night to recuperate. There’s no time like the present Isabel. Strike while the iron is hot.’ Her mum’s gaze flickered to the tea and toast as she tapped her foot.

  ‘Thanks for breakfast.’

  ‘I’m glad you didn’t leave your manners behind in Australia.’ She hovered in the doorway for a moment. ‘Ah, but it’s lovely to have you home Izzy. We’ve missed you, and as for Prince Charles, well, he’s been a lost lamb this last year.’ The bedroom door clicked shut behind her.

  Lost lamb! What a load of rubbish. Isabel snorted silently. She’d seen him cavorting with his bone in the background when her mum and dad Skyped. She glanced at her tea and the plate of buttery marmalade toast; it was lovely to be home, though. It had been forever since someone had brought her breakfast in bed. She opened the pot her mum had just handed to her and rubbed the greasy salve into the crook of her arm. The relief from the burning itch was instant, and she reached under the covers to deal with the patch behind her knees. It wouldn’t clear eczema up, but it would stop her scratching for a bit and running the risk of getting it infected.

  She put the pot back on the bedside table and rested her head back against the pillows. She’d get up in a little while. As for the job centre, she shuddered, she couldn’t
face it. Babs had never sat on a plane longer than the two and a half hours it took to get from London to Benidorm. She’d give herself today to get over the seemingly endless flight home; she decided to add the job centre to her mental “I’ll do it tomorrow” list.

  Chapter 4

  Isabel pulled her curtains back and looked at the overcast sky outside. She’d been home two days, and it had been gloomy both of them. Might as well go for the trifecta, she thought. It didn’t matter anyway. It wasn’t like she had plans for the beach or anything. No, today was the day she would find gainful employment. She’d visited the job centre yesterday and hadn’t had any luck. Admittedly she’d turned her nose up at the McDonald’s job, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and she did enjoy the odd Big Mac she told herself, trying to put a positive spin on things. If the job was still going, she’d put herself forward for it.

  She set about making her bed, and as she puffed the pillows to avoid another live demonstration on pillow puffing from Babs, she recalled how she’d bumped into her old friend, Charity yesterday. She’d been feeling flat and deflated as she left the grim, box-like building with its myriad of windows when Charity had called out to her. Catching her up on a pair of heels that beggared belief, she’d hugged her and said she’d heard she was back in town and had been meaning to text. The irony of the flippancy of a text didn’t escape Isabel; there was a time she and Charity had been inseparable.

  Charity was on her lunch break, and after Isabel had admired the sparkly diamond on her friend’s finger, they’d had a somewhat awkward catch up over coffee. Now that she thought about it Charity had monopolized the conversation. She’d been so full of the news of her engagement to a chap, Isabel vaguely recalled her dragging her home from the pub the night of her going away do, to bother asking Isabel what her plans were now she was back. Still, Isabel figured it was fairly obvious she didn’t have a lot going on given she’d spotted her leaving the job centre. She wished she hadn’t agreed to meeting up for lunch today with her though. She’d never been very good at saying no. Charity hadn’t come up for air long enough to ask if she’d seen Ashley or Connor since she got back, but Isabel didn’t fancy her chances of avoiding that particular topic of conversation a second time.

  The thing with having been away for a reasonable spell was that life carried on with the same day to day rhythms for those at home. She’d held off contacting any of her old crowd—she didn’t know where she slotted in with them anymore since she and Connor had split up. Besides, which they were all busy doing the same stuff they’d been doing before she left for Australia from what she saw on Instagram. She didn’t feel like the same girl she’d been a year ago and thank God for that because she’d been a bit of a mess.

  Isabel couldn’t just pick up where she’d left off; she’d changed. Oh, she knew she should make an effort and organize a night out, and it would be good to have time out from her dad’s endless supply of Shrek and Kermit jokes where her hair was concerned. It wasn’t as if he was in a position to pass remark on her hair anyway not with the state of his geriatric boy band do. The problem was she didn’t have the cash to splash on a night on the town.

  The thing was with everything going around in her head the way it was at the moment she couldn’t face trying to be the life and soul of the party. Yes, she was over Connor the time away had seen to that, and it would be satisfying to prove to her old crowd that she’d moved on. That didn’t mean she was ready to see Connor and Ashley because while her heart might have mended, they’d shattered her trust and humiliated her. She doubted she’d ever forget what had happened.

  Isabel chewed her bottom lip feeling a pang for the wide, blue skies of Australia; she’d had such a good time putting her last few months in Southampton behind her and tripping about this last year. It had been marvellous to push stop on her real life, bundle all the crappy Connor and Ashley stuff up and shove it behind her as she flitted off to the sunshine. The feeling of liberation, of not having to make any serious decisions about anything other than where she’d like to swan off to next was one she’d relished.

  For one whole blissful year, Isabel had not had to question what she wanted to do with her life or where she wanted to be. The unsettling feeling of not quite fitting into the square she found herself in had vanished. It had returned with a vengeance now though, as had the big grey cloud that had settled on top of her since making her promise to Ginny.

  A hot shower would fix her, she told herself tripping over Prince Charles who’d taken up residence on the floor outside her bedroom door. He was nonplussed as she lay sprawled in front of him on the carpet and despite her expletives, his tail thumped at the sight of her. He roused his head from where it had been resting on his front paws, and his tongue lolled forth in anticipation of a tummy scratch or at the very least a pat from the light of his life. ‘You don’t deserve it; I could have broken my flipping neck.’ Isabel stated and rolling onto all fours she gave him a fuss. His little woof signalled he was listening, but if he was true to form he’d pay no attention whatsoever to what she’d just said.

  ‘Right I’ve got to have a shower. I can’t be tickling you on the tum all day.’ She got to her feet ignoring his plaintiff whine as she headed into the bathroom. A few ticks later she stood under the hot water. It stung the raw patches of skin, but nevertheless, it was having a restorative effect on her mind. As the minutes ticked by she was glad her dad was at work otherwise, he’d be hammering on the door. Her lengthy showers had always managed to rouse him from the couch. He’d launch himself up the stairs at a surprising speed of knots for someone who liked to profess his golden years were within his line of sight. As such he’d tell Isabel, he should be able to enjoy them without his only child giving him grief.

  Watching the water swirl down the drain, Isabel pondered her lot. She’d hoped that after her year of picking up work here and there in Australia, she might be closer to figuring out what she wanted to do with herself once she got home but she wasn’t. And, now here she was trying to find work that was simply a means to an end once more. She felt as though she’d gone around in a great big circle as she squeezed a dollop of shampoo into her palm, lathering it up in her hair.

  She was officially over a quarter of a century, twenty-six-years-old and life was bloody complicated. When she was little, everything had seemed so simple. ‘I’m going to be a singer when I grow up, Mum,’ she’d state, hairbrush in hand pretending it was a microphone, she’d sing along to the hit parade. Back then she’d believed that anything was possible. She’d had so much confidence as a child, but as she’d entered her teens, she’d developed an awkwardness, and shyness that had stomped all over that belief in her abilities.

  Oh, she could sing, she knew that, but it wasn’t enough, not in this digital age where anybody could be famous so long as they had the self–assurance to put themselves out there. Isabel did not like to be centre stage; she liked to fly under the radar. Singing anywhere other than the shower was not for her. Her form mistress at school had summed her up in her leaving report.

  Isabel is a quiet girl, with a very sensitive nature. She shows promise but needs to learn to put herself forward.

  It was a nice way of saying she was one of life’s worriers and a wallflower. Her response to this had been to colour her hair. It was the most startling thing about her. The colours she chose were a point of difference that allowed her to stand out in her quiet way.

  She began rinsing the shampoo out squeezing her eyes shut to avoid the suds. The problem was she’d never had a Plan B; she was going to be a famous singer, and that was that. Thus she’d spent her working career to date picking up a series of jobs, which did not offer much in the way of prospects.

  It wasn’t just knowing what direction she wanted to take that had her feeling edgy though. It was that bloody promise to Ginny; she couldn’t focus on anything else. She knew she needed to find work. That was today’s plan after all, but shouldn’t she at least try to find this Constance wom
an? Didn’t she owe Ginny that much at least?

  She wiped the water from her eyes and turned the handle around to “off”. She had a basket full of dirty laundry to tackle before she went anywhere, and stepping out of the shower she dried herself off. She’d spruce herself up later because first things first, she thought slipping into slouch pants and a sweatshirt she’d make the most of the house being empty and put her favourite Andre Bocelli CD on.

  That Isabel loved opera was an anomaly to her parents who had every record Bruce Springsteen ever made. She liked other more dancey stuff too, but there was something magical about opera. The power in the singers’ voices never ceased to amaze her. Andre was her favourite and had been since she was seventeen when she’d seen a Christmas concert special he’d recorded. Being a huge fan was not something she owned up to often, and her dad liked to tease her by following her about the house pretending to be Pavarotti.

  Both parents used to drive her mad on a Friday night when under the influence of Lager and Babycham they’d dig out their old Springsteen albums. Dad would don a red bandana and an air guitar while Mum would pretend to be Patti Scialfa. As a teenager, to watch her parents carry on had been cringe-worthy, but now the memory made her smile and grinning she hit “play”.

  “Time to Say Goodbye” filled the house as she set about making herself some breakfast.

  ͠

  The morning had disappeared by the time Isabel had sorted out her washing and sitting down at the kitchen table she opened her laptop. It wouldn’t do any harm to check out the ferry timetable and fares to Wight; she’d tidy herself up in a minute.

  ‘Ooh, my feet are bloody well killing me. What are you looking at Izzy?’ Babs Stark asked a beat later from the kitchen doorway. She was knackered having done the weekly shop at the end of her shift, and she was eager for the good news that her daughter had, in the ensuing hours since she’d left for work, found herself gainful employment. She dumped the two bags full of groceries down on the floor and shooed the hopeful Prince Charles away. ‘Get your nose out; there’s nothing in there for you. He’d live on fillet steak that one, given half a chance.’