The Promise (2 page)

‘Ah, but you were only eighteen, far too young to know what love truly is,’ Vanessa had scorned.

Now, as she drew back the curtains on to the night sky, collected used cups and glasses, she noticed that her mother had been looking through old photo albums, as she so loved to do. She lived in the past, constantly recalling some golden era when she’d been happy, but then
would launch into a diatribe about how badly her family had treated her. How they had cast her off because she’d married a man her mother didn’t approve of. Chrissie had vague memories of holidays in the Lakes when she was small; other than that she knew little, if anything, about Vanessa’s family. She’d once asked why there wasn’t a single picture of Vanessa’s own mother in the albums, and had got a sharp response.

‘Why would I want a picture of that dreadful, unfeeling woman? She never did anything but lie to me.’

She absolutely refused to talk about it, speaking only of some fond romantic image she carried of the early years of her marriage, before Aaran Kemp, the love of Vanessa’s life, had so callously deserted her. The albums largely comprised pictures of a father Chrissie could barely remember. Had he loved her? Chrissie held a precious memory of being cuddled on his knee, of him tossing her in the air. Or was that because she’d seen fathers do these things in films?

If he had loved her, why had he walked away and left her, never to be seen again?

He’d visited them once, she seemed to recall, about the time he was called up at the start of the war. She must have been eleven or twelve at the time. He’d felt like a stranger to her after all those years of silence, and Chrissie knew she hadn’t exactly been very friendly towards him. Young as she was, she hadn’t been prepared to forgive him for deserting them. Now, knowing he’d been killed at Dunkirk, she felt guilty, as that was the last time she’d seen her father.

Chrissie slid the albums back into the sideboard drawer, not even bothering to look at them. She’d given up showing any interest in their yellowed contents years ago, when she’d failed to get any answers to her youthful questions. It was as she was closing the drawer that she realised a folded sheet of paper had come loose and was sticking out from the pages.

About to tuck it back into place so that it didn’t get torn, her curiosity suddenly got the better of her and she opened it.

It was nothing more exciting than her mother’s marriage certificate.

Chrissie shook her head in sad resignation. How dreadful that the loss of this man, a runaway husband, had so blighted both their lives. What a tragic waste. Yet Vanessa must still be passionately in love with him as she’d never remarried, despite her many amours. She complained about the debts she’d been left with, but never once had Chrissie heard her mother utter a single word against Aaran. She was undoubtedly a bitter woman but her venom seemed to be directed entirely against her own parents, as if they were the ones at fault. Perhaps she hated them for being proved right in their assessment of a straying husband. But despite his betrayal, Vanessa had remained steadfast in her loyalty to him. How blind is love?

Chrissie’s eyes filled with tears as she thought of her own love for Tom, a passion she did not expect to ever experience again.

But this was the first time Chrissie had set eyes on
evidence of her parents’ marriage and she smoothed the certificate out, staring at the names: Aaran Richard Kemp. Again she desperately tried to recall her father’s face. Occupation – businessman, and an address in Chelsea. No doubt the art gallery he owned, of which Chrissie had no recollection. That was back in the halcyon days of her mother’s youth. No occupation was listed for her mother, who was given the usual description of ‘spinster’, and the same address in Chelsea. Good heavens, were they living together? How deliciously sinful. Chrissie glanced then at her mother’s full name: Vanessa Margaret Cowper.

Cowper?

But wasn’t her maiden name Shaw? Chrissie was almost certain that was what she’d been told. Frowning in puzzlement she began to look for something to prove her theory. She searched everywhere, including the little bureau, but nowhere could she find evidence of any birth certificate. And then Chrissie found the rental agreement for the flat. And there it was: Mrs Vanessa Kemp, née Shaw. How extraordinary!

Folding the marriage certificate and carefully replacing it within the leaves of the album, Chrissie closed the drawer and went to bed. Although not to sleep.

For some reason she found it oddly disturbing to discover that her mother wasn’t whom she claimed to be. And if her maiden name was Cowper and not Shaw, as she’d always believed it to be, then who did that make Chrissie herself? Yet there was something vaguely familiar about the name Cowper. Where had she heard the name recently?

It was sometime in the early hours of the morning that she remembered, and sat bolt upright in shock. Of course, it was in the advertisement for Rosegill Hall in her mother’s copy of the
Westmorland Gazette
.

What had it said? Ah yes,
The owner, Georgia Cowper, offers a warm welcome to guests
.

Vanessa had been born in the Lakes, where this Hall was apparently situated. So if she carried the same name as this woman, one she had apparently denied and kept hidden for half a lifetime along with all details of her family, were they in some way related? Was this reminder of her hometown the reason she was in a particularly sour mood today? And what was this woman to Chrissie?

Her mother wept when Chrissie confronted her with what she’d discovered. ‘All right, it’s true. My maiden name wasn’t Shaw. I changed it because I never wanted Ma to find me.’

Georgina Cowper had apparently objected so strongly to the man her own daughter had chosen to marry, she’d cut her off completely only a few years into the marriage, banishing her for ever from her life.

‘Whatever did my father do to deserve such treatment? A lifetime of silence for not agreeing with her own daughter’s choice of husband was surely somewhat excessive?’

‘Nothing. Aaran did nothing at all. The woman is heartless.’

‘But why has this family feud, this estrangement, lasted so long? What gives your mother, my
grandmother
, the right to consider herself the oracle when it comes
to choosing a spouse? There must be more to it than simple disapproval. And did we never visit? I’m sure I have a vague memory of holidays in the Lakes.’

‘Nonsense, you’d be far too young to remember such things.’

‘Then tell me the whole story. I want to know all about this grandmother I can’t quite remember.’

Vanessa firmed her lips and stubbornly shook her head. ‘There’s nothing to tell. I believe she was born in America, but I’m not certain. Isn’t that sad? My own mother and I know virtually nothing about her. If there’s one thing Georgina, or Georgia, as she likes to be called, hates, it’s someone who attempts to pry into her private affairs. And she has to be the one in charge, you can’t tell her anything. The woman is quite impossible.’

Rather like you, Chrissie thought, hiding a private smile.

But she knew at once what she must do. Perhaps it was an unrealistic dream but Chrissie resolved to bring about a reconciliation between these two women, or at least attempt to start the healing process. She leant forward, suddenly excited. ‘We could visit her now. Why don’t we both go to the Lakes and see this place? When did we last have a holiday? We could go and stay at this Rosegill Hall and start building some bridges. Wouldn’t that do us both good? Cheer us up no end.’

Vanessa was appalled at the very idea. ‘After so many long years of silence, any sort of reconciliation would be impossible. I refuse to set foot in that place ever again.’

The cause was lost before Chrissie had even begun, and when she responded by saying she would go alone, her mother was horrified and begged her not to even try.

‘You don’t appreciate how difficult that woman can be, how arrogant. She showed not the slightest compassion when Aaran and I fell in love, practically threw me out of the house, and I’ve had no proper relationship with her since. I forbid you to have anything to do with her.’

‘Mum, I have to try. You’re a widow, a woman alone, still with huge debts to pay off, no income and about to be evicted from your home. We have to do
something
!’

‘Leave me some remnants of pride,’ her mother snapped. ‘That woman has never lifted a finger to help me throughout my entire marriage, and I’m certainly not going to ask for it now!’

‘No,
I
am. She’s your
mother
! She has a right to know how things stand with you. We can’t let pride get in the way of practicalities, or a possible rapprochement.’

The older woman’s cheeks were stained red with anger. ‘Listen to me, Chrissie, this is one particular Pandora’s box I do not want opening. Ever!
Is that clear?
’

They quarrelled for hours, Vanessa stubbornly refusing to accept Chrissie’s idea as a possible solution to their difficulties. Probably because she hated to admit to the fact that Georgia had been right all along, that she never should have married Aaran Kemp.

In the end, weary of the argument, Chrissie let the subject drop. But not the plan. Without any further
discussion on the matter, since she was a grown woman, after all, and surely capable of making her own decisions, she resolved to go ahead with it on her own. A holiday would do her good, and give her the time and space she needed to think properly about her own future, and whether Peter was the man to share it.

There would be no problem in getting time off from work as she hadn’t taken a fraction of the leave due to her. Chrissie went straight downstairs to ask Mrs Lawson, their neighbour, if she would cook and clean for her mother while she was away.

‘Course I will, chuck. Do you good to have a bit of a holiday. You’ve been looking a mite peaky lately. Go and get some sunshine and fresh air. I’ll see to madam.’

‘Bless you. I’ll bring you back a stick of rock … oh no, Kendal mint cake, I suppose, from the Lakes. I really do appreciate this, and I’ll pay you, of course.’ They both knew she couldn’t afford to, but Mrs Lawson simply smiled.

‘Ooh, don’t you worry about that none. What are neighbours for if not to lend a hand when folk are a bit down?’

‘No, I insist. I have a bit put by, I’ll see you don’t lose out.’

Concerned that the summer holidays were almost upon them, Chrissie decided a booking by post would take too long and rang Rosegill Hall from the public call box at the end of the street. The housekeeper informed her that they were fully booked, but the loft over the boathouse was nearing completion, if she was prepared to take the
risk that it would be ready in time. Chrissie was, and just ten days later, leaving a note for Vanessa on her dressing table, she quietly left.

The adventure had begun.

The train was late leaving Euston, constantly stopping and starting, once spending two hours sitting in a siding near Crewe in temperatures well into the seventies. And since it was July it was also packed to the doors with families going on holiday, screaming children, mothers fretting, soot and smoke and noise everywhere. The entire journey was a complete nightmare. Chrissie didn’t even feel able to eat the sandwiches she’d so carefully prepared, robbing her mother of precious eggs, mixing them with even more scarce butter, crusts neatly cut off as Vanessa insisted upon. Yet the sight of those curled triangles filled her with a strange nausea, and she gave them to an old soldier who looked half starved.

The juddering and rocking of the train made her bones ache and she leant her head against the dirty window, tears blurring her vision. When he asked if she was all right, Chrissie blamed it on the smoke and pulled on the window strap to shut out the soot-encrusted air, but still the tears trickled over her hot cheeks.

This should have been a joyous moment, the start of an exciting journey of discovery, an adventure. Perhaps it was being on a train again, with its inevitable connection to painful goodbyes, but all Chrissie could think of was Tom, and the pain of losing the man she’d truly loved. It felt as raw as if it were only yesterday and not over three years ago.

She’d stood on the platform at Paddington one bright sunny morning in May 1945, kissing him and thinking he would be demobbed in a matter of months, and they could then start to put the horrors of war behind them. Tom had been granted compassionate leave and a special licence so they could be married. They’d known each other less than a year but had felt instinctively it was love at first sight, and believed they would be together for ever. The wedding had taken place at the registry office with only her disapproving mother and a couple of witnesses present. Their honeymoon had comprised one night in a cheap hotel close to the station, but it had been utter bliss. Not for a moment did Chrissie regret that night. Her last sight of Tom was his cheery grin, arm waving, as the train curved around the bend as it left the station.

Days later, Chrissie had heard that one of the V2s had hit his billet. All her dreams and hopes had ended in that moment.

Could Peter ever replace him? Could any man? Ten years older than herself, she’d met Peter Radcliffe while attending an evening class, either the one on pottery or pressed flowers, she couldn’t quite remember. Peter was doing one on politics, or something equally dry. He’d pestered her for months before she’d finally agreed to go out with him on a date. Perhaps she’d given in out of pity, or desperation over the claustrophobic life she led. Seeking any excuse to get out of the house it had seemed like a good idea at the time.

Now he was making it very clear he was anxious to
regularise their relationship with marriage, and Chrissie was stubbornly refusing to agree. He’d been upset, angry even, when she’d told him she was going away for a whole month. Not only that, but she was leaving without giving him the answer he so longed to hear.

‘It’s too soon. I’m not ready,’ she’d told him for the hundredth time. ‘Although please don’t take that as any cause for hope. I really can’t see myself marrying again, not ever.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, of course you must marry. You’re far too young to spend your entire life alone. But this sudden decision to go off on holiday is so very selfish, not at all like you, Chrissie. What am I supposed to do while you’re gone, twiddle my thumbs? And what about your poor mother? Deserting her in this way, leaving her in the care of a total stranger, is callous in the extreme.’

‘Mrs Lawson is a kind neighbour who is glad to be useful because she’s rather lonely herself, and I’m not being in the least callous. I wanted Mum to come too, but she refused.’

‘I’m not surprised. The journey alone will be horrendous, and no doubt cold and wet in those northern climes.’ As if they were going to the Arctic.

Chrissie had said no more. She certainly had no wish to mention the real reason for the trip. For one thing it was none of his business, but also she did feel a certain guilt over having kept Peter dangling for so long, and promised faithfully to consider his offer and give him a final answer just as soon as she possibly could. She knew that he too had suffered in the war, like many others coming back
a changed man, although, unlike Tom, he had at least survived. Did he even love her? Or did he simply see her as good wife material, a useful helpmeet and prop to help him put the agonies of war behind him?

The train thundered through a tunnel and, pushing these thoughts from her mind, Chrissie decided there would be time enough later to make such decisions. First she needed a proper rest, and to bring about a family reunion.

After a while they left the hustle and bustle behind, and the countryside grew greener, the pale hint of mountains in the distance. Chrissie felt again that stir of excitement she’d long ago experienced when coming to the Lakes as a child for the summer, before the war changed everything.

Mother would close up the house in Chelsea, presumably leaving her father to cope alone throughout August. The move always demanded a great deal of fuss and bother, one minute Vanessa saying they needed very little in the way of luggage as everything was already there for them, and the next declaring she really couldn’t go without her new silk frock, or that delicious pair of shoes.

She could afford to be extravagant in those days.

Nanny, of course, had been much more practical, studying railway timetables and supervising the packing of a hamper large enough for them to survive for a month, let alone the few hours it would take them to reach Windermere. And with the promise of four weeks of idyllic fun on the lake, Chrissie would excitedly collect together favourite books and teddies, plimsolls and shorts,
wellington boots and waterproofs, for it often rained, even in August.

Chrissie couldn’t help wondering what else she might remember, once she reached her grandmother’s house.

She lost count of the number of changes as they headed north. Now it was quite late in the evening, almost dark, and raining, as the train drew into Lakeside station. Calling Peter was not high on her list of priorities. He could wait until she was in the right frame of mind for what would undoubtedly be a severe grilling, but Chrissie decided she couldn’t avoid her mother, or the issue of her hasty departure, a moment longer, and made use of the public telephone on the railway platform while she waited for the bus.

Vanessa’s tone was icy as Chrissie brightly offered reassurance of an easy journey. Pure fiction to stop her mother from worrying. ‘When did we stop coming to the Lakes?’ she went on to ask. ‘It’s not quite true, is it, that Grandmother cut you off completely after your marriage? I was right, I
do
remember coming here as a child, travelling in the train, messing about in boats, enjoying picnics by the lake. How old would I have been? Four? Five?’

‘That must be your vivid imagination, darling. It can’t have been more than two or three occasions. You certainly shouldn’t be there now. I thought we’d agreed—’

‘So why did the visits stop?’ Chrissie interrupted, not wishing the argument to start up again.

‘I really can’t remember. Chrissie, it was very naughty of you to sneak off like that.’

‘I didn’t
sneak
. I’d made it perfectly clear what I intended to do, you just didn’t agree, that’s all.’

‘I
forbade
you to go.’

Chrissie almost laughed, but managed not to as that would have been cruel. ‘I doubt you can do that anymore, Mum. I’m a big girl now. Twenty-one, remember? Nearly twenty-two.’ Free and single, and intending to stay that way. Stubbornly she returned to her original question. ‘Was it because of the war that the visits ended?’

‘What? No, it was long before then,’ Vanessa snapped. ‘Look, I don’t remember. I expect Ma was being even more difficult than usual. Not that she ever made things easy for me, which is why …’

Chrissie gave a little chuckle. ‘I don’t expect she’ll make things easy for me either, judging by how you describe her.’

‘What name did you use?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘When you booked in, what name did you use? Did you use your maiden name?’

‘Of course not. I used my married one, as always.’

‘And not your first name, Susan?’

‘No, what is this? Why do you ask?’

‘I want you to promise me that you’ll remain incognito. Get to know your grandmother a little, if you must, but
don’t
ask too many questions and
don’t
tell her who you are. She hasn’t set eyes on you since you were five years old, so there’s no reason why she would recognise you. And she has no idea you started using your second name. Do that for me, at least.’