Her Last Promise

by Kathryn Hughes

‘A nurse from St Jude’s. She knows I’m away so it must be important.’ I thumped Ralph on the arm. ‘I told you I needed to answer it. Now look what you’ve done.’

  I drummed my fingers on the table as I returned the call and waited for Charlotte to answer. When she did, she got straight to the point. With my eyes closed, I listened intently. There was no need for me to say anything. After I hung up, I turned to Ralph. ‘I need to go home.’

  He held up his smartphone, already one step ahead of me. ‘There’s a flight at nine-thirty this evening. Two hours forty, so with the time difference it’ll get you back to Manchester at ten past eleven, but there’s only one seat left. There’s nothing before that.’

  I pulled the dressing gown across my chest and headed for the bathroom. ‘Book me that seat, please, Ralph.’

  44

  It was just gone midnight by the time I arrived at St Jude’s. Charlotte was waiting for me in reception, a limp smile on her lips. She took both of my hands in hers. ‘I’m so sorry, Tara.’

  ‘I’m not too late, am I?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, Beryl’s comfortable and not in any pain but her breathing is laboured, very shallow.’

  ‘You did the right thing in calling me. Can I see her now?’

  ‘Yes.’ She hesitated. ‘But before you go in you should know that . . . um . . . Beryl’s . . . confused. It often happens right at the very end, so don’t take it personally if she doesn’t recognise you.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, Charlotte. Of course, she’ll recognise me.’

  Nan’s room was warm and dark, the only light coming from a lamp in the corner. I crept up to the bed and took hold of her hand. It felt ice-cold and for one dreadful second I thought she’d already left me but then I saw her chest rise ever so slightly.

  ‘I’ll bring in a pillow for you, Tara,’ said Charlotte. ‘And a nice cup of hot chocolate.’

  I nodded my thanks then lowered my face to the bed, resting my forehead on Nan’s hand. I couldn’t bear to think of my life without her in it. Everything that I am today is because of her. I could not have asked for a better substitute for a mother. I think she felt she failed with Violet so seized on the chance to get it right the second time with me. Devastated as I was at the thought of losing her, I was also crushed that I hadn’t been able to find Violet in time.

  Charlotte came back in with the hot chocolate and a pillow. ‘How is she?’

  ‘Still with us.’

  Charlotte picked up Nan’s wrist and checked her pulse. ‘It’s very weak.’

  Nan stirred then and moved onto her back. She opened her eyes and tried to focus. ‘Where’s George?’

  My scalp prickled. ‘George isn’t here, Nan. He’s gone, remember?’

  Nan swivelled her head towards me. ‘Violet, is that you? Oh, love . . . you came back.’ All of a sudden she sounded younger and more animated than I’d heard her in a while.

  ‘No . . .’ I began, but Charlotte touched my arm and shook her head.

  I understood what she meant, and my vision was instantly blurred by tears. I couldn’t speak and my throat closed. Charlotte backed out of the room. ‘Call me if you need anything.’

  ‘Oh, Violet,’ Nan continued. ‘I’ve waited a long time for this day. I’m so sorry I let you down but believe me when I say I had no idea what George had done to you.’ She stopped and took a few laboured gasps. ‘For years, I never knew. Never suspected a thing. I just thought you were a stubborn lass who wanted to make it on her own. George told me the truth on his deathbed. Said he needed to get something off his chest so he could apologise and ensure his safe passage to heaven where God would forgive him.’ She clutched at the bedsheet. ‘And it’s a bloody good job the coward did die, because I would’ve clamped a pillow over his miserable lying face and finished the job off myself.’

  I covered my mouth with my hand. I could already feel the bile stinging as the awful truth began to develop like a photograph under water.

  Nan fell silent for so long that I thought she’d drifted off to sleep, or worse. Then she started again, her voice quiet, almost a whisper. ‘I don’t blame you, Violet, but you should have told me George was the father of your baby. I would’ve believed you, you know. I would’ve kicked that bastard out and me and you could’ve brought up the baby together. You know I would’ve supported you, don’t you?’ She lifted her eyes and looked at me. I was incapable of speaking, so I nodded and gripped her hand tighter in reply. ‘I’ve missed you so much, Violet,’ she continued. ‘Not a day has gone by when I haven’t looked out of the window, hoping to see you coming down the street, coming home where you belong.’ She managed a little laugh. ‘But you did come back. I knew in my heart you would. Now I’ve made my peace with you, I can slip away. Thank you for giving me the chance to apologise. You’ve no idea what . . .’ Nan stopped and winced in pain and I stroked the back of her hand with my thumb. ‘You’ve no idea what this means to me. I love you, Violet. I want you to know that. I never stopped loving you.’

  She closed her eyes and felt silent. There was no point in me saying anything then. It had all been said.

  It was about another hour before Nan breathed her last. In death, her face slackened and she looked serene, beautiful even. She was the epitome of somebody who had died peacefully in their sleep. Charlotte came back in with her eyebrows raised, questioning if everything was alright. I stood and caressed my palm over Nan’s forehead and down over her eyes, closing them for the last time. ‘She’s gone, Charlotte.’

  She picked up Nan’s wrist, then after a few seconds she placed it gently down on the covers. ‘I’m so sorry, Tara.’ She pulled the sheet up towards Nan’s face, but I stopped her.

  ‘Not yet. I want to look at her for a while.’

  I couldn’t have held back the sobs even if I’d wanted to. ‘I feel terrible lying to her on her death bed.’ My words came out on shuddering breaths, like a hysterical toddler who’d been crying for too long.

  Charlotte was firm but gentle. ‘You didn’t lie to her, Tara. You did the kindest thing possible. You gave her permission to pass on knowing Violet had come back to her. You gave her the greatest gift of all. You gave her peace, so try not to beat yourself up about it.’ She squeezed my shoulder firmly. ‘I’ll be back in a little while.’

  To say my emotions were in turmoil would be a gross understatement. Even though it was inevitable, Nan’s death devasted me, but together with the revelation that George was my father, it was just too much to take in. My poor mother had been molested by her own step-father and had then spent her life protecting both me and Nan from the truth.

  The stabbing pain in my chest confirmed my heart was broken. If you could have opened me up and prised my ribs apart, I swear you would’ve seen a crack right down the middle. My cherished Nan had gone and I had no idea what I was going to do without her.

  45

  1978

  Violet crouched down in the sweltering heat, her fingers teasing out the stubborn weeds which had invaded the vegetable patch. Having no wardrobe of her own, she was dressed simply in a makeshift dress that one of the more talented monks had run up for her from an old habit. Still, the cloth was too thick and scratchy for the blistering August temperature. She’d been at Monasterio de Justina for almost two months and it was beginning to feel like home. Perched on a horseshoe bend in the Rio Duraton, protected on three sides by staggering limestone cliffs and guarded from above by the ever-circling peregrine falcons and griffon vultures, it was a place of safety that she’d never truly had before. She thought about her mother, that shadowy figure who was just beyond the reaches of her consciousness, and unexpectedly her throat thickened and she was forced to swallow several times to quell the tears. She stood up as she heard Br Isidore calling to her from across the walled vegetable garden. He was carrying a tray of homemade lemonade, which on a day like today tasted like nectar. She took a glass and downed the contents in one. ‘Thank you, Br Isidore, I needed that.’

 
He looked at the vegetable beds, the soil weed-free and turned over. ‘You must be tired, Violet. Come, have a rest over here in the shade.’

  He led her to the wooden bench under the shelter of a pistachio tree. ‘I need to work, Br Isidore. I need to pay my way. You and the others have been so kind to me, so patient.’ She smiled. ‘Even Br Florian.’

  He took a sip of his own drink before turning to her. ‘It is our pleasure, Violet.’ He hesitated before continuing in what was obviously a forced casual tone. ‘Um . . . have you thought about when you’ll be ready to return?’

  ‘To England?’

  ‘You say that’s where you’re from, no?’

  She closed her eyes, willing the details to come. ‘I think so. I speak the language, so it would make sense. Everything’s just so sketchy and blurred. It’s like I’m looking through a steamed-up window. If only I could take my sleeve and wipe away the mist then everything would be so much clearer.’

  She reached up to a low-hanging branch and plucked off a cluster of pistachios, their rosy hulls still protecting the nuts inside.

  ‘They won’t be ready for another month or so.’

  ‘Oh, right, I didn’t know.’ She threw the bunch on the ground. There was so much she didn’t know. ‘Do you ever miss your home, Br Isidore?’

  It was so long before he spoke again that Violet was convinced he hadn’t heard her question. ‘I miss my Mama’s cooking, that is for sure.’

  ‘What about other family? Brothers and sisters?’

  He shook his head, his voice flat. ‘No brothers or sisters.’

  ‘What about girlfriends?’

  ‘No girlfriend either.’

  She held up her hand. ‘I’m sorry, Br Isidore, it’s none of my business. Forgive me, I shouldn’t interrogate you like that. It’s just that you’re . . .’

  ‘I’m what?’

  She stood to leave. ‘Nothing, ignore me. I need to press on. Thanks for the lemonade.’

  She had more to say, much more, but the time wasn’t right. A monk’s day was governed by the Liturgy of the Hours, the set of prayers which marked the canonical hours of each day. The bell would ring for Vespers shortly, followed by Compline, and only then would Br Isidore be able to retire for the night, observing the Great Silence until mass the following morning. Fortunately only unnecessary conversation was forbidden and what she had to say was crucial. She hadn’t been completely honest with Br Isidore. She had remembered something.

  He was kneeling at the side of his bunk when she peered through the small square window on his door. His hood was down to reveal his shaven head, the stubble darkening his scalp indicating that another shave was surely due. She hesitated before knocking, not wanting to disturb him during prayer. She wasn’t sure of the time, but the sun was low in the sky and she estimated it had about another hour to go before it dropped behind the hillside. She loved the balmy evenings out here in the mountains. Animals that had more sense than to venture out under the savage sun took advantage of the cooler temperatures and she’d witnessed pine martens, foxes and even wolves creep out from their hiding places. Even the annoying cicadas with their constant clicking and chirping made her smile.

  She watched Br Isidore get to his feet and go over to his washstand. He poured the water from a jug into a ceramic bowl, swirling the contents with his fingers. Using both hands, he sloshed the water over his face. She knew it would be stone cold by now. The only way they had of heating it was in a metal water butt which was left out in the sun all day.

  She tapped on the door as Br Isidore dried his face. ‘Si?’

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ she whispered. ‘I know you’re not supposed to talk but . . .’ stopping to glance behind, she took an uninvited step over the threshold and closed the door behind her, ‘. . . can you just listen?’

  ‘Violet, I will always have time to listen to you. What is it?’

  ‘May I?’ She indicated his bunk. ‘I don’t want to get you into any trouble.’

  ‘This is my private cell, Violet. What happens in here is my . . . my . . .’ He shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know this word.’

  ‘Your business?’

  ‘Si, exactamente.’

  He crossed over to the door and pulled the little hessian curtain across the window, before sitting down next to her on his bunk. ‘Now, tell me what is giving you concern.’

  ‘I . . . I’ve remembered something. Well, I don’t think I’d actually forgotten it but rather . . . suppressed it, I suppose.’

  He nodded his encouragement. ‘In your own time.’

  ‘I can remember my bedroom at home. The wallpaper . . . it was a pale blue and white and had big green ferns all over it.’ She closed her eyes and clasped her hands on her lap, her voice sounding like a clairvoyant describing a vision. ‘There was a single bed with a wooden headboard. On the wall above there was a painting of the Virgin Mary. There was a dressing table with a mirror, which had hinges so you could look at the back of your head if you wanted to. The bed had a crocheted rug on it, lots of brightly coloured squares stitched together and edged with a fringe. I used to sniff the fringe, let it tickle my nose and top lip. It brought me comfort after . . .’

  She stood up quickly and ran over to the bowl, retching into the water. Her neck was wet with perspiration, her face and neck flushed.

  ‘Violet?’

  She breathed in deeply through her nose and held her breath until the room began to spin. ‘I’m alright, Br Isidore.’ Wiping her face on the towel, she sat down again, her fingers fiddling with the hem of her dress. ‘The first time it happened, I could hear him out on the landing, shuffling and grunting like one of those wild boars out there. He waited until I’d turned out the light and then he opened the door, peeled back my covers and slipped into bed with me. There was hardly any room and he pressed his body up against mine, his rancid breath in my face, his rough hands under my nightie.’

  ‘Oh, Violet.’

  ‘Shush, I’m fine, I need to do this.

  ‘I was too shocked to scream and in any case my mother was out. He wasn’t that stupid. But I was paralysed with fear and confusion. I just couldn’t understand why he was doing this to me. Afterwards, I threatened to tell my mother but he said she wouldn’t believe me and if I did tell then Poppy would pay the consequences.’

  ‘Poppy?’

  ‘My . . . my little dog.’

  Br Isidore balled his fists.

  ‘I didn’t believe anybody could be that cruel and I told him I was going to tell my mother as soon as she got back from the bingo.’

  ‘Bingo?’

  ‘It’s a game . . . it’s not important. Anyway, he stormed out of the room and slammed the door. I just lay there hardly daring to move in case he came back. I was desperate to have a bath, to rid myself of his smell, the feel of his greasy hands on my skin and the stickiness between my thighs. I heard the back door slam shut and breathed a sigh of relief. He’d gone out somewhere, leaving me free to get myself cleaned up. I heard it then and my blood turned to ice. I hardly dared to look but at the second whimper I threw back the curtains. He was standing in the yard, his leather belt in his hands, Poppy tied up against the wall. Her little body trembled, her trusting eyes pleading with him to let her go. I couldn’t stand it for one second longer. I opened the window and begged him to leave her alone. He looked up, a manic grin on his face. “You know what not to do, Violet,” he said.’

  Br Isidore took her in his arms, rocking her gently as he smoothed her hair. ‘Es horripilante, Violet, absolutamente horripilante. Ese caballero he was your papa, no?’ In his rage his English had deserted him and she could feel him shaking beneath his robe.

  Violet nodded. ‘Well, step-father, but he was the only father I had. He’d brought me up as his own.’

  ‘You were just a niña. How old?’

  Violet screwed up her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘About eight, I think.’

  ‘And you never tell your ma
ma?’

  She brushed his arm away. ‘You make it sound as though it was my fault, Br Isidore. And that was what he made me think too.’

  ‘No . . . I’m sorry. It was not your fault, none of it. You were just a niña; he was supposed to be the caring adult. How did it end though, Violet? Did you tell your mama?’

  ‘No, I couldn’t. I was too afraid. He said she wouldn’t believe me, said he would hurt Poppy and I knew he was capable of that. He said even if my mum did believe me and called the police then he would be arrested and sent to prison and then we wouldn’t survive without his wage and I would have to go into care and . . . and . . . it would be all my fault.’

  ‘No, no, no, Violet. Don’t ever think that.’ He took her shoulders and made her look at him. ‘Listen to me. You were an innocent niña, you were the . . . how do you say . . . victima and the blame lies solely with him.’

  She carried on as though she hadn’t heard him. ‘Then one day I’d had enough. His night-time visits had become so regular that I was expecting them and if for any reason he didn’t come in to my room, then I worried that I’d upset him in some way and he was angry with me. I was scared what he would do next. Scared that it would be worse than what he was already doing to me.’ She covered her face with her hands, unable to witness the incredulity in Br Isidore’s eyes. ‘You see,’ she said eventually. ‘I’d become desensitised to it all. I’d got used to it . . . accepted it as normal behaviour.’ She stood up and crossed the room, peeling back the curtain from the small window in the door. ‘I knew there was a whole world out there that I was missing out on. I knew nobody else was going to help me to see it.’ She injected a note of defiance into her voice. ‘That’s when I decided to run away.’ She took a deep breath and tilted her chin upwards. ‘And that’s exactly what I did, Br Isidore. When I was fourteen, I ran away.’

  ‘Where do you go to, Violet?’

  She frowned at him, her expression disbelieving as she cast her arm about the room. ‘What do you mean, where to? Here, of course. I ran away to Spain.’