Annie's Promise (34 page)

They cycled on to the Kings Road and locked their bikes up again, dashing from one boutique to another, looking for ideas. It was hot in the shops and Sarah flung off her coat, handing it to Davy, trying dresses up against her, pressing them to her, swinging left and right in front of the mirrors.

‘I think the one you’ve got on is better than any of this,’ Davy said in the third shop. ‘You got some real good ideas, Sarah, a real eye for fashion.’

Sarah hung the dresses back on the rack, and flicked through the rest. ‘But I can’t wear the one I’ve got on, he’s seen it, it’s not posh. It’s Chelsea we’re going to, Davy.’

They rushed on to the next one, then Davy made them stop for coffee and a Chelsea bun.

‘To give us inspiration,’ he said, ‘and me a bit of stamina.’

They tried the next, and then the next and now they saw something that caught her eye – a simple shift with cut-away shoulders and another with a huge leather belt.

‘You could do that easily enough,’ Davy said. ‘I’d like to have a go at creating a waxed batik design for something like that, it would be stunning.’

Sarah held it up against her, turning, twisting, liking it. She turned it inside out to look at the darts, the seams, and stretched it while Davy held it.

‘Can I help you at all?’ a woman’s voice said and Sarah snatched her sketch to her side, then fingered the material. ‘Not quite what I was looking for,’ she replied, smiling at the woman whose lipstick had run into the lines dug deep along her upper lip.

The woman looked at her, then at the dress. ‘Do you make clothes?’

Sarah paused, then shrugged, bringing up her sketchbook. ‘Yes, I’m sorry, I was just looking for ideas.’

‘Did you make that?’ The woman pointed to the shift Sarah was wearing with its scalloped neckline, its thick deep purple belt which she had made of Indian cotton that Prue had sent at Christmas.

Sarah nodded, looking back at the dress that Davy still held, trying to hold it in her mind.

‘Can you make me some?’

The music was flashing in time with the lights and Sarah could feel the vibrations through her feet.

‘How many?’ Davy asked.

‘One dozen in a dark colour, one in a light, one muted, one vivid. Four dozen altogether and I want this sort of
textile design.’ She whipped a dress off the rack. It was a simple two-colour design.

‘How much?’ Sarah asked.

The woman told them.

‘By when?’ Davy asked.

‘One week.’

They looked at one another, then nodded.

‘Yes, we’ll be here, in one week’s time.’

They left then, running to their bikes, talking as they did so, stopping at the market for an offcut for a remake of her own dress, buying an Indian scarf to pick up the colour.

‘I’ll make your shirt and run up another shift for tonight, then a sample for Mum because it’s too big a job for us. We’ll have to talk them into it somehow – we’ll ring them tonight. It’s cheaper.’ The traffic lights were red but they kept going, sliding round to the left, ignoring the hoots, pedalling into the wind, turning right, then left. ‘Oh God, Davy,’ Sarah called over her shoulder, ‘Deborah’s friend was asked to do this by a boutique and she made a mint. These shops are just following along after the kids now, the designers aren’t dictating the fashion any more. It’s just … oh I don’t know.’

‘Grand’s the word you’re looking for.’ Davy was leaning forward, pedalling hard. ‘What lectures are you missing?’

‘Only pattern design. Debs will cover for me, I’ll get the notes off her. What about you?’

‘The history of dyeing.’

‘Who needs it?’

Davy laughed. ‘Not many, but I hope they bloody well need our dresses.’

They worked all afternoon and as she cut and sewed Sarah thought of Carl, then of the clothes, then of Carl again. They brewed one another coffee and worked until five. Then Sarah sneaked into the bathroom to run a cold bath because Ma Tucker would only heat the water once a week, leapt in and out quickly, then opened the door a crack, her hair wet and
dripping. Was Carl home? He mustn’t see her. She listened, waited, then ran for her room.

She dried her hair, wondering whether to have it cut short like Mary Quant and the women in boutiques. She brought out the iron, folded a towel on the floor, knelt to lay her head on the towel and ironed her hair, wanting it straight, wanting the kinks out of the side just for once. ‘Come out, come out, just this once,’ she begged, rushing to the mirror. No, they were still there.

She pressed the samples, Davy’s shirt, her dress and checked her watch. Oh God, it was twenty to seven. ‘Davy,’ she yelled, banging on the wall. ‘Come on, get your shirt. We’ve got to phone.’

She threw it to him as he came in, his hair still wet, sticking up. ‘Get your hair dry. I’ll go down and ring.’

Sarah hauled on her tights, rammed her feet into shoes that she had bought from the market. They were too tight, but never mind, they looked good. Bet had always said you could tell a person’s class from their shoes, she thought as she rushed down the stairs to the pay phone behind the bikes, shoving them along, squeezing in behind them, putting the money in, dialling. ‘I should be a bloody princess from the looks of these, but the bikes spoil it,’ she murmured, listening to the ringing tone. ‘Be in, be in.’

Annie answered, Sarah pushed the button. ‘Mum, it’s Sarah.’

‘Oh darling.’ There was pleasure in Annie’s voice, then anxiety. ‘What’s wrong?’

Sarah laughed. ‘Nothing, Mum, or there won’t be if you think we’ve done the right thing.’

She told her then about the dresses, the money, the quantity, the delivery date.

Annie laughed. ‘You don’t give us a lot of time, but why not? Perhaps it’s time we kicked off into fashion. All right, darling, put the sample on the train tomorrow. I’ll get someone to pick it up. Make sure you’ve put all the details down. The sizes and so on.’

‘Oh God, I didn’t get them.’

‘Never mind. Give them a ring in the morning, and me a ring in the evening with those. Well done, darling. Tell Davy well done too. Hang on, your da’s here.’

Sarah leant against the wall, then heard Carl calling down to her. ‘What are you doing, it’s nearly seven. Come on, Sarah, get off the phone, we’ve got to go and you haven’t put your make-up on.’

Georgie was speaking then, telling her how Geoff had called in to see them today, with copies of the photographs he had taken when they were up at Christmas. ‘I’ll send them down to you.’

‘Good, Dad, that’s great but I’ve – ’

‘Come on, Sarah, we’ll be late. Get yourself ready.’ Carl was hanging over the banister, nodding to Arnie as he squeezed past the bikes and ambled up the stairs.

‘Buttons’ great-granddaughter is thriving, her squeaker’s coming on nicely.’

‘Come on, Sarah.’

Sarah nodded at Carl. ‘Da I’ve got to go, I’m just off out. Mum will tell you all about the clothes. It could be good. Bye, love you.’

She hung up, her hands wet with tension.

‘For God’s sake, Sarah, get your make-up on.’ Carl was running down the stairs.

‘I don’t wear make-up,’ she said, catching the coat Davy dropped down from the landing.

‘Will you lot be quiet?’ Ma Tucker shouted from her room.

She followed Carl out of the house and stood behind him as he hailed taxi after taxi but none had their lights up. She ran her hands down her hair, felt her skin. They were going to Chelsea, she should have worn make-up. She’d show him up. Oh God.

‘We could take our bikes,’ Davy said.

Carl spun round. ‘Give us a break – that’d show a lot of class wouldn’t it, arriving on our bikes?’

Davy and Sarah looked at one another, then at Tim and
the laughter came, stupid silly wonderful laughter. ‘Me grandma always said your class shows in your shoes,’ Davy said.

‘And try not to sound so bloody Geordie, will you?’ Carl said, flagging another which swung towards them and stopped, just as their laughter had stopped.

They sat in the taxi silently. ‘Can you hurry please?’ Carl said, sliding the glass partition open. The cab lurched round the next corner and the next and Arnie slid from the dicky seat and now laughter came again, from Carl too, but Sarah could still not forget.

Carl put his arm around her. ‘So why did you have to ring then, what was it all about?’

Davy told him.

‘But why ring when we’re going out?’

‘Because it’s cheaper after six,’ Sarah said, her voice crisp. ‘We’re not all like you with money to burn and besides, they’re not home from work until then, and we don’t want to disturb them at the factory.’

She felt the pressure of Carl’s arm, his hand as he stroked her shoulder. ‘I didn’t realise they actually worked in the factory, I thought they just owned it. It’s tough on you though, little Sarah, having a mother who works, they say it harms the kids.’ His voice was soft, whispering into her ear. ‘Poor little girl, I shall look after you.’

They turned another corner and Arnie slid off again and again they laughed, then Sarah turned to Carl. ‘It didn’t harm me, I’m fine.’

‘Hardly, darling.’

They were drawing up at a house which had steps as Ma Tucker’s had, but they were white, and the pillars were white too. The number was in brass and Davy raised his eyebrows at Sarah, as Carl rang the bell, then opened the door.

‘Shouldn’t we wait?’ Sarah said, clutching at his sleeve.

‘Oh no, I’m almost one of the family.’ A blast of light and music hit them, the scent of perfume and pot as they walked into a hall filled with people holding wine glasses, smoking
cigarettes or joints. Carl turned and grabbed her hand, pulling her after him, up the stairs past family portraits on her left and a hung chandelier on her right which hung over the people below.

On the landing he stopped to take wine from a waiter, handing one to her. She looked behind. Tim and Davy had stopped and were leaning over, pointing to Arnie who was accepting a joint from an older man.

‘What did you mean, it has done me harm? What’s wrong with me, apart from my voice and my make-up?’ Her voice shook with anger, with hurt.

‘Oh darling, don’t be cross. It’s just that you’re so clingy, look at you, looking round for poor Davy. You should let him live his own life – and you ring your mother or write every week. I mean, isn’t it time we cut those apron strings? This is London sweetie, the sixties, not the forties.’ He kissed her cheek with his soft lips and waved to a blonde girl who lounged pouting against a mahogany table, her pan-stick make-up pale, her eye-liner dark. ‘See you in a minute, darling,’ he said to Sarah, kissing her lips this time, and even though the hurt and anger were harsh in her, so was the surge of passion at the touch of his lips.

She stood in the doorway, watching him leave her and thread his way through groups of people, seeing them brightening at the sight of him, slapping his back, and then he was gone. She watched the crowds, daring herself not to look for Davy, trying to smile, sipping her wine, gripping her glass with both hands until an old man with hair below his collar came up, smiled, shook her hand. ‘We were just discussing how the Vietnam war has fostered a solidarity among the youth, bound you together against authority, against parental power as you watch your brothers being felled. Do you agree?’

His breath was sweet with pot and wine, his eyes unfocused. He didn’t wait for an answer but ambled away.

She looked for Carl and saw him kissing the cheeks of the women, his briefcase with him as always. He was patting it
now, mouthing ‘Later,’ to the young man in the flowered shirt. So, he could do business night and day, but not her mother during working hours?

She drank her wine, plonked it on a passing tray and took another, drinking faster this time, joining the drifting crowds, smiling when a girl came and gripped her arm. ‘Dr Timothy Leary is right, this nirvana is the surest means to tune in to the higher consciousness, to break with the traditions of one’s parents – we need to break free, to explore everything, after this decade, nothing will ever be the same again.’

Sarah wanted the girl to stay so that she was no longer alone, so that when Carl saw her he would see that she was mixing, holding her own, damn him. ‘Who’s Timothy Leary?’ she asked, speaking as she had done so many years ago, before they came to Wassingham, her mouth rounded, her words clear.

‘He’s God,’ the girl said, leaving her.

Sarah took another drink, moved closer to a group to the left of her, smiling as though she was one of them, then becoming one of them as they widened their circle to let her in, asking if she had seen Thomas Henson’s surrealist art exhibition, telling her she simply must when she said no, shaking her head at the joint which was offered, looking round casually for Carl, feeling the pain when he saw him dancing with another girl. What am I doing here? She saw a man come, put his arm round Carl and speak quietly, then lead him to a table where a champagne bottle stood in ice.

‘So that’s her is it, Carl?’ Sam Davis nodded towards Sarah.

‘My backer’s right, she’s got the looks if she uses them properly, it’s all image, Carl – come on, get going on her – and it is just the girl they want, not the group, those are the backer’s instructions, and I agree, having seen her. It’s a solo artist I’m after.’

Carl brought out his cigarette case and offered Sam a joint. ‘I know it, but I’ve got it all in hand.’

Sam sucked on the joint. ‘Nice stuff,’ he nodded
approvingly. ‘So you’ll ditch the group, and make sure she ditches the degree? We’re not fiddling around so someone can have a fling for a couple of years and then walk away from it, it’s got to be a long-term thing. Mark you, you’ll have to get her trained, take her on the circuit, we’ll try a recording in sixty-seven probably.’ Sam leant forward. ‘I had a scout there at the college audition, just to check that my backer was right and my boy said she was good. There’s nothing wrong with the boys, they just don’t fit with the plan, so get rid of them, especially the Ryan boy and the family. Apparently she’s close to them, and that always leads to trouble. We want kids we can nurture, mould, you know what I mean? We don’t want any clever sods in on it and I gather they’re business people. It won’t do, so sort it or you’ll have no one to help you with your big break, and no more contacts, ever – got it.’