Her Last Promise Page 2

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Violet whispered under her breath. She winked at Tara. ‘Erm . . . Colin who?’

  ‘Don’t play games, Violet. Your rent’s due.’

  ‘I know it is and you’ll get it next week.’

  ‘Next week’s too late. I’ve warned you about this before, now you’ve left me no choice.’ The bunch of keys rattled in his fist.

  ‘He’s coming in, Mum,’ Tara whispered, clinging to her mother’s arm.

  Violet rose from the bed and planted her hands on her hips. ‘Well he doesn’t scare me.’

  Colin flung the door open and barged into the room, his hairy stomach bulging through his string vest. ‘You’re four weeks in arrears, Violet. Time’s up.’

  Violet spoke in a soft voice, one that was better suited to trying to calm a fractious toddler. ‘Come on now, Colin, can’t we come to some arrangement?’ She gestured to the threadbare armchair, the fabric stained with the grease of a previous tenant’s Brylcreem. ‘Sit down, let’s talk about this.’ She nodded towards Tara. ‘Fetch Mr Simpson a glass of whisky, will you?’

  He lowered himself into the chair and accepted the drink. ‘I’ve got bills to pay too, you know. This isn’t a hostel for the homeless.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ placated Violet. ‘And I can see you’re a reasonable man.’ She pulled up a chair next to him and ran a finger along his forearm, tracing the outline of his faded tattoo. ‘Me and Tara though, we’re good tenants, aren’t we? Or would you prefer someone who had all-night parties? Imagine all that punk rock booming through the rafters, you tossing and turning, trying to get to sleep. Or what if you had tenants who turned this place into a drugs den? What then, eh? Place stinking of weed. Drug dealers banging on the door at all hours. Is that really what you want?’ She squeezed his bicep and smiled. ‘My word, Colin, have you been at those weights again?’

  He downed his whisky and stood up. ‘Nice try, Violet.’ He slammed the glass down on the draining board. ‘Payment in full by eight o’clock or else you’re out on your ear.’

  Violet glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘But it’s half seven now.’

  He shrugged his hairy shoulders. ‘Not my problem.’

  Violet closed the door behind him. ‘Bloody great ape.’ She shuddered. ‘Ugh, poor Mrs Simpson having to share a bed with that Neanderthal.’

  ‘What will we do, Mum?’ asked Tara. ‘He said eight o’clock.’

  Violet reached for her Afghan coat. ‘Oh, it’s all hot air, Tara. Take no notice, he just likes to throw his considerable weight about.’

  She wrapped a feather boa round her neck and picked up her handbag. ‘Come on, Baby Girl. It’s you and me against the world. We’ll show ’em.’

  3

  Larry Valentine had left nothing to chance. Everything had to be perfect for tonight, everything from the lightness of the mushroom vol-au-vents to the quality of the champagne. Larry wasn’t exactly a connoisseur of champagne, preferring instead a smooth single malt, but he knew his brother would be impressed by the extravagance of a vintage bottle of Taittinger. He picked up the crystal tumbler, tossed in a couple of ice cubes and poured himself a little sharpener. He grimaced at the first taste of the sour whisky, then chugged back the remainder in one go, making his eyes water and his nose fizz. He breathed in deeply for two counts, then out again, his lips pursed, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the back of the chair. Thinking about Martin always made his heart race faster than was good for him. He spread out the newspaper again and studied the grainy black and white image. Martin beamed into the camera as his young bride clung onto his arm, staring with undisguised adoration at her new husband. He ran his finger over Carol’s face, searching for any signs that this might be an act and that she actually regretted her decision to marry his brother and not him.

  Naturally, he’d not received an invitation to their wedding. He hadn’t needed one. He’d simply slipped into the back of the church after Carol and her posse of taffeta-clad bridesmaids had shuffled down the aisle in a sea of pink froth. He saw the look on his brother’s face as he turned around for his first glimpse of his bride, a face that radiated pure joy and, if Larry wasn’t mistaken, more than a hint of smugness. Larry had had to close his eyes and concentrate on his breathing again, his fists clenched into two tight balls of steel.

  When the vicar had asked if anybody knew of any lawful impediment as to why these two should not be joined in holy matrimony, Larry had bitten his lip so hard, the metallic tang of blood filled his mouth. He sneaked out of the church whilst the happy couple were in the vestry signing the register. He’d had no intention of offering his congratulations.

  He pulled the net curtain to one side and stared down the street. He’d left the gates open so that Carol wouldn’t have to get out and press the buzzer. There was mizzle in the air which played havoc with her smooth blonde tresses. He’d always been thoughtful like that, always put Carol’s needs before his own. There was nothing he wouldn’t have done for her.

  The crunch of tyres on gravel alerted him to their arrival. He ventured towards the front door, stopping to stare at himself for a second in the hall mirror. He licked his middle finger and smoothed out his eyebrows before splashing on some more cologne even though the last dousing still clung to his skin. He undid one more button on his starched white shirt, swept his fringe back from his face and opened the door. He stared at Martin, sitting in the driver’s seat, removing his leather driving gloves with the help of his teeth. The passenger door opened and Carol’s elegantly shod foot emerged, her slim ankles looking as fragile as a thoroughbred’s. She was the first to speak. ‘Larry, how are you?’ She glanced up at the house and pursed her lips as though about to whistle, but no sound came. ‘Wow, it’s quite a place you’ve got here.’

  Larry felt his hands shaking and dug them into his trouser pockets. He wasn’t exactly sure of the protocol expected in this situation. It wasn’t every day you welcomed your brother and the girl he stole from you back into the fold. He leaned forward and gave Carol a brief kiss on the cheek, the scent of the Pond’s face cream she meticulously applied transporting him back in time. ‘Hello, Carol.’ He held her gaze, determined not to look away even though it was painful to stare into her eyes and not see her love for him reflected back. ‘Please come in.’ He clutched at the handkerchief in his pocket, hoping it would absorb the moisture from his palm, before extending his hand to his brother. ‘Martin.’

  They followed Larry into the kitchen, Martin with his arm protectively slung over his wife’s shoulders, leaving Larry in no doubt that she belonged to him now.

  Dispensing with small talk, Martin launched into his opening gambit. ‘Why did you ask us here, Larry?’

  ‘Why did you accept, Martin?’

  Carol looked from one brother to the other, her eyes already wide with anticipation of another argument. ‘Boys, please, we don’t want any trouble.’

  Martin looked around the cavernous kitchen, all oranges, yellows and browns, contrasting with the shiny white units. ‘Your pools numbers come up, did they?’

  Larry snorted. ‘It’s called hard work, Martin, something you’re a stranger to.’

  Carol slammed her bag down on the counter top. ‘Seriously, I’ll storm out if you’re going to carry on like this.’ She looked at the fridge. ‘Have you got anything cold to drink, Larry?’ She glared at her husband. ‘Preferably alcoholic.’

  Larry opened the fridge and lifted out the Taittinger. He picked at the gold foil, removed the wire cage and eased his thumbs under the cork.

  ‘Flash git,’ muttered Martin.

  The froth spurted out of the bottle and ran down the side. ‘Don’t waste it,’ squealed Carol, thrusting her glass towards Larry.

  He looked pointedly at Martin. ‘Plenty more where that came from.’

  Martin accepted a glass and proposed a toast. ‘To the winners and the losers.’ He smiled and looked at Carol. ‘And to love.’ He kissed her on the lips, lingering a lit
tle longer than was acceptable in company. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his cigarettes, flipping open the lid and popping one between his lips in one practised move.

  ‘Not in here if you don’t mind, Martin. If you want to smoke, you’ll have to go out into the garden. There’s a bench out there down by the pond.’

  ‘It’s February, Larry, I didn’t come here to sit in your garden freezing me nuts off in the dark.’

  ‘Put the fags away then.’

  Carol took a sip of her champagne. ‘It’s nice of you to ask us, Larry. And this place,’ she swept her arm around the kitchen, ‘it’s magnificent.’

  Martin scoffed. ‘It’s why he asked us here, you daft bint. To show you what you’ve missed out on, what you could’ve had if you’d stayed with him. He’s so bloody transparent.’

  ‘Is that right, Larry?’

  ‘Let him think what he likes, Carol. I thought it was time we buried the hatchet. No point in holding on to all that resentment.’ He picked up the bottle of champagne. ‘Top-up?’

  He poured some more into Carol’s glass and sneaked a look at Martin. Damn right it was why he had asked them here. And judging by the look on Martin’s face, the visit was going to be much more fun than Larry could have hoped for.

  4

  A blue haze of smoke hung in the air. The lights had been turned down and as Violet looked out over the audience, the burning ends of dozens of cigarettes danced like fireflies in the gloom. She waited in the wings as the compère finished telling his latest round of filthy jokes, which she didn’t find in the slightest bit funny. Working men’s clubs were hardly the most salubrious of venues, but the audience was appreciative, the money wasn’t bad and the tips jar was pleasingly heavy at the end of the night. Tara stood by her side, picking her way through a bag of chips and curry sauce. Violet wafted her hand. ‘For crying out loud, Tara, I’m going to go out there stinking of the Taj Mahal Curry House.’

  Tara laughed. ‘Good luck, Mum, I think you’re on.’

  The compère was shouting into his microphone. ‘And now, back by popular demand, your favourite and mine, the sumptuous, delectable Miss Violet Skye.’ He dragged her name out in the same way wrestlers were announced into the ring then raised his arm theatrically, beckoning Violet onto the stage. With an appreciative wave to the audience, she sashayed forth, her fishtail dress gliding across the wooden stage, picking up all kinds of dust and detritus. ‘Thank you, Dean.’

  He kissed her on the cheek and cupped his hand around her left buttock, giving it a firm squeeze. ‘There you go, gorgeous, they’re all yours.’

  The crowd of lecherous, beer-swilling blokes rose to their feet, cheering, clapping, some of them practically salivating. She pasted on a smile, her cheeks aching as she waited for the noise to die down. Although it barely covered the bills there were worse ways to earn a living. She let the feather boa slide to the floor and nodded towards the sound guy.

  Forty-five minutes later, after a standing ovation, pierced with the inevitable wolf whistles, she picked up the feather boa and hurried back to what was laughingly called her dressing room. It was more of a disused broom cupboard with a mirror propped up on a woodworm-infested trestle table and a shade-less single light bulb dangling from the ceiling. Tara was waiting for her, perched on the table, munching her way through a quarter of cola cubes.

  Violet tutted. ‘You’ll have no teeth left, young lady.’

  Tara ignored the remark. ‘How did it go?’

  ‘OK, I suppose. I just grin and bear it. It’s to be endured rather than enjoyed but it all helps to keep the wolf from the door, or in our case, Mr Simpson.’

  Tara shuffled off the table and handed her mother a note.

  Violet frowned. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Telephone number of a bloke who wants you to call him. It’s about a gig at The Amethyst Lounge.’

  Violet grabbed her daughter’s arm. ‘Don’t mess with me, our Tara. Are you serious?’

  ‘Yes, Mum, I’m serious. You think I go around making stuff up now?’

  Violet studied the note. ‘The Amethyst Lounge. The Amethyst Lounge?’

  ‘I dunno, do I? Why don’t you call him and find out?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I will.’ Violet clutched the note to her chest and gazed up at the ceiling where the cobwebs sagged with the weight of the dust. ‘The Amethyst Lounge, Tara. They have glass in the windows and plush carpet on the floor, everything’s crimson and gold. No sticky lino in there. And the audience probably don’t throw things either. And I bet the money’s better than this god-forsaken place.’

  ‘Go and ring him then,’ urged Tara. ‘There’s a payphone out in the hall.’

  Violet patted herself down. ‘Have you got tuppence for the phone, love?’

  It was gone midnight by the time they arrived back at their digs. Arm in arm, they laughed together as they walked along the dimly lit street, the ice-cold air numbing their faces. ‘Everything’s going to be alright now, Tara, I just know it. I’ve waited for this opportunity all my life. A gig at The Amethyst Lounge. It’s the answer to all our problems.’

  ‘Steady on, Mum. It’s hardly the London Palladium.’

  ‘But who knows where it will end? Bruce Forsyth’s played there, Gene Pitney, Dusty Springfield. You’ve got to think big, Tara. I’ve done my time singing at the working men’s clubs and the afternoon tea dances at church halls, now it’s time for me to shine.’ She flung her arms out wide and spun around a lamppost, throwing her head back as she sang out loud.

  ‘Sshh, Mum, you’ll wake everybody up.’

  ‘Well they should be grateful that they heard a free performance from the talented Miss Violet Skye. They’ll be able to tell their grandkids about it one day.’

  Tara stopped walking and stared ahead. ‘Mum.’

  ‘What is it, love?’

  She pointed along the pavement. ‘What’s that up there, outside our house?’

  Violet squinted in the gloom. ‘Looks like somebody lying in a heap. Probably some tramp passed out from drinking too much meths.’ She linked her arm through Tara’s. ‘That’s all we need. Come on, let’s see if we can help him.’

  They approached with caution, Violet keeping a protective arm across her daughter’s chest. They crept up to the pile and Violet prodded it with her toe. ‘Oh, it’s not a person at all. It’s a sack of something or other.’ She bent down and gingerly opened the top, which had been tied with a piece of frayed string. She carefully put her hand inside and pulled out a cheesecloth shirt, holding it aloft between her thumb and forefinger.

  Tara knelt down next to her mother. ‘That’s my best shirt, that is.’

  Violet frowned and then, as the realisation began to dawn, rummaged more urgently through the rest of the clothes in the sack. ‘The bastard,’ she whispered. She straightened up and raised her fist up to the window. ‘You won’t get away with this, Colin.’ She drew deep calming breaths, the chilly air making her lungs ache. ‘Do you hear me, you despicable excuse for a human being? How can you sleep at night, knowing you’ve turfed a mother and daughter onto the streets?’ She picked up the sack and heaved it over her shoulder. ‘Well, it’s your loss, Colin.’ She raised her voice further, her vocal cords straining as she screamed into the still night air. ‘I’m going places, I am, places you could only ever dream of. So, you can keep your disgusting little hovel and I hope you rot in hell.’

  She grabbed hold of Tara’s wrist as Colin thrust open his window and called down to her. ‘Oi, Violet, you forgot this.’ He reached down and brought up a bucket. Before Violet could react, he upended the pail and a torrent of ice-cold water rained down on her head. Shocked into silence, Violet could only open and close her mouth, a volcanic fury waiting to erupt just as soon as she could find her voice.

  5

  2018

  Even after two years apart my default setting was still to turn to Ralph. He often worked from home in the mornings to allow madam to get her nails done
or go for a skinny latte with her giggling friends. He picked up on the second ring. ‘Ralph Richards.’

  ‘Ralph, it’s me.’

  There was only a slight pause. ‘Morning, Tara, what can I do for you?’

  I stiffened at his business-like tone. We’ve been married for twenty-three years, we have a child together. ‘I’ve received this really strange letter – from a solicitor.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with me.’ A piercing scream rang out in the background and I had to hold the phone away from my ear. Clearly one of the twins was having a tantrum. Ralph made a vain attempt to cover the mouthpiece but I could still hear him. ‘Will you shut the fuck up? I’m on the phone here.’

  I was genuinely shocked. ‘Ralph,’ I said. ‘I know they can be little monsters but you really shouldn’t swear at them like that.’

  He seemed distracted. ‘What? Oh no, the twins are at nursery. That was Susie. You were saying something about a letter?’

  I was momentarily thrown off-guard by the chaos of his domestic situation, trying not to enjoy every moment of it. Nope, he’s made his bed . . .

  ‘A recorded delivery letter came this morning. I thought it was from . . .’ I stopped myself, not wishing to give him any ideas. We may have sorted out the finances and be officially separated but we’re still married and I didn’t want him pinning that dreaded ‘divorcee’ tag on me just yet. ‘It’s from a solicitor’s down in London, Irwin Fortis.’

  ‘Never heard of them.’

  ‘They want me to travel down in person and bring my ID and whatnot. They said they were following a specific set of instructions and wouldn’t elaborate.’

  I could hear him scratching at the stubble on his chin. ‘How very mysterious. Will you go?’

  ‘I’m not sure I have a choice.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  It was a fair question and one I couldn’t really answer. ‘Nothing, Ralph. I just wanted to tell someone, that’s all.’