Her Last Promise

by Kathryn Hughes

  I cocked my head towards the door. ‘Look who I’ve brought.’

  She turned to look. ‘Dylan! Oh, Dylan lad. What are you doing over there? Come here so I can get a proper look at you.’

  He walked up to the chair, leaned over and gave her a hug. ‘Hi, Nan. You’re looking well.’

  Her eyes had filled with tears but I knew they were tears of joy. I winked at Dylan and mouthed a ‘thank you’.

  She shuffled into a more comfortable position, wincing as a bolt of pain shot through her ravaged body.

  ‘Shall I call someone?’ I asked.

  She wafted her hand. ‘No point, love. I’m maxed up on the morphine as it is.’

  I smiled at her youthful vernacular. She may have been diminished physically but her mind was as sharp as it ever was.

  The door opened and a nurse stuck her head round. ‘Oh, sorry, Beryl. I didn’t know you had company. I’ve just clocked off but I wondered if you wanted me to do your nails?’

  Angels, the lot of them. That nurse had just done a twelve-hour shift but before she went home she’d got time for one more act of kindness. My nan was terminally ill; did it really matter if her nails were done or not? At St Jude’s it did. Everyone was treated as a human being first and a patient second.

  ‘Come in, Charlotte love,’ said Nan. ‘You know our Tara.’

  ‘Hi, Charlotte,’ I said. ‘How are you?’ She gave me a little wave. Her hands had the red-raw look of someone who worked hard for a living.

  ‘Charlotte,’ said Nan, beaming with pride, ‘say hello to our Dylan. He’s a doctor.’

  Dylan shook his head. ‘A slight exaggeration. I’m a first-year medical student, started two months ago. I haven’t been allowed anywhere near a patient yet.’

  I swallowed down the huge knot of regret that Nan would not live to see him graduate.

  Charlotte laughed. ‘Well, it’s good to meet you anyway.’ She turned to Nan. ‘I’ll leave you to it, Beryl. See you tomorrow and I’ll do your nails then. I’ve got a lovely new colour, Elephant’s Tusk. Don’t worry, it’s nicer than it sounds.’

  She breezed out leaving a waft of hand sanitiser in the air. I made my excuses and hurried after her. ‘Charlotte, wait.’

  ‘What’s the matter, Tara?’

  ‘Nan seems so much brighter today. Perhaps I could take her home. Just for a bit. Give her a change of scenery.’

  Charlotte placed her hand lightly on my forearm. ‘I know it’s difficult, Tara, but your nan really is in the best place. She makes a super-human effort when she knows you’re coming in but . . .’ She stopped and looked down at the floor.

  ‘What is it, Charlotte?’

  ‘We can manage her pain better here. There’s someone to help twenty-four hours a day. And if she needs you, I will call you, whatever time, day or night.’

  ‘What have you both been up to then?’ asked Nan as I returned to her room. ‘Tell me all about life on the outside.’

  ‘You make it sound as though you’re a prisoner here.’ Which she was of course but Nan didn’t do self-pity.

  ‘Have you got a girlfriend yet, Dylan?’

  He threw me a brief look. ‘Erm . . . I’m keeping my options open, Nan.’

  She leaned over and ran her finger down his cheek. ‘Eee, by ’eck, our Dylan. You’re going to break a few hearts, you are. What on earth happened to that cheeky little lad I used to babysit, eh? The one who couldn’t stand girls. What was it you called them?’

  Dylan smiled. ‘Gross.’

  ‘That’s it, gross. You were funny, Dylan.’ She pointed to the locker next to her bed. ‘Fetch me my bag, will you?’

  Dylan and I exchanged a knowing look. Whenever Nan asked Dylan to fetch her handbag, he knew he was in for a treat. Growing up, it had usually been a bar of chocolate, or a Matchbox car or some football cards. She opened the clasp on her bag and took out her purse. She brandished two twenties at Dylan. ‘Treat yourself to something nice, Dylan.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, Nan, honestly, I can’t take that.’

  She gave a husky laugh. ‘Well, I can’t take it where I’m going, lad.’

  I closed my eyes around a memory. I was just the same with Alf. He was always trying to give me money and I always refused, only finally accepting once I understood that it was he who gained the greater pleasure from the act. ‘Take it, Dylan.’

  ‘Thanks, Nan,’ he said, stuffing the notes into his back pocket.

  ‘I had dinner with Tom the other night,’ I said, changing the subject. It seemed as good a place as any to start.

  Nan didn’t even frown or hesitate. ‘Tom Marshall?’ Sharp as a tack. It had been over forty years since she’d heard that name but her powers of recall were greater than mine.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. He said to pass on his regards to you.’

  She fiddled with the satin ribbon on her bed jacket. She’d had it for years. I remembered when she knitted it. I’d sat at her feet with my arms out, the hank of pale pink wool strung across them whilst she wound it into a ball.

  She patted her chest. ‘I’m dying for a fag.’

  I stared at her, my lips pursed, waiting for the irony of her words to sink in. When she caught up, she guffawed, setting in motion a gut-wrenching cough which I’m sure would’ve finished most people off. I couldn’t help but laugh at Dylan’s stricken expression. He certainly had a lot to learn.

  ‘Here,’ I said, reaching for the glass of water on her bedside cabinet. ‘Have a slurp of this.’ Her hands were shaking but she managed a few sips without any major spillages.

  I took hold of one of her hands and rubbed the back of it. As soon as I’d read the letter from Br Isidore I knew I had to try and find my mother, not just for me, but for Nan. Especially for Nan. I knew her dying wish was to see Violet one last time and she’d never given up hope of finding her.

  ‘Listen, Nan,’ I ventured. ‘Don’t get your hopes up too much but I’ve received a letter from a firm of solicitors in London. It’s a bit of a long story but it’s about Violet.’

  Her interest was immediately piqued, and she leaned forward. ‘Go on.’

  I filled her in on what I knew and showed her Br Isidore’s letter and the locket. She let the chain slide through her fingers, her mouth open in wonderment. ‘My Violet’s still alive?’

  ‘Well, I can’t say for sure, but she was alive in 1981, Nan.’

  ‘How many years ago is that?’

  This had nothing to do with her ageing brain. She’d always been hopeless at maths.

  ‘Thirty-seven.’

  She wiped her eyes with her woolly sleeve. ‘Well I never.’ She squinted at the letter and then passed it back to me. ‘Read it for me would you, love? Every word of it. Don’t leave anything out.’

  I took a sip of her water then began to read. I almost knew it off by heart I’d read it so many times. When I finished, Nan’s eyes were closed and I feared she’d fallen asleep. I touched her arm ‘Nan?’

  She looked at me and smiled. ‘She’s still alive, Tara. Trust me.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it’s possible.’

  She reached out and grabbed my forearm, the strength of her grip startling me. ‘She’s out there somewhere, Tara. Find her.’

  As though the sudden exertion had exhausted her, she flopped back on the pillow, her words coming out on a wheezy breath. ‘And don’t take too long about it.’

  We were both quiet in the car on the way home. A visit to the hospice certainly made you think about how lucky you were. There were two undertakers’ cars in the car park as we left.

  Dylan was the first to speak. ‘I’ve asked Dad to come over for tea tonight.’

  I braked so sharply that Dylan reached out for the dashboard.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Dylan. What on earth did you do that for?’

  ‘I’ve not seen him since September and I’m going back to Newcastle first thing tomorrow.’

  I was flustered and turned on the wiper blades instead of the i
ndicators. ‘Well, can’t you go there?’

  He groaned. ‘Oh, God, no. Not with them two little . . .’ He searched for a word and settled on ‘devils’.

  ‘Last time I went there, Dad was late home and Susie had me reading them bedtime stories whilst she danced about in front of an exercise DVD. I’m not falling for that again. She says it’s my duty to bond with them as I’m their . . .’ he framed the next two words with air quotes, ‘big brother.’

  ‘Cheeky cow.’ My son and I have always been able to strengthen our bond with our mutual loathing of Susie.

  ‘Yes, so Dad’s coming to ours if that’s OK.’

  ‘As long as he’s coming alone,’ I relented.

  ‘Yes, he is, and I’ll cook.’

  My eyebrows shot up a bit but I managed not to scoff and I was proud of the enthusiasm I injected into my reply. ‘Great, we’ll swing by Waitrose on the way home.’

  Dylan cooked the student staple that is pasta and chicken but to be fair to him, he’d actually peeled and chopped a garlic clove and made a nice sauce with some crème fraiche and parmesan. He’d even sprinkled over some fresh coriander.

  ‘Mmm . . . this is actually alright, Dylan,’ said Ralph, with his mouth full. He took a swig of his red wine. ‘Better than anything Susie could rustle up. I’d say you’ve made quite a good fist of it.’

  I stared at Ralph over the table. He’d taken up the place he’d sat at for over twenty years. We all had and it felt completely natural. Why did you have to ruin everything, Ralph? I didn’t say that out loud of course. There was no need. He’d heard that question a million times and had never supplied a satisfactory answer.

  ‘I’ll come with you if you like,’ Ralph said.

  I blotted my mouth with my serviette. ‘I’m not with you, Ralph. Come with me where?’

  ‘To Spain obviously. I’ll come with you to Spain, help you look for Violet.’

  I flashed Dylan a look. A look which hopefully said something along the lines of ‘now see what you’ve done’.

  I hadn’t intended to tell Ralph about the letter and the locket but it was obvious that Dylan had kindly filled him in.

  ‘I don’t think that’s a very good idea, Ralph.’

  ‘Why not? I could drive you. You know what you’re like on those foreign roads.’

  He sneaked a glance at Dylan and they shared a laugh, no doubt remembering how I once drove into a ditch in France to avoid a car which I thought was on the wrong side of the road.

  ‘I’m not sure Susie would go for it, Ralph.’ Everything starts or ends with Susie one way or another.

  ‘You leave her to me, Tara. This is a family emergency.’ He grabbed my hand and then Dylan’s so we all joined up in an almost-complete circle. ‘And we are family.’

  I snatched my hand away. ‘We were a family once, Ralph, and sitting round the table holding hands like the Waltons does not mean we still are.’

  ‘Bit harsh, Mum,’ said Dylan. ‘Dad’s only trying to help.’

  I blew out my cheeks. ‘Well, I’m sorry, Ralph, but you can’t possibly think it’s a good idea.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I do. I wouldn’t have offered otherwise. You can’t go on your own. You don’t know what you’re going to find.’

  ‘Dad’s right, Mum. I can’t go with you so what choice do you have?’

  ‘Erm, I do have other friends, thank you.’

  Dylan widened his eyes. ‘Like who?’

  ‘Well, let me see, there’s Sharon from work, although there’s no chance we’d be able to take time off together, and then there’s Sandra but she now runs a B & B on the Isle of Bute. And of course, there’s Moira.’

  ‘Moira?’ Ralph interrupted. ‘Moira’s your cleaner, not your friend.’

  ‘For your information, she’s both. She was a massive support to me when you . . . you know . . .’ I faltered. I just couldn’t be bothered going into all that, especially with Dylan sitting here.

  I poured myself some more wine. ‘I’ve loads of friends I could ask but I wouldn’t want to put them out.’

  Ralph made a valid point though. I did not relish the thought of travelling to Spain alone but I wasn’t sure taking Ralph would be the better option. I tried to put him off. ‘I’ll be going as soon as possible. Maybe as early as next week.’

  ‘Suits me,’ said Ralph, flatly.

  That’s the beauty of owning your own business. It’s much easier to swan off at a moment’s notice. ‘Mmm . . .’ I mumbled. ‘I’ll think about it.’

  41

  Naturally, I relented. I booked two seats on a flight to Madrid for the next week and Ralph insisted on paying. The other upside was that Susie did not take this news at all well. I picked up my phone and dialled another number. The singing receptionist answered on the third ring. ‘Irwin Fortis, how may I help you?’ She was exceptionally chipper for a Monday morning.

  ‘Oh, hello. My name’s Tara Richards. May I speak to Jamie MacKenzie, please.’

  There was only a brief pause. ‘Erm, Jamie doesn’t work here anymore.’

  Well, there’s a surprise. ‘In that case can I speak to the person who has taken over his . . . erm,’ I searched for the correct word, ‘. . . caseload?’

  ‘One moment, please. I’ll put you through to Peter Fortis.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Blimey, I was getting the top man.

  A few seconds passed. ‘Peter Fortis speaking.’

  I introduced myself and explained briefly my dealings with Jamie, leaving out the degree of his ineptitude. I didn’t want to scupper whatever chance he might have had of getting a good reference. He had enough going against him as it was. ‘So, I was wondering if you could let me have the name of the private investigator who tracked me down.’

  I could hear him shuffling papers. ‘I’ll have to get back to you, I’m afraid. We’re still going through Jamie’s cases but it’s like trying to nail jelly to the ceiling, to be honest.’

  I felt a momentary pang of sympathy for poor Jamie. ‘Thank you, I’d appreciate that.’

  In the event it hadn’t taken Peter Fortis long to find out the name I needed and he’d phoned me back within the hour. Perhaps there was hope for Jamie after all. The next day I found myself heading to London again. It’s a good job my bosses at the medical centre are so understanding. Sharon and I job share our duties so as long as someone is manning reception then we can be quite flexible. I’d booked a seat in the quiet carriage, as I’m unable to tolerate other people jabbering away on their phones, especially as you can only hear one side of the conversation. It was therefore a little embarrassing when my usually dormant phone started to ring. I ferreted around in my bag and glanced at the ID. It was Tom. I bent my head and cupped my hand around my mouth. ‘Tom, I can’t talk right now, I’ll have to call you back.’ I ended the call with an apologetic smile at the frowning woman opposite. I was eager to know what he wanted, though, and briefly considered going to the loo and ringing him from there but it didn’t seem appropriate. I decided on a text instead.

  Sorry about that. I’m on my way to London. In quiet carriage with woman opposite giving me daggers. Call you when I get there.

  I deliberated for much longer than the situation warranted about ending it with an X or not. I decided against it.

  The office was at the end of a long corridor of identical offices. The top half of the door was plain frosted glass with the words ‘Scotty Hamilton, Private Investigator’ embossed in black-edged gold lettering. I knocked on the glass and when no reply was forthcoming I entered. The inside of the office was gloriously chaotic. Packing boxes and lever arch files covered the floor, the calendar on the wall was still showing August, even though it was 27 November, and the desk was totally obscured by used coffee mugs and towers of buff folders. Mr Hamilton wandered through from another room at the back, looking down at a file in his hands as he walked. He hadn’t seen me and I suddenly felt like an intruder. I didn’t wish to startle him so I scuffed my feet and quietly cleared
my throat.

  He looked up. ‘Aah, Mrs Richards, I presume?’

  A good start for anyone, especially a private investigator. He was younger than I’d imagined, younger than his shirt anyway, which was probably once white but appeared to have become acquainted with a rogue red sock during a boil wash. The buttons clung on determinedly against his pot belly.

  ‘Yes, I apologise for my tardiness, signal failure somewhere south of Milton Keynes. I hope you don’t mind me barging in, Mr Hamilton. There was no answer when I knocked.’

  He stuck out his hand. ‘Not at all. Please, call me Scotty.’ He indicated the chair opposite his cluttered desk. ‘Have a seat. Just turf Mr Muggles out of the way.’

  I hadn’t noticed a ginger tom curled up on the chair. Great, I’m allergic to cats and now my black trousers would no doubt be covered in a layer of orange fluff.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ Scotty said, even though it was my idea.

  He picked up a buff folder from the top of the pile. ‘Right, let’s have a look.’ ‘Violet Skye’ was written on the front and I held my breath as he flicked through some notes.

  ‘As I told you on the phone, this case was first given to my father, Scott Hamilton, Snr, thirty-seven years ago, in 1981.’ He produced a little chuckle. ‘Obviously, before my time. I only picked up the case when I was having a clear-out.’ He laughed again and swept his arm around the room. ‘You should have seen it before.’

  I laughed politely, willing him to get on with it.

  ‘The problem my father had, apart from the fact that the internet had yet to be invented, was that he was working with the wrong name. It seems he tried various avenues but was always met with a brick wall. The case was put onto the back burner in 1984 and then, when no further progress was made, it was archived in 1987.

  ‘Oh, I see, that’s unfortunate,’ I said, thinking of all those wasted years.

  Scotty held up a finger. ‘But, we never give up. When things are a bit slack, I review cold cases and I have to say that your mother’s case wasn’t just cold, it was frozen solid.’

  ‘Yes, quite. You mentioned a breakthrough on the phone.’

  He sat back in his chair and opened his palms. ‘It was all relatively easy in the end. I searched Google for Violet Skye and eventually it led me to this.’