Her Last Promise

by Kathryn Hughes

  Tom shrank back into his seat. ‘Abuse from George?’

  ‘Her own step-father. Nan told me on her deathbed that George is my father, although Nan had no idea at the time.’

  ‘God, how awful, Tara.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  The wine had mellowed me somewhat and I didn’t feel like dwelling on the subject. ‘Can we not talk about it just now? Tell me more about this amnesia thing.’

  Tom nodded. ‘If you’re sure.’ He consulted his notes again. ‘There’s something called Ribot’s Law.’

  ‘What on earth is that?’

  ‘Ribot’s Law targets the most recent memories first.’ He rubbed his temple. ‘You see, the neural pathways of newer memories are destroyed before older memories because the older memories have been strengthened by years of retrieval. So, in this scenario it is typical for people to lose decades’ worth of memories from before the injury yet hang on to memories from childhood and adolescence.’

  ‘Sounds grim.’ I couldn’t bear to think that my mother had only been left with such terrible memories. ‘How could she function though, not being able to remember anything?’

  ‘Retrograde amnesia is about forgetting events rather than facts, episodic memory it’s called. However, sufferers retain semantic memory and are still able to make new memories.’

  My head was spinning with it all and I held my glass out, even though I knew it wasn’t going to help. ‘I need more wine, Tom.’

  He returned with the bottle and, after filling my glass, set it down in the hearth before continuing. ‘Semantic memory refers to facts, general word knowledge, how to talk and what have you.’

  He noticed my puzzled expression. ‘I’ll try to explain. Semantic memory contains information on what a rabbit is, for example. Episodic memory might contain information of a particular rabbit, meaning if you and Violet had had a rabbit, then she wouldn’t be able to remember it, but she would still know what a rabbit is.’

  In spite of the wine I began to realise the implications. ‘And she’d understand the concept of a daughter but wouldn’t remember she had one.’

  Tom leaned back and slapped his thigh. ‘Exactly! You’ve got it.’

  I could feel the tears begin to build but knew I could not afford to let them escape. Once that particular dam burst there was no telling when it would stop. ‘Are you still up for coming with me? To Spain, I mean.’

  He raised his glass. ‘Try stopping me.’

  If I could have I would have jumped on a plane there and then. ‘When can you go?’

  He pulled out his phone and opened up his calendar. He scrolled away, blowing out his cheeks and giving an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

  ‘I can go alone if it’s difficult, Tom.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Tara. I’m going with you and that’s that. Beginning of Feb OK?’

  I was hoping to go sooner, but didn’t relish the thought of going alone. I’d waited forty years, what was another few weeks? ‘Yes, that’d be great, Tom, if you’re sure.’

  ‘Absolutely. I’m away with the girls first week of January and then there’s a couple of work things I’ll have to move around, but yes, I’m sure, beginning of Feb will be fine.’

  Christmas came and went exactly as I had expected. Despite Ralph trying to muscle in on my plans, the day passed quietly and without fuss. I relented and bought Dylan a stocking which he was delighted with, even though it was full of novelty stuff which would probably never see the light of day again. After lunch, we played Brag and toasted Nan with a couple of Snowballs. It was her favourite Christmas tipple and she would scoop round the glass with her finger, ensuring that she didn’t waste a single drop.

  New Year’s Eve was a different kettle of fish. I’ve always hated it at the best of times, but losing Nan and the prospect of finding my mother again had put me in a reflective mood which ensured I was not particularly good company. Naturally, Dylan had a party to go to and off he went with my blessing. No way was I going to project my misery onto him. I was planning on having an early night, oblivious to the vacuous frivolities of this most tiresome of celebrations.

  My phone buzzed and a text message from Tom flashed up.

  Happy New Year! Fingers crossed it’s a good ’un. What are you up to?

  Damn. Although I hate New Year’s Eve, what’s even worse is admitting it and then having to confess I’ve nowhere to go. Why is there always so much pressure to say you’re doing something exciting? I decided to stay true to myself and tapped out my reply.

  Nothing much. Quiet night in.

  His reply was instant.

  I’m on my way! Xx

  And just like that, my spirits lifted.

  48

  2019

  Everything was laid out on the spare bed ready to be put into the suitcase. I’m usually a meticulous planner when it comes to travelling but I’d made the wholly incorrect assumption that it would be hot in Spain, even in February. Tom had put me right, pointing out that due to the elevation of San Sedeza, the average daytime temperature would be around thirty-five degrees Fahrenheit. It was actually forecast to be warmer in Manchester.

  I took the mink coat out of the wardrobe and squashed it to my face. Despite the passage of time, it still smelled of Alf’s hardware shop but instead of provoking the usual tears, this time my heart swelled with hope that I might just be able to give it to my mother at last.

  I heard a tapping on the back door and frowned. Nobody used that entrance except for me and Dylan. I opened the bedroom window and looked down. As soon as I saw the familiar shape, I thought about pretending to be out. Bloody Ralph. Who the hell did he think he was?

  He knocked again, more loudly, this time shouting my name as well. ‘Tara, I know you’re in there. Your car’s in the drive and you never walk anywhere. Let me in. It’s urgent.’

  I ran downstairs, convinced something had happened to Dylan. I opened the door a crack. ‘Is it Dylan?’

  He frowned as though he had forgotten who Dylan was. ‘No, let me in.’

  I put my weight behind the door. ‘Why, what do you want?’

  ‘I can’t talk out here on the step.’ He cast a glance over the fence. ‘You know what Nosy Nellie next door’s like.’

  ‘Whisper it then, because you are not coming in.’ I impressed myself with my forceful stance.

  ‘I’ve got nowhere else to go.’

  Oh God, no.

  I opened the door a fraction more and noticed a pull-along suitcase by his side. ‘Don’t tell me Susie’s thrown you out.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, she hasn’t.’

  Thank Christ for that. My shoulders slumped with relief. ‘Well can you get to the point then because I’ve got a lot to do. I’m going away tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ve left her, Tara.’ He managed a small smile and held his arm out wide. ‘I’m back.’

  In that moment I fully understood the expression lost for words. My brain could not come up with anything coherent enough to convey my utter disbelief at this incredible turn of events. I wanted to laugh, cry, slam the door in his stupid face, anything to block out the absurdity of his words.

  ‘I . . . I . . . I mean . . . what?’

  He put his foot over the threshold. ‘It’s cold out here, Tara, let me in.’

  ‘Good one, Ralph. Now bugger off. You’re on your own.’

  ‘I’ve told you, I’ve nowhere to go.’

  His pathetic tone annoyed me further. ‘There’s a Travelodge down the road, or you could go and sleep on that fancy couch in your office. I’m sure Mrs Blue Rinse will fetch your breakfast.’ Breathing hard, but proud of myself, I slammed the door.

  He pressed his face up against the glass. ‘I’m still Dylan’s dad, you know.’

  I closed my eyes as I counted to ten, my fist covering my mouth. Then I could hold it in no more. ‘You, you are not fit to be anybody’s dad. It’s a pity you didn’t think about your paternal responsibilities when you were shagging Susi
e, or Anita, or Ruth or whatever the others were called. Don’t make me laugh, Ralph, you are a pathetic excuse for a father and my only regret is I’ve lumbered Dylan with such a sorry waste of space. You make me sick, now go away and don’t come back.’

  I ran upstairs and threw myself on my bed, burying my face in the pillow to muffle my frustrated screams. I wasn’t upset, there were no tears, just an immense rage that I had to unleash. I balled my fists and let my pillow have it.

  49

  The next morning I was much calmer, the only hangover from the day before being a sore throat. It was all out of my system though. I couldn’t imagine why I had clung on to my marital status for so long. I was kidding nobody, least of all myself. I was going to be a divorcee and move on with my life. And it felt good.

  Now I was free to focus on the search for my mother. I’d sorted through all my old photographs; the few that my mother and I had, some from school and some from Nan’s collection from Lytham. The early photos were really hard to look through. The three of them, Nan, George and Mum when she was little. In one of them George has her on his shoulders, her chubby little legs wrapped round his ears. She’s eating an ice cream cone which is smudged all over her mouth, but she’s laughing and so is George as he holds onto her ankles. It actually made me feel physically sick to look at him, knowing what was to come, knowing that he was my father. I selected a few good pictures of Mum and Nan together in Lytham. I obviously wasn’t taking any of him to Spain with me. There was a lovely one of me, Mum and Alf, standing outside his shop, arms around each other, squinting into the sunshine. Along with the photos, I had packed the locket and Br Isidore’s letter, plus the article from the Evening News which Scotty Hamilton had kindly given to me. And of course, the mink coat. If we did find my mother, then these things could just be the key to unlocking her memory.

  Tom turned out to be a most delightful travelling companion. Perhaps he was trying too hard, but unlike Ralph he didn’t just plug himself into his iPhone during the flight and order one too many gin and tonics. Tom talked to me and more importantly listened to me. I told him I’d asked Ralph for a divorce and how liberating it felt. We talked about his late wife, Penny, and about his girls and I told him more about our Dylan. We chatted about the days ahead and how I would feel if my search proved to be fruitless. A question I was unable to answer.

  Tom had already sorted out a rental car which we collected at Madrid airport and had mapped out a route to Segovia, where we were to spend the first night. All I had to do was sit back and admire the scenery, reflecting on the fact that I might just be on the same soil as my mother for the first time in over forty years.

  Our hotel, situated just off the main plaza, was perfect for a romantic weekend which of course this wasn’t. I could hardly forget the real purpose of our visit.

  Tom held the door open for me. ‘After you.’ He took my case and followed me inside.

  ‘Buena noches,’ greeted the young man at reception. ‘Is Mr Marshall and Mrs Richards, si?’

  ‘Si.’ Tom nodded. ‘We have a reservation for two rooms.’

  I surprised myself at the disappointment I felt in that moment.

  After checking in, Tom carried my case up the winding staircase and handed me the key to my room. Not a key card, but a satisfying chunky brass key, that weighed the same as a house brick.

  ‘Next door to each other,’ he smiled. ‘Shall we just freshen up and meet downstairs, then we can grab a quick drink before we head out to dinner?’

  ‘Sounds good, say half an hour?’

  ‘Perfect,’ he replied before disappearing into his room.

  I heaved my case onto the bed and opened it up, frantically scrabbling round for my toilet bag. I looked at myself in the dressing table mirror and came to the conclusion that half an hour was not nearly long enough.

  Somehow, I managed it though. A quick shower, a fresh coat of foundation, some lipstick and a trusty clip to pin up my flat hair. I came out of my room on a cloud of hairspray just as Tom was locking his door. He looked me up and down. ‘You always did scrub up well.’

  We ate at a restaurant on the lively Plaza Mayor. Even though it was gone ten, the square was buzzing with life. Entwined courting couples sat sipping their foaming glasses of beer, huddled under rugs to ward off the descending chill. Little kids played on the bandstand in the middle, oblivious to the dropping temperatures as they tore up and down the steps, the illuminated Gothic cathedral providing a stunning backdrop. It was a ‘happening’ place as our Dylan would say. Everybody seemed to stay up late in Spain and this was way past my usual bedtime but sleep was the last thing on my mind.

  The waiter delivered our seafood paella in a pan the size of a satellite dish. Tom moved his reading glasses and mobile phone out of the way to accommodate it. The phone vibrated in his hand and he took a cursory look at the screen before biting his bottom lip and switching it off.

  ‘Who was that?’ It was none of my business but I couldn’t help myself.

  Evidently though he felt the need to explain. ‘It’s just this . . . um . . . woman I’ve been talking to.’

  I sat up a little straighter but tried to sound casual. ‘Talking to . . . you mean like a counsellor or something?’

  ‘Good God, no.’ He took a sip of his drink, obviously stalling for time. ‘Talking to as in . . . you know, trying to arrange a meeting.’

  ‘A meeting?’

  He laughed. ‘Bloody hell, Tara, do I have to spell it out?’ He speared a prawn with his fork.

  I shook my head. ‘Yes, I think you do.’

  The waiter appeared and topped up our glasses, respectfully nodding as he stood with one hand behind his back. ‘The paella is good?’

  ‘Si,’ Tom answered. ‘Si, es bueno.’

  ‘I didn’t know you spoke Spanish,’ I said when the waiter had gone.

  ‘I wouldn’t say that I spoke Spanish but it’s nice to try and have a go. I think they appreciate the effort, don’t you?’

  I thought about Ralph, the absolute epitome of the idiot abroad. If somebody didn’t understand what he was saying, he just spoke louder and introduced all kinds of ludicrous actions. I remember once we were in a particularly rural part of Greece and he wanted milk for his coffee. The perplexed waiter could only watch open-mouthed as Ralph mimed milking a cow.

  I shook my head to clear the memory. Soon Ralph would be history. ‘Anyway, this meeting?’

  Tom looked as though he’d hoped I’d forgotten. ‘Oh . . . that . . . . well, after Penny died, I honestly thought I wouldn’t find anybody else. In fact, I didn’t want anyone. I know it sounds soppy and a cliché but she really was my soul-mate. Nobody could measure up to her, so what was the point in even trying?’

  I swallowed hard, wishing I hadn’t probed. ‘Well, yes, obviously and she was the mother of your girls.’

  ‘Exactly! How could anybody even come close?’

  I ran my finger around my glass, producing an irritating whine which at least helped to fill the awkward silence.

  ‘But . . .’ continued Tom. ‘Two years is a long time to be on your own, so I . . . joined an online dating website . . . with the girls’ blessing of course.’

  ‘Oh, OK . . . but . . .’ I couldn’t imagine anybody like him needing the services of a matchmaking website. He was the most popular lad in school and the best-looking by far. I could never understand what he saw in me. ‘And, erm . . . this . . . woman. You’ve met her?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not in person. She lives about thirty miles from me. We’ve emailed and spoken on the phone a few times, Skyped once. It’s just a case of getting our diaries together and seeing if we can make it work.’

  ‘What’s she called?’

  ‘Geraldine . . . or Gerry, as she prefers.’

  ‘So, it’d be Tom and Gerry then?’

  He spluttered on his drink, laughing. ‘I’d never thought about that.’ He shook his head. ‘Trust you.’

  Not for the first time i
n my life, I was insanely jealous of another woman who had Tom’s attention. I closed my eyes and thought about our first date to the ice rink when he’d danced with his cousin and I’d accused him of fancying her. I was mortified back then and I was determined I wouldn’t make the same mistake again so I bit my tongue. ‘That’s nice,’ was all I could manage.

  He gave a slight shrug and held my gaze. ‘Well, I don’t think I’ll be following it up now.’

  The awkward silence was back. ‘So, tell me more about your company. What is it you make again?’

  ‘Valves.’

  ‘Valves?’

  ‘Yes. Ball valves, needle valves, double block and bleed valves.’ He noticed my puzzled expression. ‘For the oil, gas and petrochemical industries.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ I shovelled in a forkful of rice.

  He laughed. ‘It’s usually a conversation stopper but I enjoy it. It’s a good business and has provided me with a comfortable life style. I can afford to take a bit of a back seat. Get someone in to take care of the day-to-day things. Hence the reason I can afford to go away whenever necessary.’

  ‘That’s lucky for me then.’

  He prised a stubborn mussel out of its shell and popped it into his mouth, followed by a good slug of wine. He looked at me from under his eyelashes, the whites of his eyes contrasting with his tanned skin. A grain of rice had stuck to his chin and I wanted to lean forward and wipe it away with my napkin but the gesture seemed too intimate. All of a sudden, I felt ridiculously nervous. I couldn’t think of anything to say about valves, so I changed the subject. ‘How was your holiday with the girls? Caribbean, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Turks and Caicos. It was perfect. So nice to spend time with them.’

  ‘And how lovely that they still want to go on holiday with their father.’

  ‘Ha, as long as I’m paying, they’ll go anywhere with me.’

  ‘Hmm . . . our Dylan’s the same. Bless ’em, eh?’

  It was gone midnight by the time we walked back to our hotel.