Annie's Promise (31 page)

He knocked on her door now, ‘Sarah, can I come in?’

‘In a minute, wait a minute, I’m changing.’ She rushed to the sink, splashing water on her face, drying it, looking in the mirror. Yes, it was all right. ‘Come in then.’

She sat on the cane chair and it wobbled as Davy opened the door and she said, ‘Toss us that piece of paper then, Davy, I’ll bung it under the leg, there’s one shorter than the other and it’s driving me mad.’ She strove to keep her voice strong, because he mustn’t know that she had been crying.

Davy brought it to her. She dug her fingers into the palms of her hand, smiling as he squatted before her, handing her the paper. She folded it, then leaned back in the chair, handing it back to him. ‘It’s better if you do it and I sit here getting at it at the right angle. OK, now stuff it under the one that’s up in the air.’

She watched as he shoved it beneath the leg, then stood, looking down at her. ‘Strange how you always get the sitting down jobs,’ he said smiling but it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘It’ll get better, bonny lass.’

He moved to the bed and sat down. Tell me that and mean it, Davy Ryan, she thought because she knew it wouldn’t get any better, how could it? They’d been here a week and no one had spoken to them properly, no one had smiled in the refectory, or called them over to sit with them. Everyone seemed to have someone else to talk to, so many friends. She looked around the room and wanted to be back in her mother’s kitchen, in own bedroom, she wanted to hear her parents’ voices, their radio, the pigeons. She wanted to go home and now she felt her throat thicken, and knew that she
would cry again and so she said, ‘Oh come on, let’s get out of here.’

She hurried to the door, pressed the timed light switch and rushed down the stairs, hearing Davy following her, not wanting him to see her face, not wanting to speak because then the tears would come. She squeezed past the bikes in the hall. The light went off, she knocked her shins on a pedal, and heard Davy doing the same. She banged the light switch by the door. ‘Damn bloody thing, can’t even have enough light to get out in one piece.’

She wrenched open the door, hearing Davy begin to laugh. She waited for him on the steps, leaning back against the railings, hearing the laughter growing louder as he came down the hall, out of the door, slamming it behind him, and now she was laughing too, holding on to the railings and on to his arm. ‘Damn bloody light,’ she gasped, knowing it wasn’t funny, wondering where the laughter was coming from, unable to stop it.

They clung to one another and he said, ‘We could always jump out of the window you know and save our shins.’

Sarah could barely speak, just nodded, clutching her sides then pointed at the railings. ‘That’s right, we’d break our necks but we’d have lovely shins.’

They sat on the steps, laughing, winding their scarves round their necks, then moved to one side as Tim from the end room came down the street and bounded up through the middle of them. He’d never spoken, just nodded as he did now, opening the door, going into the still lit hall, which plunged into darkness as he squeezed past the bikes. They heard ‘Christ all-bloody-mighty,’ and the laughter burst from them again.

Sarah ran up the steps and banged the light switch, her sides heaving, and Tim called from the end of the hall, ‘I owe you a drink for that, I’ll be down in a minute, we can curse Ma Tucker’s bloody light together.’

Sarah looked back at Davy, and now they grinned. ‘Maybe it’s getting better,’ he called.

It was getting better. Tim took them to Soho, strap-hanging on the tube which lurched and swung, then they walked along Wardour Street, Frith Street and Dean Street, and Tim told them that he had to repeat his last year because he’d spent too much time hanging out here. ‘Got into a group,’ he said, ‘all play and no work got Tim the big stick. Lesson one, kids, you’ve got to do a bit or you get slung out.’

Sarah felt the pain in her thumb and fingers from the cutter. ‘Trouble is,’ she said, ‘all work and no play makes you wretched, makes you want to go home.’

Tim stopped in the street, swung her round, arched his eyebrows, grabbed Davy’s arm. ‘Oh, we thought that’s what you wanted. Always together, always serious. Didn’t know you wanted to play too, that’s why we left you alone. Can’t have you going home, come along, see what London can tempt you with.’

He dragged them past French, Italian and Greek bars, restaurants, snack bars and delicatessens, and the smells mixed, the languages too. They heard the sounds of laughter, of conversation, of singing, of living and Sarah turned to Davy. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’

‘I bet your mam would laugh at that.’ Davy nodded to a strip club. ‘Probably try to sell them her knickers.’

They laughed, told Tim why, and he grinned, pointing out the prostitutes in dingy doorways, the teachers of French in the second-storey bedsits and Sarah felt that her world was being cracked wide open.

‘Don’t bother to write to your mam about them,’ Tim warned, ‘The last thing they need is knickers.’

He led them into a coffee bar which oozed steamy warmth. The hiss and spurt of an espresso coffee machine was drowned again and again by laughter and talk. They sank into chairs which nudged others, slipping off their coats, their scarves, while Tim bought the coffees.

‘Not bad, bonny lad,’ Sarah murmured, looking round at the garlic and onion strings which hung around the room, at the students who crammed round the tables. One of them
looked up and smiled. She was on Sarah’s foundation course and had never acknowledged her before. Sarah smiled back, blushing, pleased, and she held Davy’s arm. ‘I didn’t know any of this was here.’

He nodded. ‘Makes you feel better, doesn’t it?’

They spooned sugar on to the top of the froth, watching it sink through to the coffee, drinking it, wiping away moustaches, talking of their courses, their homes and Tim nodded when they spoke of Wassingham.

‘Knew you were from the north east. My uncle worked there for a while. Long way to come, long way to run away home too.’

Sarah looked down, scraping the froth from the inside of the cup with her spoon. ‘Where’s your home then?’ she said, because she didn’t want to talk of running away. It wouldn’t be running away, it would just be not returning after Christmas, that was all.

Tim came from Guildford and told them of the cobbled North Street, the second-hand bookshop run by the Thorpes, one younger, one older, the younger being as old as Methuselah.

Davy said, ‘What group do you play with?’

‘I don’t, not any more. They eh, got sent down, shall we say. Got too heavily into drugs so it’s just me and my guitar now, looking for a home.’

Davy bought more coffees and more people came in, squeezed past, slapping Tim on the shoulder, telling Davy and Sarah that this man had to do some work this year or he’d never cast himself upon the world.

‘We play,’ Sarah said. ‘We had a group at home.’

Tim looked at them both, his face serious now. ‘What d’you play?’

‘Most things, we’ve been trying to broaden our scope, covering the Beatles, the Stones, Cliff Richard, the ballads but now we’re trying to write our own too.’ Sarah stopped because they hadn’t tried, not for the last week, everything had stopped, sucked into the long dark tunnel of loneliness.

‘Fine, let’s get together. We’ll need a fourth but Arnie’s free,’ Tim shouted across the room, waving Sarah’s scarf in the air. ‘Arnie, over here a minute.’

Arnie shambled across, dressed in a long sweater with holes in the elbows, his hair long and unkempt and Sarah knew that her da would love to get his hands on it, cut it, slick it down with Brylcreem.

He sat with them, playing the drums on the table, listening. ‘Great idea, we can audition for the Christmas gig, where’ll we practise?’ He spoke with a drawl.

‘Mid-Atlantic,’ Tim said, grinning. ‘The furthest this man’s been is Watford.’

But where would they practise? It could only be back at the digs and then only when Ma Tucker was out and she was always out on a Monday, Wednesday and Friday but returned at varying times. They drank more coffee and devised a system whereby they would take it in turns to keep watch at the window while still playing.

‘But what about the room next to Sarah’s? Doesn’t anyone rent that – will they complain?’

Tim shook his head. ‘Someone called Carl has taken that. Arnie knows him, he was in his house last year. Didn’t say he was going to move, but here he is. He drifted in and out of Arnie’s place – didn’t turn up until halfway through last term. He’s at the LSE but isn’t there much, he’s got his fingers in the pop pie and God knows what else. He was in Morocco this summer so he’s probably still there – bet he brings back some good pot. Anyway, don’t worry about him, we can square it if he turns up.
If
being the operative word.’

‘Mm, sounds great,’ Arnie said, rising. ‘We can fix up some gigs for next term, still a few clubs who’ll give groups a chance and we can try and talk Carl into helping.’ He shambled away again and Sarah finished her coffee.

Next term was another matter, she thought as she lay in bed that night, because now that the lights and the warmth of the coffee bar were gone, the room seemed darker, colder, and Wassingham even further away.

In November she read her mother’s letter and laughed gently when Annie told her that her father had nearly had apoplexy at the Beatles’ MBE.

He wanted to take my scissors to their hair, and plaster it with Brylcreem. He still aches for Vera Lynn and the
White Cliffs of Dover
you know but he’ll make do with Alma Cogan or Donald Peers! I’m glad to hear that you are practising again and just hope your system of signals works. I’m sure the packing room misses its nightly vibrations, I know we do.

Business is good, and getting better. It’s all a great relief and Bet spends more and more time in the creche – I’m sure it’s because all you birds have fled the nest. We’re so looking forward to Christmas, my darling. Incidentally, Prue sent you over this sandalwood box, thought it might bring some sun into your bedsit. Are you happy? I do so hope so.

Sarah held the box, smelt it, ran her fingers in the carved grooves and wanted to write back that the lavatory was horrid, a bath possible only once a week, the gas fire gobbled shillings, that she was sick of baked beans and wanted to come home.

She put the box on the table near to the designs she had been drawing and passed the letter to Davy. She washed the dishes. Tomorrow Davy would cook – and it would be beans – and she wanted to be a child again, leaning into Bet’s arms, into her mother’s, her da’s.

‘It’s better now, isn’t it?’ Davy said, pulling the table to one side, stacking up her designs. ‘It’s better now we’ve got the music, now we know Tim.’

Sarah nodded. Yes, it was better but only while Tim and Arnie were here, the rest of the time they were still too far away from home, from friends and family.

That evening they played the music that they would perform at the audition, playing the riffs again and again,
drinking instant coffee and then beer which Arnie had brought, taking turns to stand at the window peering left and right. Taking a break, talking themselves through the score, picking out the chords.

‘We’re getting better. Sarah’s got a good voice,’ Arnie said, drawing on his cigarette.

Tim tossed him his cigarettes back. ‘Yes, and we’re getting better as a group, what d’you two think?’

Sarah and Davy nodded. They were getting better but they weren’t as good as they had been with Paul and Geoff, there wasn’t the understanding, the years behind them. They played again, practising the vocals, the breaks, the repeats, the riffs until her throat and fingers were sore.

She sipped water and they played again practising the descending introduction over and over. ‘Louder,’ Davy said. ‘Louder.’

The air was thick with smoke, their fingers strained on the strings, Sarah’s voice cracked, she cleared her throat, caught up with them, sang again, and then there was a knocking on the door and they fell silent – utterly silent.

Then Tim whispered, ‘Oh God, Ma Tucker.’

They’d forgotten to watch for her. They looked at one another, then the knocking started again.

‘Somebody died in there?’ It was a man’s voice, cultured, creamy.

Tim laughed, dumping his guitar, opening the door.

‘Nearly, Carl, thank you very much.’

He was tall with blond, sun-streaked hair and his skin was tanned against his cuff as he shook Sarah’s hand. ‘We’re neighbours I believe. I hope I won’t disturb you when I turn over in the night.’

Sarah could think of nothing to say. He moved along to Arnie, slapping his arm. ‘Got a new group then, you old reprobate.’

Arnie just nodded, fingering his guitar and smiling, the smoke from his cigarette drifting up, mingling with the hazy
cloud which hung above them. Davy grinned. ‘Good to meet you. We thought it was Ma Tucker.’

‘So, a little northern laddie – and how d’you like the big city?’

Carl was bringing out two bottles of wine from the bag he carried. ‘Thought we’d have a welcome home party for Carl.’

Sarah said, ‘We were practising.’ And her voice was hard and more Geordie than usual because this man had made Davy flush.

Carl looked at her, smiling slowly. ‘A little northern lassie. Good. The Animals are quite something and so are you. I was talking to them just the other day. Have you a corkscrew?’

‘Of course,’ Sarah took it from the drawer, blessing her mother for giving her one, ‘just in case’. Her voice was cold.

Davy was smiling now, because what had seemed to be an insult now seemed to have been a compliment and Sarah felt confused. Tim brought glasses from his room, Davy one from his and they drank to the new group, to Carl’s return, and his eyes met Sarah’s, deep brown, almost black and his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks. ‘Cheers,’ he said, raising his glass to them all, and again to her. ‘Cheers.’

They drank and he put another shilling in the gas fire, it spluttered, hissed and then burnt steadily as he told them of the heat of Morocco, the yacht his mother had bought for the holiday and then sold at a profit, the flight he had taken to India with friends, the boat they had taken down the Ganges.