Annie's Promise (37 page)

She shut her eyes, and all she could see was a golden light. There was no fear. She looked at him, so golden too in the light, his lips parted and swollen, his eyes half shut.

‘Please,’ she said, lifting her arms to him and he looked at her and took a condom from the pillow behind her, easing it on.

‘No,’ she said. ‘You, just you.’

He shook his head. ‘No, we don’t want babies yet, my darling.’

She wanted to weep for the babies she wanted to have with him, and for his love which protected her, but the stroking was still there, the floating, the pleasure and now he was on her, pushing himself gently into her, so gently and after a moment’s pain there was nothing but a surge of light, of being, and another, and another, again and again until she thought she would die.

That night they lay together on the cushions and loved again, and then he held a joint to her lips and they breathed in deeply, before walking across the dewed lawn when dawn was breaking, sinking into the bath which led from their room, his legs round her, his hand soaping her body, hers soaping his.

As the sun warmed the day they lay on the lawn with the others, smoking pot and she smiled at Davy, who lay with the auburn girl, and they tapped to the music of the Beatles together and Sarah could still feel Carl inside her and knew that she would only ever love him.

They drank coffee and she smiled at Sam as he dropped sugar lumps into all their cups.

‘I don’t take sugar,’ she murmured, lying back in Carl’s arms.

‘You’ll like this, my darling,’ Carl said, rubbing his finger down the curve of her neck.

She drank, sipping slowly, and the music began to pound and then to slow, to thump, to pulse faster and she turned to Carl in fear. He held her.

‘LSD, darling. We’re getting all the treats this weekend; don’t worry, I’ll look after you, just remember that your mind will fly open, this will open doors to unbridled creativity, to another world. I know, believe me, I know.’

She lay back in his arms, feeling the waves of euphoria sweeping over her, gasping in wonder at the swirling colours of the sun through the trees, the flowers in the bed, the dresses of the girls, but then it was too bright, it was swirling too fast, she was breathing too fast, the music was pounding,
rushing and then a flower opened up inside her and she basked in the sun which was warmer than it had ever been and the flowers brighter, the scent of Carl sharper. She didn’t have to talk, to think. All she had to do was to be.

The following week, she went on the pill and to more parties with Carl. They took LSD tabs and as they cycled to college in the morning Davy told her that it was as though he had never tasted, smelled or heard anything before, that he wanted to keep that depth and clarity of perception all the time and she understood every word he said.

They played at the gig and Sarah explained to Carl that Davy fumbled because of the LSD. That was why his timing was wrong, his voice too quiet. Carl took her to bed, loved her and then heated hash for her.

She replied to Annie’s letter, telling her that the gig had gone well, that she was sorry she hadn’t written for three weeks but life was hectic, busy, and such fun.

She wanted to write and tell her of her love but she didn’t, neither did she tell her of the drugs because how could she understand that it was not as harmful as they had always told her it was. It was just light, love, the unlocking of doors, an explosion of talent, because Davy’s art had broken new boundaries and leapt into psychedelia and their rooms were festooned with his work.

‘But don’t send any up to them,’ Sarah warned. ‘They’d freak. They wouldn’t understand.’

They played at a party of Sam Davis’s the following week and Sam praised them, but said that Tim and Davy needed just a bit more polish, a bit more experience. In bed that night Carl said, ‘Don’t worry, I know how you feel about him, I’ll think of a way to brush up his style.’ Then they sucked hash and she sank into its arms, and Carl’s, not thinking, just being, just accepting.

In July Davy went to Hamburg with Carl and another group, who took him along as lead guitar.

‘To give him that edge, darling,’ Carl said as he kissed her goodbye at the station.

‘Write,’ she called as the train pulled away. ‘Please write and don’t be sick on the ferry, Davy.’

Her bags were heavy as she lugged them on to the train, heaving them into the luggage rack, smoking cigarette after cigarette and stubbing them out in the ashtray, watching the countryside unfold, the blackened verges, the wheat ripening to the colour of Carl’s hair and she ached for him and the glow which surrounded their lives together.

She slept, woke, tried to read her course notes. She’d passed her exams, but only just, there were no flying colours for her but who cared, life was too short. That’s what Davy had said too, when he got his results.

Wassingham was as small as she remembered it, and just the same, always the same, and so were her family, the pigeons, the neighbours, the smell of coal, the grime. She lay in bed that night and ached for Carl again then walked to the beck in the morning, smoking pot as she sat by the willow, wondering if they were there yet, wondering why she couldn’t have gone too.

‘It’s business, not a holiday,’ Carl had said. ‘I only just managed to swing it for Davy, couldn’t get them to take Tim.’

She smoked another joint, holding her face to the sun, exhaling slowly, feeling her thoughts become submerged beneath the haze, and she preferred it that way.

That evening her mother asked why she hadn’t gone with them and treated it as a holiday.

‘Because it’s not a holiday, it’s business. You of all people ought to be able to understand that.’ Sarah flung down the tea towel and slammed up to bed.

That night Annie held Georgie in bed. ‘She’s in love, in pain. She’s not sleeping, you can tell that. She looks so drawn and pale – I’d like to meet him, just to see what he’s like.’

Georgie sighed. ‘She needs to keep busy – let her have this
week to settle down, she seems so jumpy – then give her some work to do in the design department, Tom’s all for it.’

The next day Georgie took Sarah with him to the tossing point three miles to the north and she sat in the car, wanting to scream at the creaking of the basket, the fluttering of the birds, the boredom of it all, the rawness of her nerves. God, she must be tired.

She stood in the north-east wind, turning up her collar, thinking of the warmth of Bracklesham Bay, the touch of those hands, the feel of his lips, the feel of him inside her, the glow of the hash, the softness of a joint, the vividness of a tab.

‘Let ’em go then, Sarah,’ Georgie said, leaning on his stick, gauging the wind. ‘Easily calm enough for them.’

She stopped, undid the straps, let the lid fall back and watched as the birds fluttered and took flight, wheeled, dipped, then soared.

‘It’s so good to have you home, to do this with you again, bonny lass,’ Georgie said.

Sarah smiled. ‘I’m so glad I’m here, Da,’ but she wasn’t. She wanted to be with Carl, wanted his hands to undress her at night, heat her hash, roll her joints. She wanted all that and none of this, and she hated herself for it.

A letter arrived from Davy at the end of the week and she tore it open, scanning the page, skimming over the flea-ridden digs, the smoky club, the heckling British sailors calling for the Beatles, then slowed and read again and again of Carl taking photographs of them all outside the Kaiserkeller, then walking them all down the Reeperbahn dodging the prostitutes.

Finding it tiring, the sessions are so damn long, but Carl’s helped me out, he’s a great guy, Sarah, he really looks after us both, doesn’t he?

Sarah waited for the second post, but there was no letter from Carl. There was none the next week either, and she
shook her head when her mother asked her if she would help out in the local shop while they moved the manager across to supervise the opening of the new one in Gosforn.

‘I’ve too much college work to catch up on, Mum,’ she said, bending her head over her file.

Another letter came from Davy the following week and his writing was scrawling, untidy and there were psychedelic motifs beneath his signature.

Annie leant over her shoulder and picked up the envelope. ‘Good lord, is he writing it on a bus or something?’

Sarah smiled. ‘Yes, he’s off on a trip.’ Not your sort of trip though, Mum, and she went up to her room, looked out across the levelled slag heap and could have screamed with boredom and frustration and the pain of getting no letter from Carl.

At the end of August Annie cooked supper while Georgie was at the pigeon club and said, ‘Would you like us all to go on holiday, it might make the time pass more quickly for you, Sarah? You still look tired.’

Sarah lit a cigarette, avoiding her mother’s eye, waiting for the comment again but Annie said nothing, after all, she had smoked, how could she complain about her daughter?

‘No thanks, Mum, I’m too old to go with you and Dad, if you know what I mean.’

‘Then go and give Betsy a hand tomorrow in the creche. I’m not asking you this time, I’m telling you. We’re all working very hard and you are not.’

Annie put down the pork chop, passed the apple sauce. Sarah looked at it, stubbed out her cigarette.

‘We have lobster quite often you know, I find it suits me more than meat.’

Annie put down her knife and fork. ‘Well hard bloody luck, you’ll just have to put up with this.’

The next day Sarah helped Betsy in the creche and she wiped noses and read stories to the children, sitting them on her knees, but hating it. She wanted to be in the world she knew,
not here, with all these people and kids who never looked beyond the bloody slag heaps.

That evening she arrived home and there was a postcard from Carl.

Should be having a lovely time, but am not. Miss you, miss you, miss you. Carl.

She made tea for her mother and cooked steak because Betsy was coming then sat with them all, talking and laughing, feeling the card in her pocket, touching it, smiling to herself. That night her mother made cocoa and brought it into her, sitting on her bed, sipping.

‘So, you’ve heard from him.’ Annie’s face was kind.

Sarah nodded.

‘A long one I hope.’

‘Yes, sort of.’

‘Oh?’ Annie said quietly.

‘A postcard if you must know.’ Sarah’s voice was hard, defensive because what right had her mother to ask? She had no right, for God’s sake.

‘He cares for me, he’s there for me, always there.’

Annie said dryly, ‘Not this minute though, business comes first eh, even before letters?’

Sarah flushed and put her cocoa on the bedside table, it was revolting, thick, horrible. She wanted a joint, speed, anything but this woman sitting on her bed criticising Carl.

‘You should know about business coming first,’ she hissed. ‘And why are you still in this stupid little house – you own a factory, we could be in Gosforn, somewhere smart.’

Annie just sat there, gripping her cup, then she said slowly, ‘We’re here because it’s our home, and besides we can’t afford anything else because we plough the profits back into the business and then split what’s left over. You know that.’

‘But it’s so boring, so small. There’s a
world out there, Mum, a world that left this place behind ages ago.’

Annie stood up, looking into her cocoa. ‘I know there’s a world out there and that it’s exciting, stimulating. I felt I had to leave once too, Sarah, and I did, and then I came back because I wanted what it had to offer. I do understand how you feel.’

She stopped and kissed her daughter but there was no warm arm flung around her neck as before, just the heat of her daughter’s damp skin and the confusion in her eyes.

Annie walked from the room. Dear God, why weren’t there any lessons in being a parent?

Sarah left for London early, she couldn’t stand being suffocated by her family any longer, she would rather be alone.

Carl and Davy arrived back in October, just before the start of term when the leaves were falling from the trees and there was mist morning and evening and a crispness in the air. They burned their paraffin heaters and Sarah put Davy’s pale drawn looks down to sleeping in dank rooms and too many hours playing in smoky bars.

Carl agreed. ‘Oh yes, it was tough, but it’s done him good.’

They rehearsed on Wednesday and there was a hard edge to Davy’s playing, and his fragile melodies were gone. In bed Carl said they were the best he had heard in a long while and flipped her a tab, and they made love as she had remembered, though better, deeper, surer, sharper.

Carl planned more gigs for them, including a week’s tour in November in the Midlands so they all played sick at college and laughed and sang in the van as Carl drove up to Leicester where it was cold, and the audience uninterested. They slept in the van too, eating in a fish and chip bar, using public conveniences which were cold and smelly. Carl made a phone call the next day, before they should have left for Northampton.

‘I have to go back, bit of business has come up. Tim’s got the itinerary, I’ll see you in London on Sunday. Just be good, all of you.’

They drove to Northampton and Sarah cursed his business, his college work, his contacts, because she wanted to be the whole of his life and if they had to sleep in a van she wanted to be next to him. They played Davy’s music that
night and the audience roared and clapped to it, dancing round the tables, calling for more.

That night Sarah couldn’t sleep because the adrenalin was pumping in her body and the van was cold, the floor hard, the whole bloody thing was impossible, she thought, turning over and over. The next day she felt sick with tiredness, and her voice was flat when she sang. Davy handed her water during the break and she saw that his hands were trembling.

‘For God’s sake, you’re tired too. why are we doing this?’

He grinned, his thin face creasing. ‘I’m not tired, Carl sees to that. Here, take one of these tonight.’ He handed her an orange and blue pill. ‘It’s Tuinal, it’ll help.’

She looked at it. ‘Mm, I always did like the orange smarties.’