Annie's Promise (36 page)

They played at a Young Farmers gig and here there were no jostling bodies but restrained dancing until too much beer had been drunk and then raucous choruses and jiving shook up the whole room.

She and Davy bought their own pot now, because Carl could not keep supplying them out of his own pocket, he said, his face red with embarrassment, neither could he pay for all their taxis to and from the parties, so they worked harder to design and sell clothes to their friends at college and to local market stalls.

They auditioned for a college gig and were accepted. They also had more commissions from the students for shirts, dresses, skirts specifically for the gig and by June were working each morning, evening and lunchtime, copying notes when they could, eating when they could, remembering also to send up new samples to Annie from the shops they had gathered into the circle, until Sarah’s head was splitting and Davy looked drawn and pale.

Carl took them to another party that week and they were too tired to smile and talk of Dr Timothy Leary, or the duty of the young to explore and push back the frontiers of the mind, or the brilliance of Bob Dylan. ‘I can’t understand his songs,’ Sarah said to the man who had spattered canapés in her wine and now had some on his beard. ‘I think he’s a pseudo-intellectual.’

She felt Carl’s hand on her arm, saw Davy mouthing ‘ouch’, and didn’t care, she was too tired. She didn’t care that Carl pushed her out before him, that his voice was sharp in the taxi. ‘For God’s sake, you can’t afford to be tired, nobody can. If you do that once you’ve made it, it’ll be splashed all over the bloody newspapers and that’ll be that. And when did you last rehearse?’

She laid her head back on the seat, her hands sore from cutting and sewing, knowing that Davy’s were too.

‘We haven’t time, for God’s sake. We’re running a business here and trying to get through college, then we did your tour, all the tour, not skiving off for a bit of skiing like some of us here.’

‘There’s no need to run a business.’

‘There’s every need if we’re to afford our lives, especially all this.’ She waved at the taxi, banged his cigarette case, shouting now. She leapt from the cab when it arrived at Ma Tucker’s, storming from him, slamming her bedroom door, locking it, just needing to sleep but she couldn’t and then she heard a scratching at the door.

She opened it a crack. He pushed in a joint and whispered, ‘I’m sorry, I know you’re tired, have this to help you sleep.’ She rested her head on the door and wept for his kindness.

The next day she was up early sewing, cutting, pressing, then cycling to college, returning early and sewing again while Davy sat with her, checking, cutting, designing. Arnie and Tim came round to practise but there was no time tonight, Sarah said, jerking her head at the coffee. ‘But you can make us all a drink.’

She lifted the mug with hands swollen from the scissors, refusing a joint because she couldn’t relax yet, shaking her head at Davy as he took one. He grimaced and put it back.

‘I’ll just breathe in deeply,’ he said, chasing Tim’s smoke across the room, making them all laugh. They worked again when the boys left, necks aching, heads pounding, not looking up when Carl knocked, just calling, ‘Come in.’

Carl stood there. ‘Where’re the others, it’s rehearsal night,
for God’s sake, not your mother’s bloody factory. This is no good, you’ve got to dump this and get on with the music.’

Sarah pushed harder on the pedal, heard the machine whirr, listened to that as Davy said, ‘For God’s sake, Carl, it’s OK for you to work, I see you’ve got your briefcase as always, but it’s not OK for us – and that’s ridiculous because we need to do it. Anyway, we’ve nearly finished for tonight, we’ve just got the samples for Auntie Annie now.’

Sarah looked up now, seeing Carl stare at the floor, then at her as he spoke slowly. ‘Oh yes, of course, the gig can go to hell, all my efforts too – but we must make sure Auntie Annie gets her pound of bloody flesh.’

Sarah lifted her foot from the pedal. ‘Leave my mother out of this, we learn from it as well, don’t we? Davy’s right, you’re bloody well working, you always work, wherever we go. I’m sick to death of that case, of your friends, and of you.’

Her head was pounding, nausea rose in her throat and she didn’t care as he stormed out, slamming the door. She just worked and then smoked with Davy, too tired to talk, too tired to ache at the thought of Carl’s anger, almost too tired to sleep when Davy stumbled from her room.

Carl’s room was empty in the morning, his door locked and in lectures Sarah couldn’t concentrate, all she could think of was his beautiful face, his hands, his tan, his lips. Had he kissed another girl, had he slept with her? Had he? Had he?

Would he come back? Would he?

That evening she smoked the joints that Davy had brought, one, two, three, and the room faded until there was nothing but warmth, looseness, peace and she smiled as Davy left, smiled as Carl came in, held her in his arms, cradled her on the bed.

‘I’m sorry, my darling girl. I just felt worried about you, so worried. Please stop sewing this weekend, stop working, stop rehearsing and come with me. Sam Davis is having a party at Bracklesham Bay in a house he owns.’ He was
stroking her arms, undoing her blouse, running his fingers beneath her bra, touching her nipple, easing the strap from her shoulders, taking her in his mouth and she arched her back, wanting more, knowing that he had wanted it for weeks, but she was too frightened.

‘Come away with me, my darling,’ he said, against her skin.

‘All of us,’ she said.

‘Just you.’ His tongue stroked her breast, her shoulder, her lips.

‘No, Davy should come too, it’s not fair, he’s been working too.’

His hand was on her thigh now, gently stroking. He undid her jeans, stroked her belly, her groin and then his fingers were between her legs, probing, gentle and his lips were on hers, his tongue deep.

‘Davy too,’ she gasped, because she was frightened of being with this man alone for a weekend – it would be so hard not to sleep with him.

Carl lifted his head. ‘He needs to practise, he’s not as good as the rest of you.’

Sarah felt his fingers leave her as her own anger rose. She pushed him aside, scrambling to her feet, feeling faint, falling back on to the bed, tasting the marijauna.

‘He’s just as good, he’s better. Arnie says so.’ She was wrenching at her zip.

Carl still lay on the bed, resting on his elbow. ‘So, Arnie’s the expert now is he – our fine electronics whiz-kid knows all about it, does he?’

Sarah was buttoning her blouse, her fingers trembling, her head swimming. ‘I know he’s good, and that’s what’s important and I’m not going without him, if I go at all. We do nothing but row, it’s all so pointless, the whole damn thing.’ She sat with her hands between her legs, her shoulders slumped. ‘So damned pointless.’

His arms came round her then, holding her, pulling her back beside him, not kissing her, just rubbing his cheek on
her hair, cupping her face in his hand. ‘Fine, we’ll take him then.’

It was Friday the next day and they were leaving in the evening so Sarah cycled to Marks & Spencer and bought new bras and pants, not wanting to wear her mother’s any more because it wasn’t only Sarah’s hands that knew them now.

They took the train, then a taxi which entered a sweeping drive, gravel crunching beneath the wheels, light pouring from the latticed windows of the old redbrick house with its moss-spattered roof.

Sam Davis met them at the door, kissing Sarah with his moist lips, drawing her into the dark panelled hall, his arm about her waist, moving from one pool of soft yellow light to another, introducing her and Davy to quietly spoken men and women, handing them plates for the buffet, guiding them to the table, tempting them with lobster, crayfish, crab.

‘It’s a lovely evening, lovies, take it into the garden, there are tables and chairs.’ He wafted away from them, his cravat matching his gold watch perfectly. They walked on to the terrace, smelling the sea in the soft wind, and ate the crab with their fingers as they found a table, sitting down to listen to muted Beatles music and it was as though everything had slowed, as though she’d stepped off the roundabout for a moment.

She felt Carl’s hand on her knee, saw him wave to an auburn-haired girl who was dancing alone on the terrace to
Love’s Just a Broken Heart
by Cilla Black. The girl came over and Carl pointed to Davy. ‘You two match, sit down and share his lobster.’ His voice was gentle, his eyes kind and Davy flushed, looked at Sarah and she nodded. ‘You do make a pigeon pair, you know.’

She leant back in her chair, feeling the cushion behind her, watching couples who ate, drank or danced.

‘I hope love isn’t just a broken heart,’ Carl said, his arm around her, pulling her towards him.

Sarah drank her crisp cool wine which she recognised as Chardonnay. He had never spoken of love before.

Carl spoke again, very quietly low. ‘Let’s dance, I’m not hungry, not while I can hold you.’

He laced his fingers through hers, pushing back his chair, slipping his arm round her as she joined him, pressing his body against hers as they danced and the music was
We Can Work it Out
by the Beatles.

‘We can, can’t we?’ he murmured into her hair, running his hands down her back, holding her buttocks, pressing her to him.

She leant into him, breathing his scent through his shirt, watching Davy laughing with the girl, his arm round her, their two heads close together and she relaxed. ‘We have worked it out, we’re here and it’s as though we’re in another world. Carl, you’ve given me so much.’ She looked at the pop singer on the next table, the photographer smoking pot and nodded to the woman he was with, smiling as she came across and talked to them of
The Secret Of The Golden Bough
which Sarah had bought from the Indica Bookshop, and of John Coltrane.

‘Brilliant, of course,’ Sarah said, wondering if anyone in Newcastle had ever heard of him, knowing that no one in Wassingham had.

‘I’m not too keen on jazz though,’ Carl said, rubbing his hand up and down her back, then whispering into her ear, ‘Just on you.’

He eased her away from Marlene and walked her away from the patio across level sweet-smelling grass, kissing her, stopping, holding her close, running his hands down her sides, her bare thighs, the outside of them, the inside, easing his fingers into her pants, stroking her gently. Oh God. Then he withdrew and held her buttocks, breathing, ‘Thank God you came into my life just when mini skirts arrived.’ He pulled her after him, towards the trees which edged the lawn, stopping again, undoing her dress now that they were far from the noise of the music, the chatter, undoing all the buttons, letting it hang loose.

‘Jesus, you’re lovely,’ he murmured, standing back,
pushing the dress aside, running his fingers from her shoulders to her thighs and she felt as though she was swollen, exposed, raw-nerved, on fire but frightened. She pulled her dress to her again, doing up the buttons, because it didn’t matter if she recognised Chardonnay and John Coltrane, she was just a girl from Wassingham who was too frightened to give herself.

Carl pulled her to him. ‘Trust me, darling, here let me do them up properly.’ He bent his head to see by the moonlight, then took her hand, leading her further into the wood, down a beaten path and there were lights at the end.

They approached a stone pavilion hung with lanterns and with cushions strewn about. Sarah hesitated at the foot of the steps.

‘Come on, my darling,’ Carl said, pulling her with him, taking her inside the one-roomed building, holding her to him, kissing her gently, so gently, licking her lips, her cheeks, his eyes looking into hers, his hands holding her face. Kissing her again and again but there was nothing else, just kisses and she relaxed again.

He moved to the table which was laid with bowls and a burning spirit stove. He took a silver spoon from a cut glass bowl, removed the lid of a porcelain jar and dug deep and she saw the hash gleaming darkly as he tipped it into the glass bowl, kissing her again as he put the spoon down, touching her mouth with his fingers.

‘I love you, darling,’ he murmured, looking deep into her again and she saw that he did, and knew that she loved him too.

He lifted the glass bowl, heated it and she saw the glass turn cloudy, then thick grey, watched him as he trapped the smoke, turned and held it to her, his lips glistening with moisture from her mouth.

‘Breathe it,’ he commanded gently, bending her head down to the glass. She looked into his eyes and again saw the love and nodded. He removed his hand and she breathed deeply, so deeply and now he did too and she gripped his shoulders,
kissing his head, holding his arms, kissing his hands as he breathed in the smoke, taking the glass from him, breathing again, feeling a stroking begin inside her head, the kisses on her face.

He laid her on the cushions and took the clothes from his own body and he merged into the soft light of the lanterns, the soft sound of the music which drifted around them, in them, through them, then he came to her, kneeling over her, and she stroked him, pulled him on to her, kissed him and then he was gone but there was no sense of loss, just the floating of her body.

Then she felt his hands again and they were pulling apart her dress, ripping the buttons and she watched as they rolled across the paved floor, spun then fell, one, two, three.

She felt his hands on her breasts, tearing at her bra, ripping it from her, kissing her body, licking it and now she was floating so high, and her limbs were loose and lost.

‘Please,’ she begged, ‘please.’ But the words were so far away, the stroking in her mind so strong. ‘Please,’ she whispered, kissing his smile, running her hands down his body, finding him, stroking him then pressing his body on to hers. ‘Please.’

He raised himself to kneel over her again and now his hands found her, easing off her pants, stroking her gently, bending, kissing her, licking her and she moaned from the pleasure that rippled from his tongue, again and again until she could hardly breathe, and the ripples grew and the pleasure surged, again and again, inside and out.