‘Oh, Tom, I’m so sorry.’
‘Cancer,’ he confirmed. ‘It was a blessed relief in the end, to be honest.’
I’m no good in situations like this but Tom saved me by enquiring about my own marital status. I twisted my wedding ring. ‘Divorced . . . well, technically separated. Also two years.’
He nodded sagely but I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. The waitress returned and filled the table with an inordinate amount of crockery for just two cups of tea.
Tom lifted the lid on the tea pot and stirred the contents. ‘I’ll let it brew for a bit.’
As the years fell away I suddenly felt like crying, although that wouldn’t have been enough. I actually felt like sobbing until there were no tears left and I was reduced to a quivering hollow shell. Obviously, that was a non-starter so I had to pull myself together. I’m used to it.
‘Just like old times,’ I said. ‘Do you remember the café we used to go to? The one in the bus depot?’
‘Aye, with the sticky floor and the dodgy paraffin heater.’ He nodded towards the waitress who was balancing a tray of lattes. ‘When you could just go up to the counter and order a mug of coffee without having to answer a million questions about it.’
I found myself smiling and my spirits lifted a little. There I was, sitting across the table from my first love. Circumstances beyond our control had separated us and I wondered, not for the first time, whether we would still be together had things been different.
‘OK,’ said Tom, putting his cup down and folding his arms on the table. He leaned in slightly. ‘What can I do for you?’
I was flustered then. I’d thought the inane chit-chat would continue for a bit longer before I had to get serious. Still, maybe he was in a rush, perhaps he’d got work or something. I realised that I knew nothing about his life now. I reached down and pulled the little box out of my bag. I noticed his eyebrows rise but he said nothing.
I hardly knew where to begin so I took the lid off the box and gingerly lifted out the silver locket, letting it rest in my palm. Tom took hold of my fingers and drew my hand closer. ‘What’s that?’
I turned the locket over so he could see the inscription. He whipped a pair of reading glasses out of his top pocket and read aloud. ‘Happy 30th Birthday, Love Tara. 4.6.78.’
He stayed silent for so long that I was forced to speak. ‘It’s the locket I bought for Mum for her birthday. Do you remember?’
He reached for the locket and let the chain trail through his fingers. ‘I did still think about you, you know. After we lost touch, even many years after, I often wondered how it all turned out.’
‘It didn’t turn out well, Tom.’
He closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath. ‘Go on.’
I summed up the past forty years as best I could, ending with the story of the solicitors and Loxton’s safe deposit company.
Tom rubbed his face. ‘I’m so sorry, Tara. I had no idea.’
I brushed aside his apology. ‘It’s fine, Tom. It wasn’t your problem. We were over, remember?’
‘Still, that must’ve been tough to deal with on your own.’
‘I had Nan, we supported each other.’
He offered a brief smile at the mention of Nan. ‘How is she? Is she still . . .’
‘Alive? Yes, she is . . . just about. She’s got lung cancer.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry . . .’
I held my hand up. ‘Tom, please. I don’t want to cry. That’s not why I’m here.’
‘Have you any idea what happened to Violet?’
‘None whatsoever, Tom. She just disappeared. Neither her or that Larry have been seen or heard of since. The last time I saw her was that Saturday morning when you and I waved her off.’
‘And you’ve heard absolutely nothing? Have you tried to find her?’
I thought I detected a slightly accusatory tone in his voice but it was probably me being paranoid. ‘It’s a bit difficult when you have no idea where to start looking. Nan and I went to Dover, if you remember, we put posters up and asked around, caught the ferry to Calais and did the same there, but we had no idea where she went after that.’
‘So how did the locket end up in a safe deposit box?’
‘I have absolutely no idea, Tom.’ I opened the locket and stared at my fifteen-year-old self. ‘But I intend to find out.’
28
1978
Although she didn’t know it then, the scent of a hardware store would always transport Tara back to this night. Fertiliser, mothballs and freshly milled sawdust would forever remind her of the home they’d shared with Alf. When they arrived back from the hospital, Tom unlocked the front door and swept aside the multi-coloured plastic strips hanging from the frame. The taxi waited at the kerbside, engine running and its meter still ticking. Tara sat on the stool behind the counter and waited for Tom to raid the jar on Alf’s mantelpiece to pay the fare. Alf wouldn’t mind.
‘Right,’ said Tom, after he’d paid the driver. ‘I’m staying here tonight.’
Tara squinted at the clock. ‘It’s gone two, Tom, half the night’s already over.’
‘I phoned Mum from the hospital and told her I’m staying here so it’s all settled. Come on.’ He helped her off the stool and guided her through to the back. She stopped at the door to the hallway where Alf’s shapeless brown overcoat that he wore in the shop hung on a rusty nail. She lifted it off and brought it up to her nose. His distinctive smell still lingered on the collar; a mix of pipe tobacco and medicated shampoo. She tucked it under her arm and climbed the stairs.
She sat down on the edge of the bed, her stomach hollow but the thought of food enough to knock her sick. ‘Can you open a window, please, Tom?’
He lifted the sash, allowing a warm breeze to ruffle the curtains. ‘Erm . . . where do you want me to sleep?’
‘Oh, I don’t think either of us will be getting much sleep, Tom.’ She lay down on top of the eiderdown and patted the space where her mother normally slept. ‘Lie here, next to me, will you?’
Tom sidled onto the bed and opened his arms. ‘Come here.’ She slid across and nestled her head against his chest. ‘Why did he have to die, Tom?’
He cradled her head, repeatedly kissing her hair. ‘I don’t know, Tara, but at least we were with him. He didn’t die alone and he knew he was loved.’
She rubbed away her eyes, trying to erase the grittiness. ‘I wish Mum was here.’
She slipped off the bed and padded out onto the landing towards the kitchen.
‘Where are you going, Tara?’
Tara ignored him and opened the cupboard in the corner. She took out the fur coat and rubbed the collar against her cheek, Alf’s final words echoing in her ear. Make sure Violet gets the mink.
She couldn’t imagine that anything was hotter than this, not even hell itself. Blind as she was, she found it impossible to locate the heat source but that didn’t stop it searing her skin and boring through her eyelids. She was lying on her back, a position she’d always found unnatural, even in the comfort of her own bed. She dug her fingers into the ground, wincing as the sharp stubble pierced under her fingernails. Pain, that was good, surely? It meant she wasn’t dead. Hours passed, or maybe it was only minutes, she had no way of knowing. She didn’t know anything anymore. Her lack of sight had heightened her other senses and she could hear birds overhead, a wooden-sounding chattering. Wait a minute. She knew something about those birds. She willed the information to reveal itself, straining every sinew because she knew it was important. When it came to her, she wished she hadn’t bothered. The griffon vultures were circling and that could only mean one thing. She was dead after all.
She turned her head towards another sound, a scrabbling of feet and a whoosh of fabric. She forced her eyes open, recoiling from the dazzling sunshine. An angel knelt down and touched her forehead. The rush of relief overwhelmed her. At least she’d made it to Heaven.
‘Can you hear me?’
She�
�d expected a light, harmonious voice but this was deep, heavily accented and not at all angelic. She tried to speak but the words wouldn’t come. She closed her eyes again and succumbed to the enveloping exhaustion.
29
Tara stood with head bowed, one hand in Tom’s, a clump of soil in the other. She didn’t want to let go of his hand but was conscious that her nose was running and no amount of sniffing was adequate to stem the flow. She turned and wiped it on her shoulder, leaving a faint trace of slime on the black shirt. She concentrated on the vicar’s words. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes and all that malarkey. She stared across the grave at Judith, who held a gloved forefinger under her nose, occasionally flicking away a tear. The coffin was lowered into the grave and the vicar gave the signal for the mourners to throw in their soil. Tara reacted immediately, her clump hitting the brass plaque bearing Alf’s name. There was no way she was letting Judith go first.
The vicar closed his Bible and turned to Judith. ‘Again, please accept my condolences. Take as much time as you need.’ He gave a bow and backed away, leaving Judith rummaging in her handbag for a tissue.
‘Shall we go?’ Tom asked Tara, giving her a gentle tug.
‘At least she turned up for his funeral,’ replied Tara, staring at Judith. ‘Look at her there with her crocodile tears. She’s pathetic.’
Tara blew a final kiss at the coffin and turned away, leaning against Tom for support as they walked towards the gate.
‘Wait.’ They both hesitated at the sound of Judith’s shrill command.
‘What does she want? Ignore her, Tom, just keep moving.’
Judith caught up with them in spite of the fact her stiletto heels sank into the grass as she walked. ‘Has your mother turned up?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Well, do you have any idea when she’ll be back? I can’t wait for ever, you know.’
‘I’ve told you, she was due back four days ago, but she must’ve got held up. I’ve no way of contacting her but don’t worry, she’ll be back and you’ll get your rent then.’
Judith gave a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘This isn’t about the rent. The shop and flat are going on the market as soon as probate comes through and even I have qualms about chucking a kid out onto the street.’
Tom placed a protective arm around Tara. ‘You can’t do that, Judith.’
‘Believe me, erm . . . what did you say your name was?’
‘Tom.’
‘Believe me, Tom, it’s the last thing I want to do but business is business. I have no need of Father’s hardware emporium, surely you can understand that?’
‘But I don’t have anywhere to go until Mum gets back,’ Tara reasoned, her voice suddenly sounding small and pitiful against Judith’s clipped, efficient tones.
‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Even though your mother’s arrangement with my father was casual, I’ll let you stay there until she returns or until the business is sold, whichever comes first. I can’t say fairer than that. Now, can you keep the shop going in the meantime?’
‘You’re unbelievable, you are,’ said Tara. ‘No, I can’t keep the bloody shop going. I’m only fifteen. I’m still at school.’
Judith appeared momentarily flummoxed. ‘Oh . . . of course, silly me. Right well, if you’re not going to be working in the shop, there seems little point in you continuing to live above it.’
‘Hang on,’ Tom interjected. ‘You just said she could stay there until it was sold.’
Judith narrowed her eyes, steering the conversation in another direction. ‘Why do you think your mother hasn’t returned?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Tara. ‘But she will come back. If something had happened to her then we would have heard about it. My mum is very, what’s the word . . . spontaneous. They’ll have gone off to see some castle or vineyard or something. She knows I’m alright here with Tom and . . . Alf . . .’
Judith seemed to relent. ‘Would you like a lift back to the shop?’
Tom looked at Tara. ‘Shall we? Saves getting the bus.’
Tara nodded. ‘OK, ta.’
Somebody had left a small bouquet outside the shop door, a simple bunch of forget-me-nots bound at the stems with tin foil. Judith picked them up and read the card aloud.
Rest in Peace, Alf. You were a true gent. Maggie from the Post Office.
‘How sweet,’ she said, thrusting the flowers in Tara’s direction. ‘Now would you mind giving me a hand with clearing some stuff out? I’ve got a house clearance company coming tomorrow but I’d better check there’s nothing of any value. Tom, if you’re not doing anything, you can open the shop.’
‘Don’t you think it’s a bit soon?’ asked Tara.
‘Soon? My father’s dead, what’s the point of hanging about? If he was here he’d say the same thing.’
How Tara wished Violet was here. She’d have no trouble putting Judith in her place.
Tom pulled a face behind Judith’s back. ‘I’ll go and open up then.’
Tara’s breakfast bowl was still on the table, the remains of her Weetabix welded to the surface. She’d left the bottle of milk out too. Judith picked it up and sniffed the contents. ‘Urgh! Pour that away, will you? Don’t you have a fridge?’
‘Sorry, I was a bit distracted this morning, probably because I had a funeral to go to.’
‘Yes, well, I’m going to need you to keep this place clean and tidy and the smell of rancid milk isn’t conducive to a quick sale.’ She looked around the kitchen, not bothering to hide her distaste. ‘God knows how I’m going to sell this hovel.’ She glanced at Tara. ‘No offence, love, but I’m surprised it survived the slum clearances.’
‘Me and my mum like it here. We were desperate when your dad took us in.’
‘Hmm . . . you must’ve been.’ Judith clapped her hands together. ‘Right, have you got a bin bag?’
30
2018
Tom looked at the locket again, shaking his head. ‘I don’t know what to make of it, Tara, it’s just so unbelievable.’
‘You’re not kidding. And I didn’t know who else to call. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be sorry, I’m glad you did.’ He tugged at his sleeve and sneaked a look at his wristwatch.
I signalled to the waitress by writing on my palm with an imaginary pencil. ‘Four fifty, love,’ she shouted. I stood to leave. ‘I won’t keep you any longer, Tom. I just . . . well, I just . . . oh, I don’t know, I just wanted to tell someone who was there, that’s all.’
He whipped out his wallet. ‘I’ll get this.’
‘Oh no you won’t,’ I said, a little too forcefully. ‘This is on me.’ I thrust a fiver over the counter before he had a chance to argue further.
Out on the street, he turned his collar up against the battering wind. I could feel my hair lifting, no doubt standing comically on end. ‘Well, goodbye then, Tom.’
He leaned in for an embrace and kissed me on the cheek. ‘Bye, Tara. It was good to see you again.’ He took hold of my hand. ‘I’m really sorry this happened to you. You don’t deserve it and I hope you find the answers you’ve been searching for.’
‘Me too, Tom.’
I turned to leave but he followed me. ‘Oh, are you going this way too?’
He pointed down the street. ‘Yes, my car’s parked at the end of this road.’
We walked on in excruciating silence for a few paces. I couldn’t think of anything else to say so I hummed a little tune instead.
Tom stopped at the corner. ‘Well, this is me.’ And then he surprised me so much I was left gaping like a moronic idiot. ‘Look, why don’t we have dinner? It doesn’t feel right leaving it like this.’ He interpreted my silence to mean I wasn’t all that keen. ‘I’m sorry, no, you’re right, just ignore . . .’
‘I’d love to,’ I almost shouted. ‘When?’
‘Oh, great . . . erm . . . tomorrow night? I’ll pick you up at seven. Now I really must dash, text me your address.’
I watched as
he jogged over the road. I felt as though I was on a film set, a cheesy rom-com. I imagined a camera zooming in on my grinning face. If it had been a film, I would’ve thrown my arms out wide and spun round the lamppost. But it wasn’t and I’m not one for drawing attention to myself, so I merely bowed my head and made my way calmly along the pavement like the respectable middle-aged woman I am.
Moira’s car was parked in the driveway when I got home. The sight of the battered little Renault made me smile and I quickened my pace. I knew when I opened the front door the smell of furniture polish would hit me along with the comforting drone of the vacuum cleaner. Dear Moira. I’d come to regard her as a surrogate mother, even though she’s only ten years my senior. Even before I had my key in the door, I could hear the commotion going on inside. There was so much shouting and screaming it sounded as though the entire Jeremy Kyle audience was crammed into my kitchen. Moira was standing with her hands embedded in her hair, struggling to remain calm whilst trying to assert her authority over the two little girls who were squabbling over a packet of Percy Pigs.
I dropped my handbag onto the counter and raised my voice above the din. ‘What the f . . .’ I remembered the girls. ‘What the heck is going on here?’
Moira spun round and almost dropped to her knees with relief. ‘Tara, thank God.’
Ralph’s girls stopped arguing for a second. ‘Auntie Tara,’ cried one. I didn’t know which one because, let’s face it, I hardly see them and frankly I don’t need to know which one is which.
‘Auntie flamin’ Tara?’ I repeated. ‘Who said you could call me that?’
One of them stuffed a squashy pink pig into her mouth and shook her head. At two years old, I didn’t even know if she’d understood the question. She pointed to her sister. ‘Lily hit me.’ She pouted and rubbed her head.
Moira stepped in. ‘Their mother brought them round soon after you left. Said it was an emergency.’
‘Hmm . . . broke a nail, did she?’
‘I said she couldn’t just dump them here when you weren’t in but she said she’d cleared it with you already.’
Her Last Promise Page 17