The Promise

  The Promise

  By

  Michelle Vernal

  Copyright © 2018 by Michelle Vernal

  Michelle Vernal asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this work may be reproduced in any fashion without the express, written consent of the copyright holder.

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  For Julie

  Prologue

  Isabel’s heart felt as though it would jump right out of her T-shirt as she crouched down beside the mangled car—later she would realize it was down to adrenalin. Now though she leaned in through the window and managed to cradle the elderly woman’s head with her left hand leaving her right hand free to stroke the sparse, floss of hair. She was careful to avoid the gaping wound from where the blood ran free. The woman’s breath was faint and jagged, while Isabel’s came in short puffs. She felt as though she’d fallen into a nightmare.

  Less than a minute ago she’d been staring out the passenger window of the two-berth Jucy van she was sharing with her friend and travelling companion Helena. Her mind absorbing and trying to imprint the beauty of the backdrop the Southern Alps provided against the rushing waters of the turquoise river they were crossing.

  New Zealand had lived up to its hype, she’d been thinking, spotting the now familiar sight of a hawk soaring low in search of something to eat. It was amazing how much diverse scenery could be packaged up inside such a small country. In just four weeks, they’d seen volcanos, boiling mud geysers, rainforests, a glacier, fjords, mountains, rivers, beaches to die for but the highlight for Isabel had been the sperm whale in Kaikoura. It had risen out of the water as though to say hello as she leaned over the railing of the whale watch boat, she’d been blown away by its size and grace. That moment was one she would never forget.

  Yes, she was so pleased that she hadn’t flown straight home from Australia when her work visa was up like so many of her fellow Brits. They were missing out by not coming here; she’d mused as the hawk swooped.

  She’d met Helena who hailed from Freyburg in Germany through the pub where she was working in Melbourne’s hot spot of St Kilda. It had been while clearing tables and tallying up tips that the two girls had hatched the plan to spend a month traversing New Zealand before heading back to their respective countries. What a trip it had been, she’d thought rubbing her temples which were tender after last night’s efforts at Pog Mahones in Queenstown. Helena might have looked like butter wouldn’t melt with her big brown eyes and sensible short haircut but she was naughty, and they’d had a right laugh together. They’d not had a moment's snippiness either, which was quite amazing given their close living quarters.

  Imagine Dragons was playing on the stereo and Isabel's fingers had been tapping out the beat to “Radioactive” on her thighs. It was hard to imagine that in just over a fortnight she’d be back home in Southampton. Mind you it would be nice to have Mum fussing over her. She couldn’t wait to have a hug and catch up on all the news properly. There was something about Skype that made her mum behave like a giggly teenager. It was the way she twiddled with her hair and her eyes kept flitting to her image in the corner. Her dad said she’d never been any different—a show-off in front of a camera who was born before her time. In the age of the selfie, she’d have been up there with the Kardashians.

  Ahead the road was a black twisty snake beneath the bright blue South Island sky. There was such a sense of freedom doing a roadie she’d thought, as Helena handled the camper around the corner with the expertise of someone who’d been driving it for the best part of the last month. One day she’d like to do a trip like this down Route 66 in the States, and that was when Isabel spied the car. It was still too far away to register what had happened, but she understood instantly that it was not good.

  As Helena slowed and they drew closer, she saw the little hatchback had folded itself around a telegraph pole. The crumpled bonnet was still steaming like an alien ship that had crash landed.

  ‘Shit!’ It had obviously just happened, and Isabel wasn’t sure if she’d sworn out loud or if it had been Helena.

  Her friend braked and veered the camper over to the grass verge.

  Isabel’s hand hovered over the handle in readiness for the van to stop. ‘You ring 111 and get help. I’ll see what I can do.’ She jumped down from the camper van a beat later racing over to the car hoping for the best but petrified of what she might find.

  Now, here she was willing this poor old woman to be all right. She should not die like this; it would not be fair! To have lived this long and to die in the arms of a stranger on the side of an open road in the middle of nowhere was not how it should end. Isabel was no doctor, but it was obvious she was too old to survive the shock let alone her injuries. She watched as the woman’s eyes, weighted down by crepe paper lids, fluttered before drifting and locking on hers. That her irises were the same piercing blue as the sky Isabel had been admiring only moments ago, she vaguely acknowledged as she continued to whisper her soothing platitudes.

  The woman was trying to summon the strength to speak, a herculean task given the twisted groaning metal from the impact wedged against her chest.

  ‘Shush now, you’ll be fine. Help’s on its way.’

  ‘Wanted to go back to Wight—Tell Constance I’m sorry. Was wrong—should never have left—too late, too late. Tell her for me—’

  Her voice held the traces of an accent, almost forgotten it had lived elsewhere so long, but it was one which Isabel recognized as being from her part of the world. The woman’s eyes fought to hold onto hers. She knew that she would not let go until she answered her and so she found herself nodding. ‘I will; I’ll tell Constance.’

  ‘Promise.’ The lips formed the words, but the breath behind them was faint.

  ‘I promise.’

  A smile flickered then the light behind those bright blue eyes clouded over, and then she was gone.

  PART ONE

  Verbena officinalis – Blue vervain/Common Vervain

  From Celtic/Druid Culture and Ancient Roman herbalism – a sacred herb associated with magic and sorcery.

  Means ‘to drive away a stone’ and was said to remove urinary stones during those times.

  Used to purify homes and temples and to ward off the plague.

  Contribute to love potions and can be used as an aphrodisiac.

  Uses:

  To ease nerves, stress, and depression.

  To clear airways and expel mucous.

  To aid in sleeplessness, nervousness, obstructed menstruation, and weak digestion.

  Using the dark green leaf of the plant, wash thoroughly and dry. Place leaves on baking paper and allow to dry naturally in an open space out of direct sunlight for several days. Turn the leaves occasionally ensuring there isn’t any moisture present. Once dried out the leaves can be used for tea or placed in bathwater for a soothing effect while bathing. The vervain seeds can also be roasted and eaten.

  Isabel

  Chapter 1

  Isabel looked around the crowded church hall as she waited behind a gentleman with a thick thatch of white hair many a younger man would be envious of. She was in the line for the tea and coffee although having held back from the initial rush it had thinned out considerably. In the middle of the room were three trestle tables bowed with the weight of the plates of food set out upon them. Seats had been lined up against the wall opposite the entrance from the main building, she noted, and all were taken. It was a good turn-out. People were milling about, cup and saucer in hand talking in low murmurs and they were all strangers to her, every single one of them
.

  ‘What would you like dear?’ asked a woman who made Isabel think of apple pie for no reason other than she had a round face with rosy cheeks and a kind smile.

  ‘Oh, um, coffee please.’

  ‘Coffee it is. My goodness that’s an unusual hair colour,’ she said looking properly at Isabel before lifting the coffee pot.

  ‘Mmm.’ The green colour she’d chosen on her last visit to the hairdressers always garnered second glances, which she didn’t mind. She wouldn’t have opted for such an unusual shade if she did. It was her way of standing out from the crowd. A crowd in which she was never very confident of where she fitted. She was never sure how she should reply though when someone actually commented. To launch into her reasons for wanting to set herself apart a little seemed far too longwinded for such a straightforward comment.

  ‘And how did you know our Ginny then?’ the woman asked, pouring the hot liquid into one of the cups set out on the table.

  Isabel didn’t want to blurt out the truth, so she said the first thing that sprang to mind. ‘I only met her the once but she made an impression on me, and well, I just wanted to come today.’

  The woman was only half listening as she weighed up whether or not to signal to her catering side-kick, who was beavering away in the kitchen, that she needed another pot of coffee. ‘That’s nice dear.’ She decided she’d get away with what was left in the pot as she handed Isabel her drink. ‘I have to say Father Joyce did her proud; it was a lovely service. Help yourself to milk and sugar.’ She gestured to her right. ‘And don’t be shy with the food; it’s there to be eaten.’ She eyed Isabel’s petite frame thinking she was a girl who could do with a sausage roll or two before turning her gaze to the next person in line.

  ‘Thank you.’ Isabel moved over to the tray she’d been directed to, and as she finished stirring the milk and a heaped teaspoon of sugar into her coffee, she wondered where she should stand. She spied a quiet corner near the entrance and opting for that weaved her way through the gathering being careful not to get knocked. If anyone was likely to send her cup of coffee flying it was her!

  Isabel wasn’t sure if she should have come today, but she’d been certain it was something she had to do. It might sound clichéd, but she was seeking closure. She hoped that by attending the funeral of Virginia May Havelock, the woman who’d died in her arms not quite a week and a half ago, closure was what she’d get. They didn’t mess around in New Zealand, she thought, taking a sip of her drink and trying not to make eye contact with anyone because she did not want to have to get into a conversation on how she’d met Ginny.

  The coffee was weak and flavourless the way coffee always is at weddings and funerals, and she wished she’d asked for tea. In the United Kingdom, it could take weeks before a service was held and more often than not it was mostly only family and close friends who attended. Today, it looked as though the whole town had turned out.

  She would have felt less out of place if she’d had Helena with her, but she’d left for Thailand four days ago. There was no way her friend was going to miss the Full Moon Party on the beaches of Koh Phangan before heading home to Freyburg. One last leer up before she got back to the serious business of real life. Isabel had planned on going with her, but everything had changed the afternoon they’d stumbled across the accident. It was awful, but in some respects, she wished she could rewind to the moment she and Helena had spotted the mangled hatchback. She wished it had been her no-nonsense German friend who’d gotten from the camper van to see if she could help. She would have been able to put the elderly woman’s death into perspective and move on.

  Isabel, however, couldn’t which was why she’d changed her flight and was now heading home via a direct flight to the UK tomorrow instead. There was only one full moon a month, and it had been and gone. Helena had partied hard and staggered on board her Lufthansa flight the following day, texting Isabel to tell her she’d missed a fantastic night. She’d been unable to understand why her British friend wouldn’t leave New Zealand before the funeral. ‘You don’t owe the woman anything. She was a stranger.’

  ‘But I was there when she died, Helena. I saw the life go from her eyes. And I made her a promise before it did.’

  ‘Yes, yes it is very sad but she was not young, and there was no one else involved, Isabel. People live, and people die, and at least she did not die alone. As for this promise, she is dead—like I said you owe her nothing,’ she’d said in her clipped tones.

  The thing Helena didn’t get was that from the moment the police officer who’d arrived at the scene with an entourage of ambulance and fire truck told Isabel the woman’s name was Ginny she’d become a real person. She was ninety-one according to her driver’s license which had expired five years earlier, he’d gone on to tell her with a sage shake of his head. Ginny was a person who’d had a life and a family and who thanks to a moment’s misjudgment was now gone. She was also a person to whom Isabel had made a promise. It was that promise that was haunting her no matter what Helena said.

  She’d continued to tell her to put it behind her, as she set about making the most of her last couple of days in Christchurch. But Isabel couldn’t. Instead of heading out to admire the street art the city was becoming renowned for post-earthquake, her hungry eyes had scanned the paper the hostel supplied in the foyer each morning for the next few days until the obituary appeared. She’d torn it carefully from the page and had read it so many times over the last week that she knew it by heart.

  HAVELOCK Virginia May (nee Moore)

  Death Notice

  In loving memory of Ginny who passed away suddenly on Wednesday afternoon aged 91 years. Dearly beloved wife of the late Neville, much–loved mother and mother-in-law of Edward Henry and Olga Havelock. Cherished grandmother of Tatiana. The family would like to acknowledge the support of Father Christopher Joyce of St Aidan’s, Timaru who looked after their beloved Ginny in life and in death.

  A celebration of Ginny’s life will be held at St Aidan's, 160 Mountain View Road, Timaru on Saturday 15 April next at 11 a.m. In lieu of flowers donations to St Vincent de Paul Society, Timaru may be placed in the church foyer.

  Isabel’s hand shook as she raised her cup to her mouth and a little coffee slopped over the side and down her front. She glanced down at her plain black shift dress bought specially for the occasion. The wearing of black was as foreign to her as was attending the funeral of someone she didn’t know. She was a girl who loved colour and the brighter, the better. That was another anomaly about a Kiwi funeral, she thought, wiping off the liquid. Not everyone was dressed in formal black. Satisfied no one would see her mishap she looked up and spied Father Joyce making his way toward her. He wore the white robes of an Anglican Priest, and despite his attire swamping him like a tent, it did little to hide his rotund frame. His wispy grey hair floated up with each purposeful step, and he had a serviette in one hand, cakes, a savoury and club sandwiches on a plate in the other.

  ‘The parish ladies have outdone themselves,’ he declared upon reaching her. The smear of cream on the top of his lip gave away the fact he was on second helpings. ‘It’s a spread our Ginny would have approved of. Have you partaken, my dear?’

  ‘Erm no, I haven’t had much of an appetite of late.’ It was true, Isabel had not been sleeping well and not just because of the comings and goings at all hours in the hostel dormitory. She’d been running on empty for the past week.

  Father Joyce nibbled on his club sandwich, declaring ham and egg to be his favourite combination and that she really should try them.

  Isabel smiled politely as he dabbed at his mouth with the serviette. She was pleased to see the cream was gone because she was afraid her gaze would have kept slipping toward it the same way it would a large pimple or such like. The more you tried to pretend it wasn’t there the more you stared.

  ‘I don’t believe we’ve met. In fact, I know we haven’t met. I’d remember meeting a young lady with green hair.’ He chortled. ‘Are you
a relative of Ginny’s?’

  ‘No.’ Isabel’s hand had automatically moved to her hair which she tucked behind her ears, a nervous habit. She hesitated a tick and then decided to come clean. She couldn’t tell a lie to a man of the cloth not even the teensiest of white ones. ‘I’m Isabel Stark. I’m here on holiday from the UK, and my friend and I came across Ginny’s accident just after it happened. I tried to help—but it was too late for that, so I held her head in my hands while my friend rang for help. I tried to soothe her before she uh—’ Her voice caught in her throat as it closed over at the reliving of such a raw memory.

  ‘Oh my, my.’ Father Joyce reached out and rested his hand on Isabel’s upper arm. From anyone else she’d only just met she would have inched away from the gesture finding it intrusive, but from this man with his kindly button like eyes, it was comforting. ‘To witness the passing of a person in the circumstances such as you did must be terribly traumatic. But how very wonderful you were there Isabel for Ginny, to ease her passing.’

  Isabel bit her bottom lip; she hadn’t thought about it like that. She hoped her being there had helped in some small way.

  ‘She’ll be greatly missed you know. She was a force of nature our Ginny. You’d never have believed she was over ninety. I don’t think she believed she was over ninety!’ He gave a little snort. ‘She was always happy to bake for the new mum’s in the church or to pop a meal around if she heard someone was poorly. She kept herself busy too by volunteering in our local St Vincent de Paul second–hand shop here in Timaru.’

  ‘She sounds like she was a wonderful person, and your eulogy was lovely by the way.’

  His eyes twinkled. ‘Ah. Now you see what I didn’t say was Ginny was a woman who in later years, did not suffer fools gladly, and whose tongue could be me more acerbic than a sharp lemon vinaigrette at times. But you don’t say those sorts of things now do you. None of us is perfect, and she was no exception, but she was also incredibly generous of spirit with a heart as wide as the Clutha River, where I hail from.’