‘I don’t mind that you stole money from my piggy bank, Auntie Emily,’ he told her gravely, his pale, serious little face looking up at her. ‘Mummy said you’re very sick and that’s why you did it.’
‘Is that what Mummy said?’ Emily asked, as she shoved a few crumpled T-shirts and a spare pair of jeans into her rucksack.
‘She said you had demons inside you,’ Jamie said. ‘And that’s what makes you do bold things. So don’t be sorry, Auntie Emily, because I really don’t mind about the money.’
‘I’ll pay you back, kiddo,’ she said, abandoning her packing and stooping low so she could look him right in the eye. ‘That’s a promise.’
‘I know you will.’ Jamie nodded wisely. ‘And just so you know, Auntie Emily – I think it’s kind of cool to have demons inside you. It’s like you’re possessed or something. I can’t wait to get into school tomorrow to tell all my friends that my auntie is possessed.’
With that, he gave her a big, warm hug and headed outside to play on his bike.
The one family member I have, Emily thought, who’ll actually miss me.
‘So, I’ll be off then,’ Emily said to Sadie not long after, as her sister stripped the bedsheets off the top bunk with unnecessary aggression.
As if I’ve contaminated her precious sheets, Emily thought, just by sleeping on them.
‘I said I’m leaving,’ she said to Sadie.
‘I heard you.’
‘I’ve left your keys on the hall table for you.’
‘Fine,’ said Sadie crisply, not even looking at her.
‘And I’ve promised Jamie that I’ll repay every penny I owe him.’
At that, Sadie stopped yanking pillowcases off the bed and stood still.
‘The greatest favour you can do my son,’ she spat, ‘is to get the hell out of our home, out of our lives and never come back again.’
‘Which is exactly what I’m doing,’ Emily replied. ‘Look at me: here I am, backpack in hand, on my way out your front door. Happy now?’
But Sadie had always been a great one for getting the last word in.
‘For God’s sake, Emily,’ she said, ‘are you ever going to wise up and take a good, long, hard look at yourself in the mirror? You used to have a husband, a home, a job, a family and friends who cared about you. And look at you now. You’re forty years old and you’re nothing more than a washed-up, lonely, pathetic alcoholic who steals from kids.’
Even though her words stung like merry hell, Emily had too much pride to let it show.
‘Recovering alcoholic,’ she tried to interject, but Sadie was in no mood to listen.
‘I had hopes for you,’ she said sadly. ‘I really thought you’d come out of rehab cured and that I’d have my big sister back again. But you’re not recovered at all, are you? If anything, you’re even worse.’
Emily opened her mouth but there was nothing left to say. Sadie went back to stripping the bed as Emily left the room, the house, the road and the neat, suburban area where Sadie lived, vowing never to come back.
Never, never, never, not as long as she lived.
You might be right about a lot of things, sister, dearest, Emily thought. But there’s one thing you’re quite wrong about.
*
As it happened, Emily did have one friend that she could turn to. Forty years of age with just one single friend to your name mightn’t have been much to brag about, but by Jesus, it really meant something to Emily.
‘Oh honey, what have you done to yourself? You look like total shit.’
Susan Hayes, of number eighteen Primrose Square, had never been one to pull her punches, and she certainly wasn’t reining anything in now. Emily had met Susan months before, when the two women had shared a room together at St Michael’s rehab centre. Susan had lost her eldest daughter to a drugs overdose and was in the throes of a full mental breakdown back then, but the pair had bonded and formed an unlikely friendship. In fact, Emily often thought the one good thing that came out of that miserable hellhole was that she’d actually met someone as sound as Susan.
Because Susan just got it. She’d had her own demons to wrestle with, but even during her darkest days back at St Michael’s – and there had certainly been plenty of them – she’d never been anything less than warm, compassionate, supportive, and a great friend to Emily, just as Emily had tried to be for her. Susan knew what it was like to be at rock bottom. She was one of the first people to call and offer support when Emily was released, and Emily vowed never to forget her for it.
She had joined her old pal for dinner at the beautiful Victorian house where Susan lived with her family, and afterwards, because it was a warm, sunny evening, they decided to take a stroll across the road to Primrose Square.
‘I know from bitter experience exactly what it’s like to get out of a place like St Michael’s,’ Susan said, as the two women drifted over towards a quiet park bench, under a wisteria tree. Primrose Square was beautiful at any time of year, Susan always said, but particularly on a mild spring night like this one, when it was still bright at eight o’clock. ‘The worst part is that you’re just expected to start a brand-new life, like nothing had happened. Not easy, is it?’
‘You said it.’ Emily sighed, stretching her long legs out in front of her as they sat down.
‘So, come on then, out with it. How bad has it been?’
‘Well, as my delightful younger sister took great pains to point out,’ Emily replied, ‘I’m a forty-year-old divorcee; I’m childless, unemployed and homeless. I’ve basically lost the last decade of my life to booze, and you know what?’
‘Tell me,’ Susan said gently.
‘I thought being in St Michael’s was rock bottom,’ Emily said, looking straight ahead of her, where two boys were kicking a soccer ball around the grass. ‘I really thought that was it, that there was no lower I could possibly sink. But it seems I was wrong; turns out there was a whole other strata of deepest crap I still had to look forward to.’
‘That bad, huh?’
At that, Emily’s phone started to ring, but she resolutely ignored it.
‘Would that be important, do you think?’ Susan asked tentatively.
‘They can piss off, whoever they are,’ Emily said, feeling the warm evening sun on her face. ‘The only person I want to talk to right now is you.’
Susan had always been a great listener, and more than anything, Emily needed someone who’d listen. Without judgment, without saying ‘I told you so’ – all she wanted was a sympathetic ear.
Susan sat back, deep in thought. Then she sat bolt upright, as if something had just struck her.
‘Well, here’s a suggestion for you,’ she said. ‘You might be single and you might not have a job just yet, but there’s at least one thing that I might be able to help you with . . . If you trust me, that is.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Emily. ‘Jesus, you’re not about to suggest I go back to St Michael’s, I hope?’
‘No, nothing like that,’ Susan said thoughtfully, looking straight ahead where the kids who’d been playing soccer had kicked their football into the rose bushes and were now getting a right ticking off from their mum.
‘What, then?’ Emily said, as her phone started to ring yet again. ‘Oh piss off, whoever you are,’ she muttered, fishing around in her pocket for it and this time switching it off properly.
‘It’s actually about your living arrangements,’ Susan said. ‘Because there at least, I might just be able to help.’
‘Susan,’ Emily said, turning to face her, ‘if you’re offering me a bed on your couch for a few nights, it’s really sweet of you, but I’d drive you insane within about twenty minutes. I know I would. And your friendship means too much to me to ever put you through that.’
Anything good in my life, I sabotage, Emily thought. But by God, she was determined not to let anything sabotage her friendship with Susan Hayes.
‘So, where will you stay for the next few nights?’ Sus
an asked her.
‘I’ve got just enough dosh to cover me for a B & B for the next week or so, till I find somewhere affordable.’
‘Supposing I had an alternative idea for you?’
‘You do?’
‘There’s actually a neighbour here on the square who I hear is about to take in one lodger,’ Susan said, with a sly little smile, ‘and who might just be amenable to taking in another.’
‘Really? And it wouldn’t be too expensive, do you think? Scraping a deposit together is going to be challenging enough as it is.’
‘Trust me,’ Susan said dryly, ‘you’ll be well able to afford this place.’
Emily was intrigued now. The vast majority of houses on Primrose Square were stunning Victorian terraced homes with at least three bedrooms apiece, gorgeous living rooms with high ceilings, and beautiful basement kitchens with good-sized gardens to the rear. You only had to look around the square to see how well maintained and gentrified the whole area was. Was it actually possible that this could be within her reach?
‘Now wouldn’t that be something?’ Emily said, her mind racing ahead. ‘You know how much I’ve always loved it around here. I’d kill to live on Primrose Square. I’d be close to you and to the centre of town. It would help me so much in getting a job. In fact,’ she added, turning to Susan, ‘this could be the answer to my prayers. And if this worked out for me, I’d faithfully promise not to fuck it up.’
This could just be the golden ticket for her, she thought, really allowing herself to get excited. With a great place to live, she might even be able to get a job. Not at the events management agency where she used to work, of course; that was out of the question after how she’d behaved before they’d fired her.
That was almost three years ago now, when the binge-drinking Emily had been doing ever since she was a teenager had escalated into full-blown, full-time alcoholism. But surely it wasn’t beyond her to get some kind of normal, ordinary job that paid her and that, with any luck, she wouldn’t mess up? Sweeping floors, maybe, or stacking shelves in supermarkets? Emily was too broke to be able to afford the luxury of pride.
And with a job, she thought, then I’d have spare cash. And with spare cash, who knew? Maybe, just maybe, she might be able to carve out some kind of life for herself. A better, cleaner, sober life this time, with nothing stronger than fizzy water to fall back on.
‘Don’t speak too soon,’ Susan said. ‘Because there’s a catch. A very, very big one.’
‘Name it,’ said Emily, her head buzzing with excitement.
‘You haven’t met your landlady yet.’
‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘You’ll see,’ said Susan, pointedly looking dead ahead. ‘In fact, I think the less you know about Miss Violet Hardcastle, the better.’
‘Susan, I’ve just got out of rehab,’ Emily sighed. ‘I’ve got nothing, nada, niente, rien. Any port in a storm, as they say.’
‘I’ll quote all that back at you,’ said Susan. ‘After you’ve met Violet. Or Violent, as the kids around here all call her.’
‘How bad can this Violet be?’
Susan thought for a moment before replying. ‘Imagine the Wicked Witch of the West,’ she said, ‘crossed with Cruella de Ville, by way of mid-1980s Margaret Thatcher, with a dash of Mrs Danvers thrown in for good measure.’
‘That’s what this Violet Hardcastle is like?’
‘Oh no. That’s her on a very, very good day.’
Violet
It was all the fault of that bloody newspaper delivery man. Blithering idiot, Violet thought crossly, as she twitched back the curtains in her hallway and peered out over the square. Ordinarily, that nice Mr Santos, who delivered her newspaper every day come rain, hail or shine, pushed the paper firmly through the letter box, just the way she liked it. Mr Santos was absolutely marvellous like that. Dependable. Reliable. And he never seemed to mind if you were a bit behind on your payments; he just kept on delivering anyway, which was probably just as well.
But today was different. Today, Violet’s neat copy of the Irish Chronicle – the same paper she’d subscribed to for over forty years – had been unceremoniously dumped at the bottom of her step. It was actually lying on the pavement, waiting to be blown away. This meant of course, that Violet would have to go outside to get it safely back. Outside. As in, leave her house. Step out of her front door. Go out onto the square. Away from safety.
Panicking at the very thought, she squinted out the windows, scanning anxiously up and down the square to see if there were any neighbours around who she could call on for help. After all, if this didn’t classify as a dire emergency, then she didn’t know what would. But it was early, just after 8 a.m., and apart from a few commuters racing past from nearby Pearce Street, the road was completely deserted.
Then Violet spied him – young Sam Keyes from number twenty-four, with a few of his friends, all in their school uniforms and dawdling on their way to school.
Violet had no great love for any of the Keyes family; they’d been on the receiving end of many of her spidery, scrawled letters over the years – even Sam himself, who’d once dared to park his bicycle up against the railings outside her house. If memory served, she’d threatened to sue him over that, but that useless Free Legal Aid woman she’d engaged to take her case instantly dismissed it, on the grounds that Sam was barely ten years old at the time.
‘You there!’ she called imperiously out the doorway. ‘Sam Keyes! Come here at once. I need help!’
At that, Sam stopped in his tracks and nudged one of his friends.
‘Piss off, you mad, aul’ bitch!’ he yelled back, crossing over to where Violet stood just inside the doorway, clinging for dear life to her dressing gown.
‘You mind your language, Sam Keyes!’ she barked back. ‘Now kindly pick up my newspaper and hand it to me, and we’ll say no more about it.’
‘Hey lads!’ Sam yelled across to two of his mates. ‘Come get a look at Violent – the maddest nutjob you’ll ever meet.’
‘Don’t you dare speak to me like that, young man!’ Violet retorted – but by then it was too late. Sam’s mates had clustered around him, so there were three of them now, picking up her paper and tossing it from one to another, laughing and skitting and generally acting like a bunch of primates.
‘Hand that newspaper back to me immediately!’ she screeched. ‘Or I’ll write a strongly worded letter to each of your parents!’
‘Fuck off, you mad bitch!’ yelled Sam, their laughter getting more and more aggressive as the lads began to shred her paper up and toss the tiny pieces all over her front doorstep, like a grotesque kind of confetti. ‘You want your paper? Come outside and get it yourself, you lunatic!’
‘Don’t you dare use language like that to me!’ Violet screamed. ‘I’ll write to your school about you – I’ll get you expelled for this!’
At that, the lads went hysterical.
‘Get us expelled, will you?’ one of them sneered, a youth who couldn’t be more than fourteen. ‘You can’t even walk down three steps to get your own bloody paper, you whack job!’
‘Everyone around here hates you, you know that?’ yelled Sam. ‘Violent Hardcastle – that’s what we all call you!’
‘If your house was on fire, we’d all laugh!’
‘My da says you should have been locked up years ago, only no nuthouse would take you!’
‘Stop it!’ Violet said, wincing from their taunts. ‘Stop saying those dreadful things right now!’
‘Violent Violet, Violent VIOLET!!!’ the lads began to chant, pointing and laughing at her as she crumpled against her hall door, her hands clamped against her ears to block out their yelling.
Suddenly she was young again, lost, frightened and far from home. All alone in a yard, crouched low against a wall, while the other girls jeered at her and threw apple butts and loose bits of stones at her.
Then as now, they were all calling out the very same thing.
�
�VIOLENT VIOLET, VIOLENT VIOLET!!!’
‘You’re a fucking WEIRDO!’
‘If you died, no one could care!’
‘Do us all a favour, Violent, and just drop dead!’
‘MAKE IT STOP!’ Violet yelled, shutting the door against the taunts that grew louder and louder in her ears, their voices harsh, ugly, frightening.
Exactly like they had been, all those long years ago.
Frank
Frank found the place he was looking for, then spent a good twenty minutes more dithering over which was the safest and most legal parking space, making sure he was the optimum six inches from the kerb and taking particular care he wasn’t obstructing a clearway.
By rights, I don’t even have to keep this appointment at all, he told himself. The resolve that had got him this far was fast evaporating and the thoughts of crawling back to the relative safety of his office were approximately seventy-five per cent more tempting. I could just cancel, he thought, as he sat back against the driver’s seat. People cancelled appointments all the time, didn’t they? Who was even to know?
Everyone, he reminded himself, with a sad reality check. Just about everyone he’d even met in his entire life had been at that dismal, awful party. They all knew. Apparently there had been posts on social media, tweets had been retweeted, and God knows how many comments there had been about him on Facebook. His mortification was complete – so why not go ahead with this? The cat was well and truly out of the bag, anyway. What had he got to lose?
Take a chance, he thought, opening the car window and trying his best to concentrate on breathing. Apart from getting married and having kids, this was probably the biggest thing Frank Woods had ever done in the whole course of his neatly structured, organised life.
But if there was one thing he was certain of, it was this.
He needed to talk to someone non-judgmental – badly. Someone neutral and impartial. He’d make a right balls of trying to explain things to Gracie and the kids. But then, how could he possibly explain what he was going through to them when he’d spent the best part of his life trying – and failing – to explain it to himself? Nothing about going ahead with this appointment could possibly make things any worse.
The Women of Primrose Square Page 5