The Promise Seed

by Cass Moriarty

  My heart felt like it had forgotten to stop beating. I had to sit down. Pete asked me if I was OK and I said no, not really, and so he wanted to know what was wrong, was there anything he could do? And I said there was so much wrong that it could never be put right, and that I didn’t think he could help with that.

  He went on with his work, figured I was having a weird moment, I guess.

  In the end, I did ask him for help. I asked him could he find a picture of this Sarah Flower. He asked Sandra.

  Oh, her. Yeah, my friend Angie saw her live a few months ago. Isn’t she supporting up here on the AC/DC tour?

  Sandra was a wealth of information on almost any subject you could name.

  Pretty messed-up kid, from what I’ve heard. But whatever miseries she’s been through she’s channelled straight into her music, in the way that only true artistes do – she pronounced the word artistes with a French accent – and the result, apparently, is heaven. Pure heaven. They say you listen to her sing, boys, and either you think you’ve died and gone to heaven, or – she put her arms around both of us and smiled knowingly – or you drift off to sleep with her music in your ears and go to heaven in your dreams.

  I must admit, I was only half-listening to this patter. I tore out the page, made some feeble excuse and left.

  That first night I didn’t sleep a wink. I kept going over and over it in my mind, what I’d done, who I’d left behind. I could see Edith still, the last image I had of her, huddled on the couch, her mouth a tight, thin line. Mrs E, solid and unforgiving. Poor Old Joe, plain bewildered. And at the centre of it all, Sarah Emily.

  I’d done the wrong thing, obviously. Clearly. It struck me as incredible that I hadn’t properly realised that until this moment. I’d so successfully managed to pack away that part of my life and put it up high on a shelf – along with my baby sister – that I’d forgotten it was there at all. If some bloke told me that he’d done what I did then, I’d think he was a complete and utter bastard. No question. But somehow that person just didn’t seem to be me. I couldn’t connect that man and his actions with me and my current life. But after twenty-four hours of thoughts and regrets, I made a decision. I had to see Sarah again, and Edith too if I could, and set things to rights. I didn’t have the first idea how I was going to do that, but I was determined to try. Never too late, that’s what I kept telling myself. It’s never too late to fix things, never too late to say you’re sorry.

  ’Course, I know now that adages like that aren’t always true. Sometimes things can’t be fixed. Sometimes sorry does come too late.

  But that month I was full of hope. Full of ideas about how it was going to be. It sounds stupid but I came to believe that things would all work out. That I would get to meet her again. That she would see it in her heart to forgive what I saw as my momentary lapse of judgement all those years ago, a lapse that I had never got around to rectifying. I spent long hours on autopilot at work, daydreaming of her filling me in on her childhood, her aspirations, her hopes. Of her sharing those moments with me, sorry that I missed them. Introducing me to her musician friends, perhaps a boyfriend. And all the time, in these fantasies, I featured as a long-lost but beloved father. Talked about, mourned, wondered about. I saw a reunion, me being reinstated in her life almost as if the last twenty years hadn’t happened. The girl I had left behind had been a helpless baby. I relished the chance to get to know her as a creative, vibrant adult.

  I fantasised about this scenario so often, in fact, that it became almost real in my mind, even though it hadn’t happened. It was as if I was remembering the past, rather than envisaging a future event. It happened so neatly in my head, all planned out and perfect.

  The day drew closer until finally it arrived. It was a Friday. I took a sickie from work. I was sick in a way – I was so nervous that I expected butterflies to erupt from my mouth at any moment. I couldn’t eat. I was fully dressed and shaved, ready to go, at eight o’clock in the morning, even though I knew she wasn’t arriving until lunchtime. Pete had found that out for me. He still couldn’t work out why I was so interested in this girl, although he had his suspicions. Anyway, he’d managed to have a word to a bloke he knew working security at the venue, and this guy said he’d turn a blind eye if I arrived during the afternoon rehearsal. Must’ve owed Pete a favour.

  I caught a bus into the city and arrived at Festival Hall in the early afternoon. I must’ve spent an hour mooching about the side streets, trying to get up the courage to go in. Eventually I got worried that some copper eager for promotion might decide to do me for loitering, and I went round to the side door like Pete had instructed.

  His mate, Cuddy, was a burly fellow who could’ve done a few rounds of fisticuffs in the Hall when it was still a boxing arena. The top of his head was as bald as a snooker ball but he sported a bristly grey moustache and a trimmed beard. Tattoos covered his arms from his wrists to his elbows and disappeared into his shirtsleeves. I approached him about as confidently as if he was a cut snake. Cuddy, I said, and held out my hand in as manly a manner as I could muster. He glared at me like I was a piece of dog shit he’d found on his shoe. Never saw ya, he said by way of reply, but he edged a fraction away from the door and I took that as my cue to go in.

  I followed a dim corridor. From the depths of the building came the beat of a bass drum. I could hear someone fingering a tune on a piano. A sign saying Performers led down some stairs to another long corridor with four or five doors on both sides, mostly closed. A woman in high heels, holding a clipboard to her chest, tapped past me and went round a bend at the far end of the hallway. A cleaner trundled by with his bucket on wheels, whistling tunelessly and barely giving me a second glance. Meanwhile, I stood there like a stunned mullet, not sure what to do next. After a few minutes, the woman in the stilettos clattered past me again. Almost as an afterthought, she paused before ascending the stairs.

  Can I help you?

  Um, I’m looking for Sarah Flower. I’m her … I’m here to see …

  But the woman evidently wasn’t interested in my reason for being there. Third door down on the left, she said, and continued up the stairs.

  I straightened my shoulders and ran my fingers through my hair. I started to chew on the thumbnail on my left hand, but stopped when I tasted blood. I hadn’t felt so nervous in a long time. Reminded me of waiting outside Mr McCready’s office at the Home or when I used to stand opposite Edith’s lolly counter and pretend to read. Or – and I realised this with a pang – maybe not since I paced around the waiting room while Sarah was being born. I knew then that I had to do it. I had to go up there and knock on that door. So I did.

  It was opened a crack by a fellow who could only have been Cuddy’s brother.

  Yeah? he growled.

  I’m … I’m here to see Sarah … um, Miss Flower. I’m here to see Miss Flower.

  She’s busy. Piss off.

  He pushed the door closed, so I knocked again, louder this time.

  What?

  It was as if I’d awoken a bear in the midst of hibernation.

  Um … I really would like to see Miss Flower.

  Listen, pal, you’re beginning to irritate me now. Like I tol’ ya, Miss Flower is busy. How’d you get in here, anyway? He shoved his menacing square head forward and peered around the door. Who let you in? Fucking shit security.

  He attempted to close the door again but not before I got my hand around the doorjamb. Through the pain of my crushed fingers, I grimaced and said, Please, please let me see her. I’m her father.

  He seemed surprised then, and released his pressure on the door. I winced.

  Orright, pal, hold on a moment, yeah? He looked pointedly at my hand, which I removed, and then he closed the door. I could hear him speaking to someone.

  He opened the door again, and I caught a glimpse of the dressing room. There was a mirror running the full length of the
opposite wall, spotlights glaring along the top. A woman was seated on a stool with her back to me. She had thick chestnut hair that fell, curling, down her back.

  Cuddy’s brother stepped out from the room and shut the door firmly behind him.

  Piss off, pal.

  But … please … I’d like …

  This time his words were accompanied by a couple of rough shoves.

  Listen, fuck off quietly and we’ll forget about it, orright? Believe me, you don’t want to make me lose my temper.

  But … please … please just tell her … her father’s here to see her…

  He pointed his finger in my face. Miss Flower don’t have a father, orright? So piss off. I don’t know what your bloody caper is, but it ain’t gonna work. You’re not seeing her. Now go!

  Could you please tell her—

  He interrupted me. I did tell her, OK? I said there was some prick here who was either after an autograph or wanting to get into her knickers, I wasn’t sure which, but he said he was her father and he sure looked old enough to be her father, so I thought I’d better tell her. And she said she don’t have a father, she said her old man died when she was a kid. SO FUCK OFF!

  His words struck me as forcefully as a blow. I staggered backwards into the wall, and then my whole body crumpled, folded in on itself, and I found myself on the floor. I half-expected him to come at me, to lift me up with one of those hairy, meaty hands and manhandle me out of the building, but he didn’t. He just glared at me and closed the door again. This time I heard the click of a lock sliding home.

  I realise now how pathetic I was – that whole month of fantasising about some type of reunion, about thinking that somehow those twenty years wouldn’t matter, as if we could pick up where we left off.

  I still picture her sometimes, my daughter. Sarah Flower. I picture what I saw of her that day. A slim figure on a stool, a dark curtain of hair concealing her neck. One hand raised slightly, like maybe she was fixing her mascara. But not her face. Never her face. Although she was seated before a mirror, she was sitting dead-on straight to me, so all I could see was the view of her back. Sometimes I dream about her. In my dream, I’m always trying to manoeuvre myself into enough of an angle to catch a glimpse of her face in that mirror, or even her profile. But in my dream, my feet are rooted to the spot, and I never see anything but her back.

  It’s still a lovely image. Girl Seated at Mirror, that’s what a famous artist would title it. But I can’t deny I was mighty disappointed not to glimpse her face. My chance to gaze again into those baby-blue eyes was gone.

  28

  The boy was slouched under his desk as far as he could go without actually sliding to the floor. Almost horizontal. Every so often Ms Zibraugh turned around from the copious notes she was chalking on the board and peered at the class over the top of her purple spectacles.

  I sincerely hope you’re all getting this down.

  Yes, miss, they chanted in automatic unison.

  Because this will all be in next week’s test. Her stare rested on the boy until he straightened himself and made a show of finding his pencil.

  She turned away and he slid down again, resting his knee on the cool of the metal desk leg.

  His palms were sticky and hot. The few overhead fans did nothing to dissipate the fug of sweat and secret farts magnified by the September sun streaming through the windows. He glanced through the glass. A small green and blue budgerigar pecked at the grass seeds, in between raising its head in jerky, anxious movements. A shadow passed across the grass and the bird was gone in a flutter of wings. The boy searched the patch of visible sky but it was empty.

  A soft thud on the back of his head. A pig-shaped eraser rolled under his chair. Mitch, in the desk behind him, began to chant in a quiet, sing-song voice.

  Take off ze bra, baby … take off ze bra, baby …

  The boy glanced up at their teacher’s back, the flesh under her arms jiggling as she wrote. He repeated the taunt softly, his French accent honed through days of practice. Take off ze bra, baby …

  She swivelled abruptly, zeroing in on the boy with a withering glare.

  Would you care to share?

  No, miss.

  Oh, please do. You obviously find something extremely amusing. It would be cruel not to let the rest of us in on the joke. Her voice was cold and the room was silent. I’m sure I heard something about a bra. That’s a topic your tiny little brain finds funny, is it?

  No, miss.

  No? NO? She stamped towards his desk, picked up his ruler and brought it down with a smart slap on his open exercise book. The other students watched in silent awe. Her voice was shrill as she continued to scold him, her face furious, the ruler whacking hard and fast. His book began to slide off the desk. When he tried to catch it before it hit the floor, he felt the sting of ruler on skin. He retracted his hand and held it against his chest, a bruise already forming across his knuckles. Ms Zibraugh faltered for only a moment and then brought the ruler down hard on the desk once more.

  Perhaps you will consider the subject of your humour more carefully next time. Choose something more appropriate. Her soft-soled shoes squeaked a path back to the board.

  That’s bullshit, the boy murmured.

  I’m sorry? What did you say?

  Nothing, miss.

  WHAT DID YOU SAY?

  Twenty-four pairs of eyes swung between the teacher and the boy, as if at a tennis match.

  The boy was made bold by his anger. I said it’s bullshit. He sat upright in his chair. Refused to move his eyes from hers. It’s all bullshit. And you can’t hit me like that.

  She marched towards him once more and yanked at his collar.

  Get up! Get out! Go and see Mr Brady right now! I do not want to see your face in this class again today.

  The boy remained silent. He got to his feet, closed his book and headed for the door.

  All eyes downcast now, not wanting to meet his, not wanting to be the next target.

  …

  The deputy principal’s office was crammed with stuff – too-large chairs, a desk piled high with papers, framed certificates and awards on every wall, knickknacks and confiscated toys on the bookshelves. The boy perched on the edge of a floral armchair. Mr Brady sat behind his desk, swivelling back and forth, his arms crossed.

  This is the second time this week, kiddo. The … he consulted a desk diary … the eighth time already this term. Not a good end to the year, is it, mate?

  No, sir.

  Rather juvenile, don’t you think? Making fun of someone’s name like that?

  I am a juvenile.

  Arms uncrossed. Don’t try being a smart-aleck with me too now, you hear? The reprimand a cutting warning.

  Silence. Everything waiting for a response.

  The boy shifted in his seat, eyes on the floor, his hair hiding his face.

  Sorry, sir, he mumbled. At last, he raised his head and met Mr Brady’s direct gaze. Sorry, sir. For swearing. And for making fun of her name.

  The deputy principal’s face softened. He took off his glasses and chewed on one end. Sat back in his chair. His voice was kinder now.

  Yes, well, I’m glad to hear it. Respect. That’s important, isn’t it. Show a bit of respect for people and they’ll generally respect you back. You’d better apologise to Ms Zibraugh, too, hey?

  He winked at the boy.

  Not her fault she’s got a funny name, is it? Hey?

  The boy allowed himself a small smile.

  Mr Brady leant forward, his elbows on the desk, his chin resting on his clasped hands. How are things for you at home? Is there anything you want to talk about? Worried about anything?

  No, sir.

  Under the deputy principal’s scrutiny, the boy self-consciously fingered the fading yellow bruise under his eye.

  Fel
l off my bike, he said, before Mr Brady could ask.

  Hmm. Maybe I should have a talk to your mum. I haven’t spoken to her for a while now.

  No! I mean, no, she’s really busy. She’s working.

  Well, I need to call her to come and collect you anyway. I don’t think you should go back to class today. Give Ms Zibraugh a break. Come in tomorrow, apologise and it’ll all be forgotten, all right?

  Yes, sir.

  And I’ll just have a quick word with Mum when she comes. Just to check in with her, make sure we’re on the same page, OK?

  Yeah, OK. Reluctantly. Sir.

  You go and sit outside my office, at that corner desk there, and wait ’til she comes. Here, take this and have a look. He handed the boy a heavy book. It’s got all the special events that have happened every day of the year, all throughout history, see? You can look up your birthday and see what else happened on that day over the years. Off you go then, and I’ll phone your mum.

  The boy went outside and began paging through the book.

  Mr Brady called to him. I’ve rung Mum, she’ll be here soon.

  Yes, sir.

  An awful lot of people had died on his birthday over the years. In 1701, Captain William Kidd had been hung for piracy and murder. In 1934, Bonnie and Clyde went down in a hail of bullets. One of those Nazis committed suicide in 1945. And wealthy Sir Edward somebody or other died in 1925 when he fell off his penny farthing bicycle. That was kind of funny. Some religious Italian was burnt at the stake in 1498 and a famous American boxer died in 1990. He read about a disabled six-year-old English boy who had sued a newspaper twenty years ago for calling him ‘the worst brat in Britain’ after he had set the furniture alight, cut his ear off, killed the cat in the washing machine, painted the dog blue and swallowed insecticide.

  Disabled or not, the boy thought, that was still pretty naughty.