Annie's Promise (32 page)

‘You’d have been interested in the designs, Tim,’ Carl said, blowing smoke into the air.

‘These two as well,’ Tim said, pouring more wine for them all.

Carl smiled at Sarah. ‘Textile designer too?’

She shook her head. ‘No, dress design, and I agree with you about the designs of India.’

Carl looked at her more closely. ‘Oh you’ve been?’

‘No, I’m just a wee Geordie lassie, aren’t I? My parents have lived there and have told me all they know about
the place.’ Sarah heard the anger in her voice and didn’t care. How dare this man come into their room and flash his tan, his accent, his wine at them like this?

Davy was grinning at her, Tim too and now Carl nodded. ‘Touché, I feel.’ He sipped his wine, looked away at Arnie. ‘So how’s it going? You licking them into shape?’

Arnie sucked on his cigarette. ‘More like these two licking us into shape. They’re good.’

Carl looked at Sarah again, surprise in his face. She looked not at him, but Davy. ‘We’d better practise harder on Friday, we’ve lost an hour tonight.’ Her voice was cold.

Carl smiled at her. ‘Please, do go on. I shall be the audience.’

‘We’re not ready for an audience,’ Sarah snapped, covering her glass as he moved the bottle towards her.

Tim asked Carl, ‘So, who’ve you been mixing with then, apart from The Animals?’ He was lounging back on the bed, whilst Davy and Arnie sat on the floor, their glasses between their legs. Sarah sat on the chair and thanked God that the legs were balanced or she’d be wobbling about and my God, wouldn’t this prat enjoy that? She looked at him as he answered Tim, sitting across from her, facing sideways, his face thin, his lips so perfectly formed, his shirt so clean, his neck as tanned as his hands.

‘Talking to a guy at a party the other night. The Stones were there of course.’

Of course, Sarah thought.

‘A couple of new female singers too, but I don’t know, their managers just seem set on pushing them towards Blandsville, they’re just copying and magnifying the fifties ballad singers. I mean, just look at Kathy Kirby and Pet Clark, Sandy Shaw – we’ve seen them all before. They’re just jumping on a bandwagon that’s gone before.’

Arnie murmured now, lighting up another cigarette. ‘Bob Dylan’s just done that too. Gone electric, for God’s sake, what’s the matter with the guy?’

Carl laughed, scratching his neck. His nails were short,
clean, his fingers long and thin, an artist’s fingers, Sarah thought, hiding her own which were swollen and scored from cutting and sewing.

‘Got a good head on him, that’s what’s the matter. He’s going for the money and what’s wrong with that? He could get a new sound, who knows.’

Davy said quietly, his words slurred, glass at his mouth, ‘It’s a betrayal.’

‘No way – I’m telling you, these guys are in it for the money, nothing else. That’s the bottom line, for you lot too.’

Sarah spoke now, her voice cool. ‘These “guys” are where they are courtesy of the kids and they couldn’t produce the music they do if it was only for the money. It’s got to come out of the core of the group. They’re got to have a commitment.’

Tim and Davy nodded and she looked only at them, not at this man whose blond hair was too long and rested well below his collar.

‘So, Sarah. Perhaps you’re right, who knows. Perhaps you are.’ Carl’s voice was soft now, serious and he nodded at her as she turned to look at him, at those brown eyes which caught and held hers.

Arnie drawled. ‘So, what’s the demo about this week at the LSE, still the Vietnam war?’ He held out his glass for more wine but Carl turned from Sarah and shook the empty bottle, putting it down, taking out a silver cigarette case.

Davy said loudly, ‘For God’s sake, not politics. I thought I’d got away from that.’

Sarah looked at him then said quickly, ‘What music do you prefer then, Carl?’

He passed the cigarette case to her. She looked at the three large joints. ‘No thanks.’

He smiled. ‘What’s up, hasn’t pot reached Newcastle? Is it still just beer and pigeons?’

She stiffened, turned from him again. ‘Of course it’s reached us but I don’t want one, not tonight.’

She watched as he offered them to Arnie, Tim and Davy,
all of whom took one, Davy avoiding her eyes because he had never smoked before.

Arnie lit the joints and Sarah watched Davy draw in too deeply, cough, choke, his eyes watering, the others laughing, but not unkindly. Carl was bringing out a pouch and papers, laying them on the table, saying over his shoulder to Arnie, ‘Open the window or Ma Tucker will have hysterics.’

As he pulled out the pot and laid it on the paper she smelt the heavy sweet scent of the marijuana – Davy was coughing no longer, but taking more shallow draughts, his lids heavy, his smile relaxed. He looked happy, he looked as he had done in Wassingham. Sarah looked around the room at the people they played music with but didn’t know. Strangers. So many strangers.

Carl held out the reefer to her. She shook her head again. He shrugged, lit it, sucked deeply, leaning back in his chair, watching her with kind, brown eyes and there was silence in the room. Sarah looked at her hands, so tense in her lap. She looked at Davy, sprawled and happy, at Tim and Arnie, who were strumming imaginary guitars, beating imaginary drums, and felt alone.

Carl leant forward, tapped her arm. She looked at the reefer he held out to her, damp from his mouth. ‘Sure?’ he said. ‘Alcohol does your throat far more harm and you should look after your voice, it’s good, I heard it through the door. Trust me, I wouldn’t hurt you.’

She hesitated, then put out her hand but he placed the reefer in her mouth, his fingers brushing her lips.

‘Just draw lightly,’ he said gently.

She did, and felt the heat, the taste enter her. He took the reefer from her mouth and she breathed smoke on to his hands. The tension left her body, her shoulders dropped, she leaned back in her chair.

‘I came in because I wanted to see if the body was as lovely as the voice. It is.’ She watched him reach forward and pull the velvet band out of her hair, she felt him touch her cheek, her neck, pull her hair forward over her shoulder
so that it fell on her breast. He brushed it away, touching her. She felt a flare of heat shafting down, taking her breath from her, the strength from her fingers, and now her hands lay limp on her lap.

‘Play for me,’ he said but how could she, her lips felt too full, her fingers too weak. All she wanted to do was to lay her head in the hand which still held her hair.

‘Come on then,’ Tim said, heaving himself to his feet. ‘Check for Ma Tucker then, Sarah.’

Sarah turned. Everything seemed so slow, so easy. She checked the window. ‘All clear,’ she said and her voice seemed distant.

She held her guitar, easing the strap over her head, tapping her foot. ‘One, two, three.’

Then they played their own songs for him and she sang, and all she could think of were his fingers brushing her lips, her breasts, and all she could see were his eyes watching her, then Davy, then the others, but always back to her. Her shoulders felt loose, warm, and for the first time since leaving Wassingham she felt secure.

They stopped and there was silence. ‘Very good. Very, very good, but you need more muscle, the songs are anaemic. Let me know if I can ever help you. Good luck with the audition – see you at your Christmas gig.’

He was standing, moving to the door, leaving them. The door closed but the others were talking, laughing, joking, they hadn’t really heard, they were too drunk on wine, on pot and he was gone, he hadn’t even looked back. She looked at the ashtrays, full of ash. She sat down, so tired, so empty and then so full of anger. How dare he say their songs were anaemic, how dare he say they needed more muscle? And now she felt cold again and slammed the window shut.

Carl was gone again the following morning and his room remained empty. She was glad she wouldn’t have to see his blond hair, his thin face, his bloody tan. She was glad.

They practised three evenings a week, remembering to look for Ma Tucker each time and she also looked for Carl,
but it was only so that she could stop singing at his approach, wasn’t it?

She worked hard during the day, cutting, sewing, pressing seams, remembering Brenda’s instructions, remembering her throaty laugh, her mother’s grin and though she still wrote home saying that everything was great she crossed off the days on her calendar. Davy, though, was relaxing, enjoying the music, the fabrics he was working with, enjoying the pot which Arnie bought from ‘a friend’ and sometimes Sarah smoked as well, but not often, and then only with a sense of guilt.

They failed the audition. ‘Your songs are too weak,’ the Student Union Entertainment Committee told them and that night Sarah lay in bed, watching the lights from the passing cars on her ceiling, remembering Carl’s words, his touch, his tan and she reached for one of the joints she kept in Prue’s sandalwood box, drawing deep, leaning back on her pillows, two cardigans around her shoulders until at last her lids felt heavy, her body limp. She stubbed it out, replaced it in the box and slept, dreaming of pigeons, of her mother’s kitchen, Bet’s voice, and she knew when she awoke that she would not return to London after Christmas.

They went to the gig, packing before they did so, stuffing things into cases, cleaning the rooms. ‘We’ll catch the early train,’ she said and Davy nodded.

‘I like your skirt,’ he said. ‘But your da’ll have a fit.’

Sarah smiled. ‘I’ll wear them good and long up there.’

Tim and Arnie were there, Deb and Sally too, and the girls from her year. They bought drinks at the bar, chatted, talked as they’d never done before and Davy brought his year over and there was laughter, dancing, fun. Sarah twisted with Tim, with Davy, laughing as they dragged in Sally too, listening to the group which was playing and knew that they were good, better than she and Davy had been, but it didn’t matter now. None of it mattered because she was going home.

Arnie draped her in tinsel, and Sally too and Sarah picked
pieces off and hung them over Davy’s ears. ‘Now, just what do you think
your
da would think of that, bonny lad,’ she giggled, passing him her beer to drink from, sipping it herself, then smelling pot close by. She turned, Carl was dancing close, so close to a blonde girl, who clung to him, and he to her, his joint wafting sweet smoke.

Sarah turned away, back to Davy who still had tinsel behind his ears, and tried to laugh again, but all the fun had fled and she couldn’t understand herself. The music was too loud now, far too loud and her head ached and her throat as she strained to speak, strained to listen to Arnie’s drawl, Tim’s Jokes. She looked at her watch – nearly midnight, thank God – this time tomorrow she’d be far away from London.

She eased her way through entwined couples who moved with the music, through balloons which floated and were tapped back up into the air, feeling the streamers which caught at her, but never held. She sat at their table, drawing dress designs in the spilt beer, thinking of the train which would carry her home.

‘So, Geordie lass, come and dance with me.’ It was Carl, his breath heavy with wine and pot, his eyes soft, but his hands firm as they pulled her to her feet. She danced with him, felt his knee pushing again and again between her legs, his hands on her arms, gently holding, stroking.

‘Forgive me for saying your songs were anaemic,’ he said bending his head to speak into her hair. ‘I shouldn’t have done, but let me help you. There’s a need for a good strong girl singer. I could make you big.’

Sarah smiled because she was going home. ‘No thanks. Davy and I stay together. He’s family and besides, we’re going into my mother’s business.’

He was still so close. ‘Trust me, I’ll help you both while you’re down here, and then you can go back to your mother.’ Sarah just smiled again, remembering the suddenness of his departure, the rudeness of his words, knowing she would never see him again after tonight, knowing that she was going into the business now, not in three years’ time. His arms
tightened around her and she pushed away, looking into his face, his deep brown eyes, seeing only kindness when she had expected derision, feeling his kiss light on her forehead, when she had expected coldness. ‘Have a good Christmas, Sarah. I’ll see you when I return from skiing.’

Then he was ducking and weaving between the dancers, waving, smiling as people stopped him, took him aside, until he was gone from her sight.

‘No, you won’t see me,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m going home.’ But she could still feel his kiss on her forehead, and his hands on her arms.

The journey had been long. They had changed trains at Newcastle and now they were approaching Wassingham, they were coming home. Sarah stood at the window looking out at the slag heap being lowered because of Aberfan, at the houses, the pitheads and it seemed so small, so very small.

The train stopped, and there was Annie, and behind her Georgie, Tom, and Gracie. Sarah ran now, throwing her arms round her parents, dropping her duffle bag with her presents, promising herself that she wouldn’t cry, proud that she didn’t.

They drove her back and Davy called, ‘See you tomorrow,’ his face as settled and happy as she knew hers was.

The kitchen was warm, the kettle simmering. Bet had cooked a casserole and hugged her, kissed her, her plump cheeks warm and her arms strong, pushing her into a chair while Annie stroked her hair, then they made a cup of tea and Georgie brought Button’s grandson in to see her. She laughed and stroked the bird, wanting to sink into the warmth of her home, of her family, not able to understand how small the room seemed, how old Bet looked, how grey Annie’s hair was, how different it all seemed, how different they all seemed.

That night she stood by her window, looking out over the town, hearing the birds fluttering and cooing in the loft, seeing next door’s cat prowling in the yard, remembering the new dinner plates, the plants that had not been there when
she left, the new fireguard, and none of it was as she had remembered, even the loft. It all seemed so small.

The next day, she and Davy went into the factory where new machinists had been taken on, where schoolkids were doing the jobs that they had done in the packaging department and there was no room for Sarah and Davy this Christmas.