Her Last Promise

by Kathryn Hughes

  ‘You could say that,’ said Tom, casting a nervous glance at me.

  Br Florian smiled and nodded slowly. ‘Erm . . . often, I . . . mmm . . . I think about this day. I think will I live to see it?’

  I leaned forward, my pulse quickening. ‘You mean . . . you’ve been expecting me?’

  ‘I pray many times for it.’

  ‘Did you know my mother?’

  ‘I did, si. It was not me that find her. That was Br Isidore.’

  ‘But you knew her? I mean, she was here for how long?’

  ‘They leave here in 1981.’

  ‘They?’ asked Tom. ‘Who’s they?’

  I jumped in before Br Florian could answer. ‘Violet and Br Isidore, they left here together?’

  I reached into my rucksack and pulled Br Isidore’s letter out of the front pocket. ‘This letter is dated 16 May, 1981. Br Isidore was about to take his solemn vows.’

  Br Florian steepled his fingers and rocked back in his chair, shaking his head gravely. ‘He could not do it. He left Monasterio de Justina after he return from England. And he take Violet with him.’

  My mouth opened and closed. So many words wanted to come tumbling out, but I wasn’t sure I could get them in the correct order.

  Tom came to my rescue. ‘Do you know where they went?’

  Br Florian opened his desk drawer and lifted out a battered Bible. I had never seen a Bible that had been thumbed through as much as this one evidently had. From between the yellowing pages, he pulled out an envelope. ‘This Bible, it belong to Br Isidore. He give to me before he left and I keep this in here to . . . erm . . .’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘So I know it is here.’ He began to slide the envelope across the desk but before it could reach me I’d already made out the single word written on the front, the copperplate script ornate and reverent. Just one word. My name, Tara.

  By the time we arrived back at the parador in the village, the sky was navy, one or two stars visible just above the horizon. Our cases had been taken to our room, just one room this time, with twin beds.

  ‘Is this OK?’ asked Tom. ‘It’s all they have.’

  ‘It’s perfect,’ I replied, unlacing my walking shoes and flopping down on the bed.

  I took out the note Br Isidore had left for me and read it again. Nothing profound, nothing sentimental this time, just facts. An address where he could be found should I ever pitch up at the monastery.

  Tom closed the shutters on the window. ‘We’re getting closer, Tara. I’ve got a good feeling about this.’

  I felt the same way but didn’t want to jinx it by voicing my optimism. ‘Let’s see what tomorrow brings.’ I patted the bed. ‘Come here.’

  He sat down next to me and I turned to face him. ‘In case I haven’t already said so, I’m glad you’re here with me. I can’t think of anybody else I would rather have by my side.’

  And just so he was in no doubt, I leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.

  53

  I slept fitfully that night. I could hear Tom in the next bed, snoring softly, nothing like Ralph’s pneumatic grunting. I actually found it quite soothing. I certainly had no desire to clamp a pillow over Tom’s face. The hours crawled by, my head full of memories I hadn’t allowed myself to think about for years. In the months after she vanished, I used to tell myself that by climbing into Larry’s car that fateful morning, she had chosen him over me. It made it easier to cope with her loss if I convinced myself that she hadn’t loved me enough, petulant fifteen-year-old that I was. For a short time, it worked. My grief and despair would be replaced by anger and a satisfying sense of karma. She’d abandoned her daughter and paid a heavy price. She’d got what she deserved by choosing a flaky, detestable man she barely knew over her own flesh and blood. Deep down though, I never believed this. My mum hadn’t chosen him or abandoned me. I’d insisted she went even though I knew she didn’t want to go without me. I’ve lost count of the number of times I wished I’d thrown a strop that morning, begged her not to leave me.

  Neither of us could sleep long and by six o’clock we were both dressed and ready to go. The address we had been given was only a short walk away, no more than half an hour. Turning up on Br Isidore’s doorstep after all these years was going to be shock enough, without dragging him out of bed. No, I’d waited this long. I could get through another few hours.

  More pastries at the panadería, more coffee (as if I wasn’t hyped up enough already), a walk around the half-asleep village, watching as the market stalls were laid out and covered with a rainbow of fruit and veg. Somehow, barely noticing, we managed to kill two hours. Tom held out the mink coat for me and I eased myself into it. I turned up the collar, the familiar smells from a lifetime ago almost reducing me to tears. ‘Let’s go,’ I sniffed.

  Br Isidore’s homestead began with a wooden five-bar gate, leading to a deeply rutted track. Either side were paddocks, horses dotted around, their breath visible in the cool morning air as they nibbled on the grass. With every step my pace slowed but my heart quickened.

  We could see the farmhouse with its low terracotta-coloured roof tiles and its window boxes, empty at this time of year but no doubt full of colour in the spring. It was rustic and quaint and all the things you might expect from a humble Spanish home in the middle of nowhere. There was a small garden to the left, the lawn there greener, as though it was tended to and not left for nature to take its course. At first, I thought there was a naked scarecrow standing guard but as we approached I could see it was a wooden cross with a small bush growing round the base. Obviously a grave. I shuddered as though someone had just walked over my own.

  Tom nodded towards the cross. ‘A grave,’ he said needlessly.

  I looked at him, not daring to voice my thoughts. Could it be my mother’s grave? Would she have really been buried out here on unconsecrated ground? Had she come to love this place so much, it was her dying wish? I couldn’t bear to think of her in the ground all alone, without other dead people for company.

  We drew level with the cross and leaned over the fence. A name had been written across it, the white paint somewhat flaky but still legible.

  ‘Diablo,’ read Tom. ‘Must be a dog or something.’

  I blew out my cheeks, annoyed that my imagination had got the better of me.

  The hinge on the gate made a shrill grating noise as Tom pushed it open just wide enough for us to squeeze through. A large hay barn stood on the left, the door ajar, a thin white cat displaying contortionist skills as it licked the tip of its hind leg.

  ‘There’s someone in the barn,’ whispered Tom.

  We stood and listened to the sound of metal clanking against metal, rhythmic and purposeful. Bang, bang, bang.

  The horse gave a slight flick of its head as it saw Tom and me in the doorway. The man leaning over the anvil had his back to us. It was hard to know where to begin without startling him. This didn’t look like a place that was used to casual visitors, especially at this hour.

  Tom did the old clearing his throat thing. ‘Ahem . . . excuse me.’

  The man turned around, a glowing red horseshoe clamped between some long pliers.

  ‘Si, puedo ayudarte?’

  ‘Erm . . . habla usted Ingles?’ asked Tom.

  He dipped the horseshoe into a vat of water, the steam rising and hissing in front of his face. ‘Yes, I speak English. Can I help?’

  ‘Well, the thing is . . .’ Tom began. ‘We . . .’

  I could stand it no longer and took a step forward, my voice stronger than I felt. ‘Are you Br Isidore?’ I held up the letter he’d written to me, as though I was a policeman with a warrant for his arrest.

  He looked from me to Tom and back again, his mouth a perfect ‘O’. He took off his hat and clutched it to his chest, leaning against the flanks of the horse to steady himself. He glanced at the letter, then stretched out his hand until it grazed my cheek. ‘Is it really you?’

  Incapable of speech, I pressed my lips together and no
dded.

  ‘Oh, Tara,’ he said, as he stepped forward and took hold of both my hands. ‘You are really her? You know Violet?’

  I fought to keep my voice steady. ‘Yes . . . yes, I do. She’s my mother.’

  54

  Br Isidore led us to the kitchen, all the while shaking his head, muttering something in Spanish that neither Tom nor I understood. I wasn’t exactly sure who he was talking to but we both nodded politely as he took off his scuffed leather apron and asked us to make ourselves comfortable at the table. I took off the mink and slipped it over the back of my chair. I’m not sure why but I was expecting an old man. He was no spring chicken obviously, but he was lean and muscular, his face lined but still handsome in a craggy sort of way.

  I clenched my teeth, holding back the one question I wanted to know the answer to, but hardly daring to ask it all the same. As Br Isidore pulled up a chair, I couldn’t keep it in one second longer. ‘Is my mother still alive?’

  Br Isidore smiled and nodded his head vigorously. ‘Si, si, she is. I cannot believe this. You are Violet’s daughter.’

  I slumped back in my chair as the breath left my body. Even though I was sitting down, I could feel my legs shaking and knew for certain they would be incapable of holding me up. ‘Where . . . where is she?’

  Br Isidore glanced at the clock over the fireplace. ‘Gone to town, she’ll be back in a while.’

  ‘Does she live here with you, Br Isidore?’ Tom asked.

  He nodded. ‘Violet, she is my wife and I haven’t used the name Br Isidore for thirty-seven years. My name is Leonardo Perez, but please call me Leo.’

  I had so many unanswered questions buzzing round my head that it was difficult to know where to begin. ‘I . . . I . . . what happened to her, why did she never come home?’ I flicked a tear off my cheek. ‘She had a daughter. Why did she never come back to me?’ In spite of myself, I could hear the anger creeping into my voice.

  Leo spoke softly and I wondered if this was a hangover from his days as a monk. ‘You received my letter, or else you would not be here, so let me tell you my story. It’s better you know the facts, I think, before your mother returns. Can you be patient, Tara? I promise to tell you everything.’

  ‘Thank you . . . um . . . Leo. I want to know. Please take your time.’

  He stood up, reached into a cupboard and pulled out three glasses and a bottle of brandy. My eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. We’d barely digested breakfast but who was I to judge?

  Leo poured out three glasses and took a swig of his own, wincing as the liquor hit the back of his throat. ‘I’ve been through this scenario so many times in my head and now that it is here I hardly know where to begin.’ His English was more than passable, although he tended to elongate all the ‘i’ sounds, eet instead of it, and he definitely had a problem with ‘th’. Still, it was better than our Spanish.

  ‘We’re in no rush,’ offered Tom.

  ‘Thank you.’ Leo drained his glass and refilled it. He gestured around the kitchen with his arm. ‘This is my family home. I was born here in 1953 and my mama and papa, we had a holiday business. People came from all around Europe, especially England. I had to learn the language, I took extra lessons. Our economy was failing under Franco and so he reluctantly encouraged tourism to boost the growth. Our business, it was successful.’ He gave a small laugh. ‘We were never going to be, how you say, millionaires . . . but it was good.’ He paused and stared into his drink. ‘I was almost seventeen years old when my younger brother Mateo was born. The name means Gift from God. My mama and papa adored him and for me he was my little camarada, my best friend. I called him Little One.’

  Leo pushed his fingers into his hair. ‘Forgive me, this is difficult to talk about but it is where the story begins. It was the spring of 1978, the year I would turn twenty-five. Mateo was seven, soon to be eight. On the night it happened, I had been drinking.’ He glanced at the bottle of brandy on the breakfast table. ‘Not a lot, one or two beers, that is all. There was an argument between me and my fiancée, Gabriela. It was early evening, the sun was still up and Mateo was out in the garden with the butterfly net I had made for him. He saw me come out of the house and called over to me, Leo, look what I’ve got. I could see by the flash of colour he had caught a Mazarine blue but I ignored him and got into the car. I saw his little face in the mirror but I didn’t stop. I slammed the car into gear and jammed my foot on the accelerator.’

  Leo pushed his chair back and reached for a framed photo on the mantelpiece. A little boy, grinning at the camera, his dark eyes shining from beneath long lashes, a front tooth missing. Leo ran his thumb over the image before continuing. ‘In that moment of anger, I made a terrible mistake, one that will haunt me to my dying day.’ He looked up at Tom and me, his voice wavering. ‘I put the car into reverse.’

  I gasped and clapped my hand over my mouth. Leo’s obvious distress was hard to witness. We were complete strangers to him and yet here he was, allowing us access to his innermost demons. My hand shook as I picked up my glass of brandy, suddenly realising why it was there and grateful for it too. I took a calming sip. ‘What happened, Leo?’

  He shook his head, as he stroked his fingers over the photo. ‘It’s the terrible screaming I remember most. Gabriela had followed me out of the house and seen it all. The car lurching backwards and smashing into my little brother. The screaming brought my mama and papa running from the rear garden but I could not move. It was like I was made of stone, my hands stuck to the steering wheel. The blood-chilling wail of pain my mama made when she saw the broken body of her cherished little boy, well . . . even today it wakes me from my sleep.’ He returned the photograph to the mantelpiece and stared out of the window, but even from the back I could tell how difficult it was for him to relate this tragic tale.

  ‘Mateo was declared dead at the hospital and a part of me died along with him. I vowed there and then that I would spend the rest of my life trying to atone for what I had done. I returned to the house to collect a few belongings. There wasn’t much, nothing mattered anymore. The butterfly net was still on the ground and when I picked it up I noticed the butterfly was trapped inside. I carefully opened up the net and set it free, following the flutter of its bright blue wings as it rose into the sky. Fly high, Little One, I whispered.’

  The tears were sliding down my cheeks as Leo turned around to face us. ‘The butterfly,’ I said.

  Leo nodded. ‘That’s right.’

  I picked up Br Isidore’s letter, reading again how the Mazarine blue had landed nearby and led him along the path to where Violet was lying. Serendipity surely, rather than intervention from beyond the grave, but now wasn’t the time to say so.

  ‘Can I look at that again?’ Leo held out his hand and I passed him the letter he had written thirty-seven years ago.

  ‘I did not know what else to do. Violet could not remember where she was from and what memories she did have were all bad ones. She was insistent that she did not want to return to England but I knew that someone was missing her.’

  I opened the box and took out the locket. ‘Because of this?’

  ‘Exactly. I always hoped that you would be traced and given the key to the safe deposit box but after so many years, I admit I had given up on the hope.’

  ‘Mum’s name is Violet Dobbs, not Violet Skye. That’s why it took so long.’

  Leo sat down in the chair. ‘Really, is that so? I’ve never heard that name before.’

  Tom leaned in and asked the question that was in my mind but wouldn’t quite reach my lips. ‘What can Violet remember exactly?’

  Leo lowered his voice, his fingers curling into fists. ‘Bad things, Tom. Bad things. Her step-father, he abused her. At fourteen years old she ran away. After that, she remembers nothing.’ He rubbed the side of his head. ‘Here, she had a bad injury, I think.’

  ‘It’s true,’ I added solemnly. ‘Her step-father did abuse her and it resulted in a pregnancy.’

  Leo
looked directly at me, the realisation evident in his bewildered face. ‘You?’

  ‘I’ve only just found this out myself. From Nan, my grandmother. And for the record,’ I added, a little too harshly, ‘Nan had no idea.’

  Leo held his head in his hands. ‘Tragedies, everywhere.’

  ‘Did Violet know you had travelled to England in search of her past?’ Tom asked.

  ‘No, I did not tell her, ever. She always insisted that the necklace did not belong to her. She did not know the name, Tara. And as I said, her only memories, they were bad ones.’ He stabbed at the table with his finger to emphasise his point. ‘Very bad ones.’

  I looked at Leo’s letter again, scanning down to the end. ‘So, let me see if I’ve got this right. You went to London in 1981 because you were going to take your solemn vows and it was your last chance to find out where Violet had come from but you didn’t tell her what you were doing?’

  ‘That’s right. I don’t know why all she could remember was the bad things. She can’t remember having a daughter, I know that.’

  ‘Ribot’s Law,’ said Tom.

  Leo frowned. ‘Who?’

  ‘It happens in cases of retrograde amnesia. More recent memories are destroyed before older ones. It can happen after a traumatic brain injury. I read about this woman in America who fell over in a supermarket, slipped on a rogue tomato, she did. She suffered a brain injury and lost twenty years of her life. She can’t even remember giving birth and she has three children.’ He shrugged his shoulders, almost apologetically. ‘I’ve been doing some research.’

  ‘Thanks, Tom.’ I looked at Br Isidore. It was difficult to think of him as anything else. Ever since I had received his letter I’d had this image of a bald man, with a ring of hair just above his ears, wearing a long brown robe tied with a length of rope.

  ‘Br Isidore,’ I began. ‘Sorry, I mean Leo. You didn’t take your solemn vows though?’

  ‘I couldn’t do it, Tara. Violet had been at the monasterio three years by that time. We had grown close. I loved her in a way it was not permitted for a monk to love someone, if you know what I mean by this.’ A flush of embarrassment coloured his olive skin. ‘I was looking to God to forgive me, to save me, but Violet was the one to do it. She made me realise that I needed to forgive myself. Mateo’s death was a tragic accident.’