Her Last Promise Page 4

  Gabriela laughed, throwing her head back and patting her chest, just as she always did when she found something even faintly amusing. Her mahogany hair was tied up, not severely like his mother’s, but loosely so that wispy bits still hung around her face. She’d probably been up for several hours already and yet her olive skin bore no trace of fatigue and her chocolate-coloured eyes were still bright and not ringed with the tiredness one might expect from someone who had barely slept the night before. Her generous mouth was set into a permanent smile and by any standards, she was effortlessly beautiful.

  ‘Leo!’

  He shook his head. ‘What, Mateo?’

  ‘I said, when are you going to ask Gabriela to go out with you? I think you should ask her before someone else does.’

  ‘Ah, Mateo,’ said Gabriela, coming round to their side of the counter. ‘I’m saving myself for you.’ She pinched his cheek. ‘You hurry up and get big now.’ She popped a couple of warm churros into a paper bag and pressed it into Mateo’s hands. ‘Enjoy, Little One.’

  She smiled at Leo. ‘Have a good day, chicos.’

  Out in the plaza, Leo turned to Mateo. ‘What did you have to say that for?’

  ‘You needed a push. Mama told me to say it.’ Mateo pulled a long churro from the bag.

  Leo rubbed his face vigorously. ‘For the love of God. Can’t I sort out my own love life without interference from my mother and brother?’

  Mateo smiled, his lips coated with sugar. ‘You’ll be twenty-five this year, Leo, so I think the answer is no.’

  In spite of his annoyance, Leo laughed. ‘And I suppose you got that from Mama too.’

  He turned back towards the panadería. Gabriela was outside now, winding the striped canopy over the front of the shop. She stopped and wiped her hand across her forehead. She noticed Leo staring, dipped her head and offered him a coy smile.

  The sun had risen above the mountains in the distance, casting an apricot glow which warmed the fields. The overnight rain had dampened down the dust and rows upon rows of horses stood in makeshift stalls, ready to be paraded into the ring. Mateo wriggled in his seat next to Leo, bombarding him with questions.

  ‘Why is that horse pawing at the ground, Leo?’

  ‘She’s impatient, Mateo. She wants someone to buy her so she can go home.’

  ‘Can we buy her, Leo?’

  ‘No, Mateo, she’s too big and too expensive.’

  Leo’s mind was elsewhere. ‘Do you think she’d say yes, Mateo?’

  ‘Do I think who would say yes to what?’

  ‘Gabriela. Do you think she’d say yes, if I asked her out?’

  Mateo folded his arms and shook his head, a stance he had obviously adopted from their mother. ‘Mama says you two need your heads banging together.’ He frowned and chewed on his thumb nail, obviously mulling it over. ‘I don’t know how that would help though. Surely it would hurt and then you’d both have a headache and then you probably wouldn’t feel like going out anyway.’

  Leo laughed. ‘You’re not wrong there, Little One.’

  The shadows had lengthened, and Mateo’s eyes were heavy by the time Leo finally found a horse that was the right size and appeared to have the ideal temperament to carry inexperienced holidaymakers who had a habit of pulling too sharply on the reins or else just sat in the saddle like a sack of potatoes.

  ‘What shall we call her?’ asked Mateo, suppressing a yawn.

  ‘She’s already got a name. It’s Armonia.’

  ‘That’s a pretty name for a pretty pink horse.’

  ‘She’s a strawberry roan, Mateo. Come on, are you ready to go? We need to load her into the box. Here, you can take her.’ He passed Armonia’s lead rein to Mateo, the little boy’s chest inflating with pride at the trust Leo had placed in him.

  The pens were being taken down as the brothers made their way to the field where the horse box was parked. Mateo pointed to a pen which had been left erected under the inadequate shade of a leafless tree. ‘What’s wrong with that horse, Leo? He looks sad.’

  The black horse stood in the middle of the pen, his head hanging down, his front leg joined to his back leg by a length of thick rope.

  ‘Why has that horse got his legs tied up, Leo? I don’t like it.’

  ‘It’s called hobbling, Mateo. I don’t like it either but there’s probably a good reason for it. Come on, let’s go and take a look.’

  The old man lay in a chair beside the pen, his cap pulled down over his face, a cigarette smouldering between his fingers. ‘Erm, excuse me,’ said Leo. ‘Is this horse for sale?’

  The man jumped and lost his balance, his arms flailing as he tried to recover himself. ‘Do you mind?’ he growled. ‘You almost frightened me to death.’

  ‘This horse,’ persisted Leo. ‘Is he for sale?’

  ‘Si, but as usual nobody wants to buy.’

  Mateo stood in front of him and placed his hands on his hips, his face screwed up with fury. ‘Why is he tied up like that? It’s cruel.’ He jabbed his finger in the old man’s direction. ‘You are a very cruel man.’

  The man narrowed his eyes as he took a long drag of his cigarette. ‘He’s wild, young man. You no like to see him without the hobbles.’

  Leo climbed over the metal fence and advanced slowly towards the horse. The animal lifted his head as he heard Leo approaching, the whites of his eyes showing and his nostrils flaring. He bobbed his head up and down and pawed at the dust with his free foot.

  ‘There, there, boy, it’s OK. Shush . . . no need to be frightened.’

  He ran his hand down the horse’s hobbled foreleg. The rope around his fetlock was too tight and had cut into the flesh, leaving a livid open wound.

  Leo smoothed the horse’s neck, the black coat slick with sweat. He looked around the pen. ‘Where’s his water?’

  The old man scoffed. ‘No water. He kick it over.’ He stood up and leaned against the railing.

  Leo swallowed down his rising anger. ‘How much?’

  The man shrugged and turned down his mouth. ‘About a bucketful.’

  ‘No, how much do you want for the horse?’

  ‘You want to buy him?’

  ‘Depends how much.’

  ‘He’s a thoroughbred, a stallion, he can have many sons.’

  Leo could feel the horse’s flesh quivering under his touch but his breathing had steadied and he seemed calmer.

  ‘You good with horses then?’

  Leo nodded. ‘Been around them all my life.’

  ‘You can have him for thirty thousand pesetas.’

  Mateo tugged on Leo’s arm. ‘Please, Leo, we can’t leave him here with this nasty man.’

  ‘Why so cheap?’ asked Leo. ‘He’s a thoroughbred stallion you say. He’s worth more than that surely.’

  The old man grinned, his lack of teeth enhancing his manic expression. ‘I told you, he’s wild, untrainable. I’m just being honest with you and you should be thankful for that.’

  Leo looked at the horse again. He didn’t look wild, in fact he looked broken, as though the spirit had been beaten out of him.

  ‘Please, Leo,’ implored Mateo, tears streaked into the dust on his face. ‘We can’t leave him.’

  Leo held out his hand to the old man. ‘Twenty-five thousand and you’ve got a deal.’

  The old man spat into his own palm, then clasped Leo’s hand. ‘He’s all yours. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  Leo bent his head and breathed into the horse’s nose. The horse pricked his ears and returned a warm breath of his own. ‘What his name?’ asked Leo.

  ‘Diablo.’

  Leo didn’t flinch.

  Diablo. The devil.

  7

  1978

  Violet trembled beneath the Afghan coat, its wet fibres now stinking like an ageing Labrador. Her teeth chattered together and her lips had turned an alarming shade of blue. Tara wrapped a comforting arm around her mother. ‘Come on, we need to keep moving.’

 
Violet shuffled forward dragging the sack of clothes along the pavement, the tight dress only allowing her to take tiny steps. ‘I can’t believe he did that,’ she said for the umpteenth time. ‘There was just no need, it’s so vindictive.’

  ‘Yes, Mum, you said, but it’s done now and we need to concentrate on finding somewhere to stay, unless you want to bed down in the underpass with the other down-and-outs.’

  Violet rubbed at her panda eyes, the mascara now smudged half-way down her cheek. ‘I’m fed up, our Tara. As soon as something good happens, then something bad comes along to cancel it out. It’s as though I’m not allowed to be happy.’

  ‘Mum! Stop that now. I’m supposed to be the whiny little brat here, not you.’

  Violet managed a smile. ‘How did you turn out to be such a good kid, with a disastrous mother like me, eh?’

  ‘Yes, it’s a mystery alright.’ Tara paused. ‘Perhaps it’s time to go back home. You know, to your mum and dad’s.’

  Violet stopped so suddenly, she inadvertently yanked at Tara’s arm. ‘No, Tara, you know that’s not possible.’

  ‘Anything’s possible, Mum. We could . . .’

  ‘I said no, Tara. Now just drop it.’

  They walked on in silence; the streets were deserted save for a scabby dog that was playing with a tin can down a back alley. ‘What a racket,’ Violet mumbled. They came to the outskirts of the town, to the familiar parade of shops, most with their metal shutters down and strewn with graffiti. A blue light was on in the hardware store though, one of those lights that was meant to kill flies or something. It gave the interior of the store an ethereal glow. Violet stared at their reflections in the shop window. ‘Look at the state of us, Tara. Imagine going on stage at The Amethyst Lounge looking like this.’ She picked up the hem of her fishtail dress. ‘It’s ruined, it is.’

  Tara ignored her mother. ‘Seen this?’ She pointed to the postcard in the window. ‘Room to Rent – Enquire Within’.

  Violet scoffed. ‘I’m not living above a bloody hardware store. I can’t go on stage stinking of paraffin and mothballs.’

  Tara glared at her mother. ‘I think this is one of those beggars–choosers situations, don’t you, Mum?’ Without bothering to wait for an answer, she banged on the glass door, causing the ‘Closed’ sign to swing back and forth on its hook.

  ‘What’re you doing, Tara? It’s gone one o’clock in the morning.’

  ‘Mum,’ Tara sighed. ‘I’m cold, I’m tired and I’m hungry; not to mention fed up. I’m sick of traipsing the streets like a couple of whores . . .’

  ‘Tara! Don’t be so crude.’ Violet leaned against the shop window and closed her eyes, the exhaustion suddenly overwhelming.

  Tara peered through the door, leaving a nose print on the glass. ‘Eh, up, someone’s coming.’

  She cleared her throat and stood a little straighter as they listened to the bolts being slid back. The door opened and the sound of a bell cut through the stillness. The elderly gentleman had found time to slip on his tartan dressing gown but his teeth were probably still in a glass beside his bed. He squinted at them through his thick-framed glasses. ‘It’s gone one o’clock in the morning.’

  Violet tugged at her daughter’s arm. ‘That’s exactly what I just said. I’m so sorry to wake you, Mr . . . err . . .?’

  ‘Bickerstaffe,’ he supplied. He looked Violet up and down. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘It’s a long story, Mr Bickerstaffe and I really do apologise for waking you. We’ll be on our way just . . .’

  ‘We’re desperate,’ interrupted Tara, her voice cracking. ‘Please, can you help us?’

  Violet pursed her lips and stared at Tara before turning back to Mr Bickerstaffe. ‘Well, we’re not exactly desperate, I mean . . .’

  ‘Stop it, Mum,’ Tara snapped. ‘We need his help, stop being so proud.’

  Violet let the sack drop to the floor and ran her hands through her soaking wet hair. She swallowed hard and lifted her chin, adopting the clipped vowels of a television presenter. ‘We’d like to enquire about the room you have to rent.’

  Mr Bickerstaffe looked from one to the other, before opening the door a little further. ‘Why don’t you come in and have a look then?’

  They followed him through the shop, careful not to trip over the various assortments of brushes, baskets, tins of paint and boxes of rags and chamois leathers. ‘You’ve got a heck of a lot of stock, Mr Bickerstaffe,’ said Violet, squeezing through the narrow aisle.

  ‘Aye, mind how you go.’

  They climbed the steep wooden staircase to the first floor and waited patiently whilst the old man tried half a dozen keys before finding the one that would open the door. ‘After you, miss.’

  Violet and Tara stepped into the room as Mr Bickerstaffe flicked on the light. The iron-framed double bed took up most of the space. There was a cracked washstand in one corner and a single wardrobe in the other. The orange glow from the street lamp outside shone through the thin floral curtain, which appeared to have suffered an attack of moths. The cast-iron Victorian fireplace was now home to a two-bar electric heater. The smell was not unpleasant, if one was partial to the smell of sweet stale biscuits. Violet gripped her daughter’s hand. ‘It’s . . . err . . . very . . . erm . . .’

  ‘We’ll take it, Mr Bickerstaffe,’ said Tara. She glanced at her mother’s face, where despair and sadness dragged down her features. ‘It’s perfect, thank you.’

  Mr Bickerstaffe clapped his gnarled hands together. ‘Really? Oh, well I’m pleased, I really am. It’ll be nice to have some company and a young ’un about the place again.’

  Violet tried to smile but knew the resulting grimace would not be enough to convince Mr Bickerstaffe that she was completely happy with the situation. ‘The bathroom?’

  ‘Aye, it’s across the landing. We’ll have to share it, mind, but I’m not in there much. I have my bath on a Friday night between seven and half past. Kitchen’s at the back. It’s cosy enough, not a bad size, but again we’ll have to share it.’ He shuffled out of the room. ‘I’ll leave you to get settled in, give us a shout if you need anything.’ He stopped and turned. ‘The rent’s eight pounds a week, not including the lecky, but I’ll let you pay me a month in arrears.’

  ‘We don’t need your charity,’ said Violet. ‘We can . . .’

  Tara moved to stand in front of her mother, cutting her off. ‘Thanks, Mr Bickerstaffe, we appreciate that.’

  He nodded. ‘Aye, well, there’s just one more thing. Please call me Alf.’

  They cuddled together under the icy sheets, Violet’s hair wrapped up in a towel, Tara swathed in her big Arran jumper. ‘He’s seems nice, doesn’t he, Mum? Better than bloody Colin anyway.’

  Violet’s eyes were closed. ‘Language, Tara,’ she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep, but her mind alert to the utter mess their lives had become.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Lord above, Tara! What is it now?’

  ‘I’ve had an idea.’

  ‘Go on then, let’s hear it.’

  Tara propped herself up onto her elbow. ‘Why don’t we try and ask my grandparents for help?’

  Violet’s eyes flicked open. ‘Not this again, I’ve already told you . . .’

  ‘No, not your mum and dad, my other grandparents.’

  ‘Tara, even if I knew where they were, they’d have no money to help us, and we’re strangers to them, don’t forget. Your dad didn’t even tell his parents I was pregnant.’

  ‘They could be really wealthy by now though. If he’s been trapping fur in Mongolia for the past fourteen years, then he must have earned a bob or two.’

  Violet almost laughed. Trapping fur in Mongolia. How on earth had she come up with that one? Still, as long as it spared Tara the truth, she would have to go along with it.

  8

  As Larry had predicted, his brother had been unable to withstand the temptation of the tobacco. ‘Where did you put my coat, Larry?’

  ‘It
’s in the cloakroom, I’ll fetch it for you.’

  Martin nodded at Carol. ‘You hear that? It’s in the cloakroom. I remember when we were kids and we’d just hang our coats on the banister. Now he has a special room for them.’

  ‘Stop it, Martin. Larry’s been good enough to invite us over, the least you can do is stop sniping. Go on, go and smoke yourself to death in the garden.’

  Larry stiffened at the exchange. Surely Martin wouldn’t take this kind of abuse in his stride, but his brother shrugged on his sheepskin coat, walked over to his bride and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Sorry, love, you’re right, as always. I’ll be back in a jiffy.’

  When he’d left the room, Larry sat down on the settee next to Carol, their thighs touching. It was barely noticeable but she definitely shuffled away an inch or two.

  ‘I miss you, Carol.’

  She gave a nervous laugh and glanced towards the door. ‘Don’t be saying daft things like that, Larry.’

  ‘It’s not daft, it’s true. I never stop thinking about you.’

  ‘Oh, Larry.’ She picked up his hand and rested it loosely in her own lap. ‘We’ve been through all this and I can’t keep apologising. I fell in love with Martin and there’s nothing I can do about that. It happens to people all the time. It wasn’t that I didn’t love you but I love him more.’

  Larry winced. ‘Ooh, that’s a dagger to the heart, that is.’

  ‘I’m just being honest, Larry. I don’t regret my decision to leave you for Martin.’ She reached for her glass. ‘Of course, I regret all the hurt I caused you and I regret that I drove a wedge between you and your only brother, but I’ll never regret marrying Martin.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Larry stood up and wandered over to the mantelpiece, keeping his back to her as he spoke. ‘I came to your wedding, you know.’

  ‘What?’

  He heard her get up and pad across the carpet. ‘What on earth for?’

  He turned to face her. ‘I suppose I just wanted to see if you would go through with it. I slipped in quietly at the back, like Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate.’

  Carol ran her finger round the rim of her glass. ‘I love that film.’