‘Oh now Violet, love,’ said Jayne, flushing furiously, ‘come on. We’ve known each other most of our lives. Surely you don’t need to be like this with me?’
‘I’m a piano teacher, you know,’ Violet snapped. ‘I teach privately and I earn my own living, thank you very much. Not that it’s any of your concern, Jayne Dawson.’
‘Forgive me if I was being insensitive,’ Jayne said, backpedalling as fast as she could. ‘I just thought . . . well, we could all do with a spare bit of cash these days. It was only a suggestion, that’s all. No harm intended. There’s no need to be cross with me.’
‘I’ll behave any way I like,’ Violet retorted briskly. ‘Coming in here like Vincent de Paul and treating me like some kind of charity case, with your meals on wheels. I’ll thank you to leave now,’ she added, picking up the thick orthopaedic walking stick that went everywhere with her. ‘I’ve been patronised by you quite enough for one day.’
‘I really am so sorry, Violet,’ Jayne said, mortified. ‘You know I only meant to be helpful.’
But Violet was already at the hall door, holding it open for her.
‘And one more thing,’ she said, as Jayne got up to go.
‘Yes?’
‘You can take that stinky lentil curry or whatever it is with you. I’m not having that garlicky smell destroying my house, the way it’s destroyed yours.’
A hurt look from Jayne, which Violet chose to ignore.
‘And you can tell that new age hippy husband of yours,’ she added witheringly, ‘that he can keep his vegetarian lentils to himself, thanks all the same.’
*
Later that evening, there was an urgent rapping at Violet’s heavy, peeling front door. She grumbled as she pulled back lock after lock and latch after latch with arthritic fingers, snapping, ‘Will you kindly hold your horses; I’m going as fast as I can!’
Who, she wondered, had the barefaced cheek to hammer on her door like this? During Coronation Street? Well, whoever it was, she thought, hauling back the heavy metal bolt at the top of her door, they were in for a right lash of her tongue.
‘Conor Nugent,’ she said, seeing who it was on the other side. She knew Conor only slightly; his son Ted was one of her piano students. One of the very few.
‘Miss Hardcastle,’ said Conor, looking thunderous, with his arms folded as he stood in her doorway, framed by hanging cobwebs.
‘What on earth do you want at this hour?’ she demanded, peering at him through the tiny chink of space that her lock and chain allowed. ‘Lessons are over for today and I won’t see your Ted till next Wednesday at five p.m. sharp. Kindly be punctual this time, please. I’m a very busy woman and I won’t be kept waiting.’
‘I’m here about Ted, actually,’ Conor said sternly. ‘Because I’m not bringing him back to this house ever again, and you, Violet Hardcastle, can consider yourself bloody lucky that I don’t take legal action against you.’
At that, Violet stood up to her full height – which, given that she was long and thin and well over five feet ten, was fairly intimidating.
‘And what do you mean by that, may I ask?’ she demanded.
‘You know exactly what I mean!’ Conor barked back. ‘My Ted came home earlier bawling his eyes out, because you were abusive to him! You should be ashamed of yourself!’
‘How dare you come in here and start throwing accusations like that around!’
‘Did you or did you not,’ Conor went on, ‘call my son retarded?’
At that, Violet went silent.
‘Have you any idea how offensive that is? You do realise I could report you for this, don’t you?’
‘Your son,’ said Violet, clawing back her dignity, ‘was supposed to be learning Bach’s March in D Major for his piano exam at the end of the term. Instead, that young man had the barefaced cheek to come in here and demand that I teach him some kind of ridiculous pop song. Utter nonsense about a personage who claims that liking something is conditional on putting a ring on it.’
‘It’s a Beyoncé song,’ said Conor crossly. ‘It’s a perfectly reasonable request.’
‘It’s vulgar, vulgar, vulgar,’ Violet snapped. ‘And how dare your impudent pup of a son tell me what I can or can’t teach!’
‘You called my son retarded!’ Conor yelled. ‘Are you completely insane? You can’t speak to a child like that! Ted certainly won’t be back for any more of your poxy piano lessons.’
‘Is that meant to be some kind of a threat?’ said Violet, trying to close the door, only Conor had wedged his foot inside, so she couldn’t. ‘Because that’s absolutely fine by me,’ she went on. ‘I have plenty of other piano students, you know. The loss of one cheeky and talentless pupil will have no effect on me whatsoever.’
‘Oh, listen to yourself,’ said Conor, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘You’re just a bitter, deluded aul’ one and you’re as mad as everyone says you are. When I tell the other parents what you did, you’re going to lose the rest of your students too. All three of them. Don’t you get it? It’s over for you. If you think any parent will allow their child to be verbally abused by you, you’ve another thing coming.’
Violet stared at him in shock. Because she needed those students, badly. She was depending on them. They were a horrible little bunch of misbehaved primates, but they did at least pay her in cash.
Then she remembered herself.
‘Get your filthy, dirty boot out of my doorframe,’ she snapped. ‘And if I find out you’ve damaged my paintwork, you’ll have to pay for it.’
*
The following morning, yet another scary-looking bill arrived through Violet’s letterbox. A mere glance at the very first line was quite enough to put her off her hard-boiled egg.
FINAL NOTICE: ELECTRICTY SUPPLY WILL BE DISCONTINUED IF PAYMENT DUE IS NOT RECEIVED BY RETURN.
All typed in bold, black print. So very cheap and classless. Violet tore up the demand, tossed it on the floor, and tried to go back to her breakfast and an out-of-date copy of The Lady she’d been trying to read.
But by then, the thought had lodged in her head and wouldn’t budge.
Moments later, she was on the telephone to Jayne from across the square. Violet didn’t own one of those mobile phones that everyone seemed to be so utterly dependent on these days; she used the landline in her dust-covered hallway, which was perfectly satisfactory, thank you very much.
‘Now, Jayne, I don’t want you to go seeing this as some kind of moral victory for you,’ she began, as soon as the telephone was answered. ‘But I’ve decided, just this once, that ridiculous friend of yours, the transvestite, or whatever he calls himself, may indeed rent out my spare room. Not the good one, mind you – he can have the little box room on the top floor, where I don’t have to look at him. Seven hundred euros a month, payable in advance.’
‘That’s wonderful, Violet,’ Jayne said warmly from the other end of the phone. ‘I’ll let Frank know right away.’
‘But if I catch him dressed as a woman, or if he even thinks about touching anything belonging to me, he’s out on his ear. Got it?’
Frank
Frost. Not outside, though. Outside it was beautiful, late spring. The cherry blossoms that lined Primrose Square were in full bloom, and everywhere you looked, locals had begun to enjoy lunchtime or weekend picnics, the braver ones already out in their flip-flops and sun cream.
At number seventy-nine on the north side of the square, however, it might as well have been deepest, darkest winter. The atmosphere inside the house was so glacially cool, you could almost have got frostbite from it.
‘Can we at least talk about what happened?’ Frank said quietly to his wife Gracie, as she stood at the kitchen table stuffing her briefcase full of case notes. It was a few days after the infamous party and she had yet to utter a single, solitary word to Frank on that, or any subject.
‘Gracie?’ he repeated gently.
Silence.
‘Please, love,’ said F
rank, donning a pair of rubber gloves and beginning to clear up the remains of her breakfast, same as he did every morning. ‘I think the least we should do is talk.’
More silence, but this time Gracie stopped dead in her tracks and really paused to look at her husband of almost twenty-one years, as if he were a complete stranger. Frank stood opposite her, his neatly pressed work suit utterly incongruous against the bright yellow Marigolds he was wearing, as the pair of them locked eyes.
This, he thought, is a breakthrough. This was the closest they’d come to communicating since The Night Of.
‘I know what happened was a huge shock to you,’ Frank said, grabbing his chance, his speech sounding a bit pre-prepared and rehearsed, because that’s precisely what it was. ‘But we can’t continue to ignore the elephant in the room, can we?’
Then he bit his lip as he waited for her response. Tension always made him edgy and twitchy, and he’d been a complete ball of tension for the last few days.
There was a throbbing moment as Gracie eyeballed him, and Frank prayed she’d speak. Anything, absolutely anything was better than the cold, silent treatment he’d been enduring.
She looks pale, he thought, and she’s got bags under her eyes from lack of sleep.
It crushed him to think that he was the root cause of it all. Part of Frank wanted to hug her and hold her and tell her that everything would be all right. But that, he knew, was out of the question. The mood Gracie was in now, it would be like hugging a Doberman.
‘I want you to listen to me very, very carefully,’ she eventually said, in a dangerously low, threatening voice. ‘You have to understand that I’m working hard to hold it together here. Ben is about to start his Leaving Cert, Amber will be on her school holidays very soon and I’m in the middle of a huge trial with a lot of clients depending on me.’
‘Yes, I know all this, love—’ he tried to say.
‘Don’t you dare interrupt me.’ Gracie spoke with authority, just like she always did in court.
‘Sorry. I’m sorry,’ he said meekly.
‘So somehow, Frank,’ she went on, ‘in spite of what you did and the sheer mortification you’ve put this family through, somehow I have to find the strength in me to park this. I have to put my kids first and my job second, and I’ll deal with you when I deal with you.’
There was a tight pause.
‘Oh,’ Frank said, visually deflating. ‘All-righty then.’
Had he really thought that Gracie would talk about this? He should have known better. Gracie was a wonderful mother, like a mother tiger with her cubs, and if you were ever up in court on a drunk-driving or violent disorder charge, then Gracie Woods was the woman you wanted in your corner.
But she had a unique ability to compartmentalise her life. She’d always done it, and now, Frank knew only too well, she was doing it with him too.
‘Oh, and another thing,’ she added, on her way out the kitchen door to the hall.
‘Yes?’ Frank asked, looking up at her hopefully.
‘If you want to move out,’ Gracie fired back, ‘no one in this house will stand in your way.’
‘Oh. I see.’
‘It would certainly go a long way towards lightening the tension around here.’
‘Rightio.’
‘We’re agreed, then?’
‘Whatever you say.’
‘Good,’ said Gracie briskly. ‘The sooner you start looking for somewhere to rent, the better. And before I forget . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘The U-bend in the upstairs loo is blocked again. Can you fix it before you go?’
Frank sighed, went back to loading the dishwasher and said what he always said: ‘Okey dokey.’
*
If Frank thought the silent treatment from his wife was bad, it was nothing compared with how Ben was dealing with him. For days now, Frank had tried his very best to reach out to his son, tapping gently on his bedroom door time and again, only to be told: ‘If that’s you again, Dad, you can fuck off and leave me alone.’
‘Please, Ben,’ Frank persisted softly from the other side of the door. ‘I only want to talk to you.’
Then one night, to his astonishment, Ben actually unlocked and opened his bedroom door, glowering down at his dad, as Frank looked nervously back up at him. Ben was already over six feet tall and Frank hadn’t quite realised how truly terrifying his son could be when he was angry. But then, he reminded himself, he’d never really seen Ben angry before. Not like this, not on this scale.
‘I have nothing to say to you,’ Ben said coldly. ‘Nothing. So stop tapping on my door night after night and just PISS OFF!’
‘B-But Ben,’ Frank stammered, ‘we can’t go on like this. All I want to do is try and explain . . .’
‘Explain what? That you’re some kind of a fucking freak show? That you’re not who any of us thought you were?’
‘Please, son,’ Frank begged. ‘I know you’re angry and upset . . .’
Ben was having none of it. ‘Angry?’ he spat, as a vein started to throb dangerously at the side of his temple. ‘You haven’t a clue! As far as everyone we know is concerned, you’re a fucking joke. Word has gone all around my school and now I’m getting roasted, because no one wants to be friends with the guy whose dad goes around dressed as a woman!’
‘Please, just let me explain . . .’ Frank tried to say.
‘And what about Mum? Have you any idea what she’s going through? Do you even care?’
Frank opened his mouth, but it was as if the power of speech deserted him. How could he put it into words? How could he explain that he’d give everything he had to put the clock back to that awful night? That he’d been stuck in a living hell ever since? That the very last thing he’d ever wanted to do was cause pain to his family, who were his whole world?
He didn’t get a chance to say a single word, though.
‘Oh, just fuck off and leave me alone!’ were Ben’s last words, before he slammed the door right in his father’s face.
‘Okey dokey,’ Frank sighed quietly from the other side of the door.
Then he felt a gentle arm slip silently around his waist. It was Amber, his baby, his little princess. His ally in the house and the one person in his life who still gave him the time of day.
‘Don’t worry, Dad,’ she told him. ‘Ben might be cross, but I still love you.’
‘Thank you, love,’ Frank said hoarsely.
‘Even if everyone says you are a freak show.’
*
The following morning, Frank took Amber out to brunch, ostensibly for French toast and waffles, but really to get out of the line of fire and the unbearable tension back at Primrose Square.
‘Did you think the party was fancy dress, Dad?’ she asked him straight out. ‘Is that what happened?’ She looked across the table at him, all wide-eyed and confused. ‘Dad? Did you just make a mistake?’
Oh Amber, Frank wanted to say to her, as the smell of maple syrup on freshly made waffles turned his stomach to ash. If only you were older, maybe I could make you understand.
There was so much he wanted to say, not just to her, but to Gracie and Ben too. He wanted to explain how trapped he’d felt. Not just recently, but always, ever since he was a small child. He wanted to tell her how he’d never really known confidence or self-esteem or what it felt like to actually be valued as a human being.
Mr Cellophane. That was what he was called behind his back at work, and even though it was meant as a harmless joke, it still bloody hurt.
Of course, Gracie and his children had always been a source of huge joy to Frank, but they all had their own lives to lead and the older they got, the more marginalised he became in theirs. Gracie had her own highly successful legal work, while Ben was a bit of a sports star at school, with a better social life than anyone else Frank knew. So that just left Amber, who was now looking at him over her waffles in the cheesy 1950s diner where they’d gone for brunch, wanting adult answers
to her child-like questions.
‘But why, Dad?’ she kept saying. ‘If it wasn’t for a joke, then why did you do it?’
Because it makes me feel free, Frank wanted to tell her. Because you think you know your old dad, but I’m not this person at all, really. I’m not the boring, predictable, staid Mr Cellophane that everyone thinks I am. When I’m dressed up, when I release the female in me, I can take on the world. I’m unstoppable. I’m a better person as a woman than I ever was as a man.
Maybe one day, when you’re older, I can make you understand, my darling. But till then, all I can do is feed you waffles, and drive you to play dates, and take you to the movies, and be here for you, and love you unconditionally.
‘Daddy?’ Amber’s worried face was frowning up at him. ‘You’ve gone all quiet. Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine,’ Frank said, with a sad little smile. ‘Would you like anything else to eat, pet?’
‘No thanks,’ she said, pushing away a plate of waffles that she’d barely even touched.
‘If it’s cool with you, Dad, I’d really like to go home now.’
‘Okey dokey.’
I’ve failed her, Frank thought as he pushed back his chair. Just like I’ve failed everyone else. The whole point of this brunch was to reach out to her and put her mind at rest, and I can’t even get that much right.
He got up to pay the bill, standing quietly in line as a gang of rowdy teenagers cut in ahead of him, feeling useless, pathetic, so full of self-loathing that it was almost frightening.
Emily
The evening had barely begun and already Emily had a grand total of:
• Five missed calls on her phone.
• Two further rows with her sister and temporary hostess, Sadie.
• One major guilt trip from her brother-in-law, Boring Brien.
Oddly enough, though, the worst thing of all wasn’t any of the above. It was the massive big hug her nephew and temporary room-mate Jamie gave her when he got home from school.
The Women of Primrose Square Page 4