Annie's Promise (33 page)

The next night they went to the pub for a drink and people said hello and told them the news – the Post Office’s new counter, Meg’s daughter’s baby, the new Mine Manager, and they smiled when Davy talked about African dyeing, or Sarah of the new line in design, but they didn’t listen, because what had this to do with them?

On Christmas Eve Sarah and Davy walked to the beck and talked together of Arnie, Tim, Ma Tucker, the lights, the bikes, Soho, and they laughed, smoking their last joint, chewing gum to take the smell from their breath, shaking their hair, running back through the frost-filled mist and that night Sarah couldn’t sleep because she didn’t know where she belonged any more.

On Christmas Day she and Davy were given guitars with pearl inlaid trim and a wonderful resonance, and a sewing machine. ‘For you to make yourself more clothes in London. You’ll need it – their fashions move so quickly.’

Sarah smiled and knew that she must tell her parents that she would not be going back but not now, it wasn’t fair, it would upset their day. But when would Davy tell Tom and Gracie, because he had said he would not return if she did not?

He hadn’t told them, he said as they walked to the football pitch and kicked the ball around. ‘But just tell me when you do,’ he said.

The pitch was frosted white and the hummocks ricked their ankles, tripped them, the ball slid from her hands, hurt her leg when it slapped into her and there was no laughter as there was with Rob, her parents and Uncle Tom, just irritation, and she could see it in Davy too.

She kicked the ball towards Tom, then stood with her arms folded, not running when Gracie kicked it towards her, just watching as it sped past. Her mother moved closer to her. ‘At least pretend you’re enjoying yourself, Sarah, for heaven’s sake.’ Her voice was low, angry.

Sarah shrugged. ‘I’m cold.’

‘Then go back, don’t spoil this for everyone, and for God’s sake, grow up.’

‘But this is so childish, Mum. It’s not me that needs to grow up.’

That night Sarah sat by the range, rubbing wintergreen on her feet, smelling her knees, wondering what was wrong with her and why she was such a bitch, and now she was crying, holding her knees, feeling the tears running down her face until her mother came into the room, holding her, rocking her. ‘Sh, it’s all right. It’s all right.’

Sarah said against her shoulder, ‘It’s not all right. I didn’t want to go back because I don’t belong there but I don’t belong here any more and I hate myself for it.’

Annie held her tightly. ‘I know, and it is all right. I should have guessed, I’m sorry. We should know how you feel, after all, we’ve been through it too. Be kind to yourself, give it all a bit more time. But Sarah, you really must remember that you do not spoil things for other people, no matter how fed up you feel. Is that clear?’

In the New Year they met up with Geoff and Paul, and Annie let them use the packaging department and they played but they were out of synch. Geoff was too slow, or perhaps Sarah and Davy were too fast? They tried again and again, but it had gone and they were all embarrassed as they drank beer afterwards, struggling to find things to talk about, grasping at old school stories, old gigs but it wasn’t enough and as they walked home together, Sarah said to Davy, ‘How can things change so quickly?’

‘It’s not things, it’s us,’ Davy replied.

Lying in bed that night Sarah knew that it was true, that
they had changed, moved on, and that she would return to London.

‘Will it work if we come back when we’re qualified?’ she asked her mother as she saw her off at the station. ‘Will it all be too difficult – will we have changed too much?’

Annie shook her head. ‘That’s up to you. We’d love to have you and you will remake your old friends and make new ones if you do come back, but just live each day, Sarah, my love. Don’t try to answer all the questions now, just go with it for a bit – stretch your frontiers, enjoy yourself.’

The train was coming in, screeching, doors were slamming and Sarah hugged her, held her tight, wondering at how small she seemed, kissed her father, her aunt, her uncle, then told her mother again. ‘I’ll be back in the spring.’ The words gave them both comfort.

Snow was falling as the train drew out, thickening, cocooning them, and she just wanted to stay here, in amongst the white silence, not arriving anywhere, just sitting with Davy, feeling safe.

The windows of their bedsits were crusted with ice. There was a deep chill in the blankets, the mattress and the gas fire ate her shillings all night. In the morning they bought paraffin heaters and lugged them up the stairs, and then paraffin from the corner shop, trimming the wicks, lighting them, watching the blue flame waver, leaving it as they went into college on the first day, cycling with Tim, careering round corners, their scarves flying, their breath visible.

Sarah walked into the sewing room and Deborah turned and smiled. ‘Come on over here, Sarah.’

Sally joined them and they talked of how strange Christmas had been, how different, how sad they were to leave, then they walked to the refectory together, ate lunch, cut, designed, laughed together. Sarah cycled back to the bedsit, ringing her bell for no reason, wanting to sing, wanting to shout because it was all right, the darkness had gone, she
had friends, they felt as she did. She wasn’t alone, her confusion was gone.

She propped up her bike, smiled at Ma Tucker, ran up the stairs, listened at Carl’s door. Nothing – but she couldn’t remember what he looked like, sounded like, felt like and tonight they were practising because Arnie said they could get some gigs this term, and so they bloody well would.

They played in her room, putting more muscle into the songs but keeping the fragility of Davy’s melodies, running the riffs again and again, looking for Ma Tucker, drinking the beer that Tim had bought with money from the joint kitty, then drinking cocoa which she made on the Belling, sipping it, talking gently, singing through the numbers quietly until midnight struck. Nodding to one another as they left because they all had work to do.

Sarah sat at her desk, writing up her notes, writing to her mother, looking up at the condensation running down the windows and at two o’clock she fell into bed and slept as she had not done since she had come down in October.

On Sunday she cooked a stew with dumplings for Davy and Tim because they were beginning to look and feel like a can of baked beans. Davy had cooked rice in his oven and carried it into the room when the stew was finished, dumping it on the table and they drew straws over who should have the skin, which was dark and crisp.

Tim had brought beer. ‘Because I’m not safe around food,’ he said.

‘You seem to be doing quite well,’ Sarah murmured, looking at his empty plate. ‘And don’t you worry, my lad – I shall teach you and then you can do your share.’

‘You lot must be gluttons for punishment.’

Davy leaned back, reaching for the sugar from the draining board. ‘No, just gluttons.’

They walked in the park in the afternoon, calling in on Arnie for tea, then wishing they hadn’t because he and some friends had bought take-away curry the night before and it
was still in cartons on tables, on the floor. ‘Have some,’ Arnie nodded at the food.

They laughed, shook their heads. ‘Another time.’

‘What would Bet say?’ Davy said, flinging his arms round Sarah’s and Tim’s shoulders as they left.

‘A great deal I expect,’ Sarah replied, looking up at the crisp blue sky, ‘A very great deal.’ She was happy, for the first time since October she was happy. She looked at Davy and nodded as he smiled. He was too. ‘Race you,’ he said, starting to run, jumping up to reach the lower branches of the trees that lined the street. ‘Race you back,’ he shouted.

She and Tim ran, leaping, whooping, their scarves flying – down street after street, then up the steps, through the hall and into her room. They sat on the floor and drank tea, still laughing, groaning when curry was mentioned, writing a song when they should have been working. They called it
Curry Afternoons
, and spent the rest of the day picking out rhythms on their guitars, singing the words, testing how they hung together.

By the end of the second week Sarah had taught Tim how to cook liver and bacon. He cooked it again for Sunday lunch and they groaned. ‘Not again.’

‘Then teach me something else,’ he said, grinning at them, his hair lank from the rain which had poured down on the way back from the off-licence.

The following week she taught him how to cook smoked haddock. ‘But I’m doing Sunday lunch and we’ll have Arnie round – we don’t want to see smoked haddock or liver and bacon until February!’

Arnie forgot lunch next Sunday, but they were not surprised, the only thing he was ever on time for was rehearsals and so they ate his lamb, drank his beer and looked out at the rain, shaking their heads at the thought of the park, and ran through their numbers again, very quietly because Ma Tucker was downstairs. There was an audition on the first of February at a new club which was giving spots to
newcomers. ‘I want to get it,’ Davy said. ‘I want to be able to stuff that under Carl’s nose when he finally does come back.’

Sarah looked at him and at Tim. She’d almost forgotten about Carl. They played at the audition and were taken on for a spot every two weeks and that night they drank too much in the pub, and stumbled back along the road, arm in arm, then up the steps, banging the light switch, giggling, squeezing past the bikes, yelping as the pedals caught their shins, creeping up the stairs, along the landing, into Sarah’s room. She fumbled for the light and basked in the damp heat of the paraffin stove. They boiled the kettle for coffee and sniggered as Tim tiptoed across to her bed, with Davy following, his finger to his mouth, giggling as they collapsed and made more noise than a herd of elephants.

There was a knock at the door. Carl stood there, more tanned than before, his face relaxed, smiling. ‘So, what time d’you call this then?’

Sarah felt her hands shake as she put coffee into the mugs, her face had flushed at the sound of his voice. How could she have forgotten what he looked like, sounded like? How could she when he was so beautiful? She turned away, back to the kettle.

‘We’re celebrating,’ she said, her voice tight. ‘We’ve been taken on by Max’s – he liked Davy’s new song –
Curry Afternoons
.’

She looked across at Davy and winked. He grinned and Tim slapped his back.

‘I heard,’ Carl said. ‘Well done. Is there a coffee for me, Sarah?’

He was moving towards her and when she turned back to reach for another mug he was there, next to her. ‘I’ve missed you,’ he said quietly, taking the spoon from her shaking hand, heaping it with coffee, pouring the water into the two remaining mugs.

She didn’t turn, couldn’t because he was so close. She just stood there looking at the cracked tiles, the grouting which was covered in mould.

‘I skied down the moguls and all I thought of was you. Am I forgiven yet?’

Sarah wiped down the drainer, rinsing out the cloth, wringing it again and again. ‘There’s nothing to forgive – you were right.’ Because, damn it, he was.

‘Oh yes, I think there is. I was unkind, tactless, I didn’t say how good you all were too, not really.’ He moved away and now when she turned she could still smell him. She leant back against the drainer, clutching it, feeling the heat in her face, in her body and wondered if this was love.

He stood there, talking to the boys, his stance easy, his voice level, calm, his fingers sure as he flipped them cigarettes, offering her one, looking at her with those eyes, smiling as she shook her head, turning from her to speak to Davy.

‘Come to a party with me tomorrow to celebrate. Seven o’clock, here.’

‘Arnie too?’ Tim asked.

‘As if we could go without him – you lot are like the four musketeers. But make sure he’s on time and clean. It’s in Chelsea.’ Carl looked at the ash on his cigarette, then at Sarah, his eyebrows raised. She brought him a saucer and his fingers stroked her hand as he took it from her. She felt his touch in her belly and wanted to feel his hands on her face, wanted just to be near him for every minute, every second of each day, and she couldn’t understand how she had not thought of him, not longed for him every minute since she had last seen him.

That night she lay in bed and heard him turn. She reached out and touched the wall, then kissed her hand where he had touched her, running her tongue over her skin, wanting the scent of him inside her. She turned, brought the blankets up round her neck, then turned again, hearing the cars in the street outside, seeing the lights across the ceiling, because she never drew her curtains.

She turned again, counted the hours, thought of him dancing with her, his shirt so fine and soft, his legs so long and then she stiffened, leapt from the bed to the wardrobe,
searching through her clothes. Chelsea, he had said. Chelsea, for God’s sake.

In the morning she dragged Davy from his room and they cycled to Carnaby Street, where they rushed in and out of shops, looking at shirts, trousers, ties.

‘I can make the shirt but I can’t do the trousers,’ she panted as they hurried to the next boutique, hearing the music thumping out, sorting through the racks, smelling the cotton, the joss sticks. They found a shirt Davy liked with a large collar and pockets.

‘It’d look nice in pale green, bring out the auburn in your hair,’ she said.

Davy nodded. ‘I’ll get that tie.’

They bought the trousers from a boutique which was painted dark green and had lights that flashed on and off. ‘God, like a bloody party already,’ Davy said, shouting above the music. ‘It’s going to be great – I was wrong about him. I thought he was a bastard but he’s nice, Sarah, he likes you too.’

Sarah said, ‘He likes us all.’

Davy just grinned.

They bought an offcut of green cotton from the market stall. It was darker than they had intended but better, Davy thought, holding it up against the tie. Smoother.

Sarah smiled. ‘Oh, creating an image, are we?’

Davy nodded, blushing. ‘That’s what Carl said last night – image is all important. There’ll be music people there tonight and he wants us to be seen. I told you he was nice – he’s trying to help us, bonny lass.’