She was beyond excited as the date for the party grew ever closer. Back in 1968, Violet had just completed finishing school, the Hibernian School for Young Ladies, where she’d learned grooming, deportment and how to play the piano to concert level, something she loved to do more than anything else.
She felt so alive when she was playing; it was the single thing that made her most happy. Even more importantly though – according to Father, at least – she’d been taught how to entertain guests properly, so together she and Betty worked tirelessly in the kitchen downstairs, or ‘below stairs’, as Father insisted on referring to their basement, preparing everything down to the last little detail.
Even Monsieur Jaques Feraud, Violet’s culinary tutor at finishing school, would have approved of the menu they were planning for the party. There would be paupiettes de veau à la Marseillaise to begin, because Violet read that’s what had been served at Princess Margaret’s wedding a few years ago, and if it was good enough for royalty, it was good enough for them. Then lamb with a minted dressing for mains, followed by an elegant Philadelphia cheesecake for dessert, or ‘pudding’, as Monsieur Feraud taught her to call it at school.
As a birthday present, Violet had received the wonderful gift of a record player from her aunt Julia, and all of her friends had very kindly given her some vinyl singles and even a few albums to play at the party. She had her beloved Beatles albums too – who didn’t back then? Father despised them and said John, Paul, George and Ringo were a bunch of long-haired idiots who wouldn’t be heard of in years to come.
‘The kind of din you’d only hear on a building site,’ he used to sneer.
‘It’s what’s popular now, Father,’ Violet would answer, teasing him out of his grumpiness.
‘Why can’t you play the piano? Something classy that’ll impress them all?’
‘Because it’s not that kind of party,’ she’d insisted. ‘I want everyone to dance and have fun!’
‘But I want this to be a refined affair,’ Freddie had said, before he’d harrumphed off to his study. ‘Don’t you? Sure, what’s the point of me buying this fine big house and throwing the party for you in the first place, unless it’s going to be something that’ll have all the begrudgers talking for a long time to come?’
Violet threw her eyes to the ceiling – message received loud and clear. She knew the secret to a peaceful life was to keep Father happy all at costs, so she took great care to practise a few Mozart piano concertos, just in case she was called on to entertain.
Freddie Hardcastle had insisted on inviting in the Primrose Square neighbours too, ‘so that they can all see what houses like these should look like – with a bit of class and a lot of money spent on them.’
So Violet had dutifully dispatched embossed invitation cards to everyone she knew around the square, including one new neighbour, who was already turning into a great friend.
Jayne Dawson and her husband of just a few months, Tom, had moved into a significantly smaller house directly across Primrose Square, and as she was only two or three years older than Violet, they’d bonded almost as soon as they met. Jayne was the perfect neighbour. She was warm and kind, and although she wasn’t moneyed and middle class, like most of Violet’s friends from finishing school, the two girls quickly became close.
‘They’re a good enough sort, that Jayne and Tom Dawson,’ Father had sniffed. ‘But not really the sort of friends I want you to be hanging around with, Violet. Dr Burke’s two daughters, now – they’re lovely young girls. Far more suitable as companions for you.’
Violet had giggled at him, though. Father was only being snobby, she knew, just because Jayne’s husband was a carpenter, and not a more professional class of person. But Jayne Dawson was perfectly agreeable as a chum and Violet was delighted to include her and Tom among the guest list. Jayne had been a fantastic help, too, forever popping around to help Violet and Betty with sponges and fruit cakes down in the kitchen.
Then, just about a week before the party, Jayne arrived at Violet’s front door, puffing and breathless, with wisps from her elegant beehive hairdo falling down all over her face.
‘Hello Jayne!’ Violet greeted her on her way out the door. ‘I was just on my way to Woolworths. Will you come with me?’
‘Oh Violet,’ Jayne panted, ‘I’d love to, but you won’t believe what’s happened. A cousin of Tom’s from England has just landed in on top of us. He’s got nowhere to stay, so of course Tom offered him our spare room and said we’d put him up while he’s staying in Dublin.’
‘And is everything all right?’ Violet asked, as the two girls clickety-clacked their way in kitten heels down Primrose Square together. ‘Is he a difficult guest? Is that what’s upsetting you?’
‘Oh no!’ Jayne said. ‘Andy’s lovely, a dream visitor! So easy to have around and great fun too. He’s a musician, you know; he plays bass guitar in a band.’
‘Bass guitar.’ Violet laughed. ‘Just like Paul McCartney.’
It was well known that Paul was Violet’s favourite Beatle, although she did have a bit of a weakness for John too.
‘Anyway, Andy will be here for at least another week,’ Jayne went on, ‘so I was very cheekily wondering . . .’
‘If you could bring him along to the party?’ Violet grinned. ‘Of course! I’d love to meet him. Any friend of yours is always welcome, you know that.’
‘Oh, thanks so much, Vi.’ Jayne smiled, turning to hug her tightly. ‘You’re just the best neighbour anyone could ask for! I’ll tell Tom and Andy – I know they’ll be so pleased. I was worried, you know, because I know your father wants this to be a very high-class affair, and folk like us mightn’t be fancy enough for him . . .’
‘You and Tom are coming,’ Violet said firmly, ‘with your guest too, and Father will just have to get used to the idea. Besides, half of the guest list are boring lawyers and barristers and people I never even heard of.’
*
Violet sat on the rickety little bed, clutching the newspaper tightly in her fist, staring out the window over the treetops on the square.
Miss Violet Hardcastle, who celebrates her eighteenth birthday party today, the paper’s caption read, along with a faded black and white photo of a tall, reed-thin, pretty young woman clutching a bunch of gardenias and beaming happily at the camera.
Was that young girl really me? Violet wondered. Was I ever that happy?
All Freddie Hardcastle had wanted was for his daughter to be the talk of Primrose Square. Turned out that he got what he wanted, except not quite in the way he’d envisaged.
Abruptly, Violet stood up and left the room, taking great care to shred the newspaper into a thousand pieces in the kitchen waste bin, where no one would ever find it.
Frank
‘This is a huge decision,’ Beth had warned Frank, during one of their long therapy sessions. ‘It’s like crossing a Rubicon. Once you make up your mind, there quite literally is no going back.’
‘I know,’ Frank replied quietly.
‘It’s going to affect not just your own life, but those around you too. Gracie, Ben and Amber, and that’s just for starters. Then there’s all your friends and work colleagues, not to mention your extended family too. It’s quite a long list.’
‘I’m in blood stepped in so far . . .’ Frank said thoughtfully. ‘It’s a quote from Macbeth,’ he explained, seeing the puzzled look on Beth’s face. ‘Because I’m already halfway there, aren’t I? No one can understand why I’m doing this. Already they’re writing me off as a weirdo. Or else, like Gracie, they think I’m going through some sort of mid-life thing. In fact, if it wasn’t for our sessions here, I don’t know what I’d do.’
‘My door is always open,’ Beth said. ‘That goes without saying.’
‘And while I’m deeply grateful for that,’ Frank said, ‘as far as everyone else is concerned, I’ve become an embarrassment. I’m someone they all want to brush under the carpet. But this is me, Beth. This is who
I am. I’ve denied myself ever since I was a small child and kept it up for almost fifty years. The truth will out and it’s time for the truth.’
Then he thought of Francesca. How free and honest and strong it felt to inhabit her skin. How right it felt. But Frank had kept a lid on Francesca for the longest time; back when the kids were small, he made it a firm, hard rule never to become her, ever. His family came first and last; nothing mattered to him more.
What Frank hadn’t counted on, though, was how much this would eat at him. The huge, unbearable toll it would take on his mental health. How much he missed the female side of him and how, for year after year, it almost felt like he was playing the part of a straight, upright married man and father, good little employee and all around conscientious, upstanding member of the community.
So a few years ago, Francesca began to come back. Secretly, to begin with – late at work after everyone had gone home. In the privacy of his office, Frank would become Francesca – and oh, the sheer joy of it sustained him, nourished him, fed his soul. With that outlet, Frank could go home and be the perfect husband and father that he was expected to be.
Soon, however, even that wasn’t enough. As his confidence grew, so did his desire to go out as Francesca, to be her in public, to take her out for a test drive, as it were, to see how that felt. Cautious as ever, he ran a discreet online check and discovered various hotels and bars in town where like-minded souls went to hang out safely. Nowhere seedy – that was out of the question. No, these were classy places, where just being with others and interacting as Francesca soon became as necessary to Frank as breathing. This was who he was.
Was it so selfish and awful, he wondered, after five decades on this planet, to want to live the rest of your life as yourself? In this age of honesty and equality and tolerance, was it a bridge too far to hope that, in time, they might come to understand how he was feeling?
There was a long pause as Beth sat back at her desk and weighed up what Frank was saying to her.
‘In that case,’ she said kindly, ‘if you really are determined to proceed . . .’
‘I don’t think I have a choice,’ he said simply. Like it or not, the part of him that was Francesca wouldn’t be denied anymore.
‘Then I can help. I can set you up with a family support group. You only get to do it once. So let’s get it right. Just know I’m behind you a hundred per cent of the way.’
‘Okey dokey,’ Frank said, with a shy little smile.
*
‘You have got to be kidding me,’ Gracie said, when Frank called to their home on Primrose Square later that evening, so he could break the news face-to-face. ‘Please, for the love of God, tell me that this is some kind of sick joke.’
She’d been standing at the kitchen island chopping onions for dinner, but abandoned it to process what she’d just been told.
‘As if I’d ever joke about something like this, love,’ Frank replied calmly.
‘Don’t you dare call me love. You don’t ever get to say that to me again. You forfeited that right the night of your birthday, remember?’
‘Sorry, sorry,’ Frank said hesitantly, wiping his glasses.
‘Jesus Christ, Frank,’ Gracie snapped. ‘Things have been bad enough, but now you want to go and make things a hundred times worse? And for God’s sake, will you stop fidgeting?’
‘Sorry,’ he said automatically, as Gracie went back to chopping onions in angry, cold silence. He sighed, then reminded himself: he had absolutely no right to expect any reaction other than this. This was possibly the biggest step he was ever going to take in his life. Of course his nearest and dearest would see him as being monumentally selfish and very likely insane.
‘The thing is, Gracie,’ he said tentatively, ‘the kids have a right to know how this is going to play out. As Beth always says, communication is a wonderful thing.’
‘Beth this, Beth that,’ Gracie said sarcastically. ‘Well, if Beth said to go ahead and do this, then I suppose you’d better do it. Never mind about this family, never mind what it’s doing to the rest of us. You just focus on keeping your precious Beth happy, because that’s all that matters, isn’t it?’
‘Please, just hear me out,’ Frank replied. ‘Beth is helping me. You know that. Hormonal therapy is a huge part of this process and she’s there to guide me through it.’
He badly wanted to tell her how terrifying this all was for him. There were so many different stages to come and each one would come with its own set of fears and terrors. Frank wanted to say it felt like he was standing on top of a towering skyscraper, about to jump off. More than anything, all he craved was a bit of support and kindness, and maybe even understanding from the woman who’d been his best friend for all these decades.
But with Gracie in the mood she was in, he didn’t dare to. She’d been chopping the onions with a lot more vigour than usual, and now she was wielding the sharp kitchen knife almost like it was a weapon.
‘So, you’re determined then?’ she said, sounding scarily calm. ‘You’re putting yourself ahead of your family? You don’t care how this is already tearing us apart? You’re not bothered about Ben and Amber and how this is going to affect them? You really are that selfish?’
‘I’m not going anywhere, Gracie,’ he said quietly. ‘If I take this first step, I want to be open and honest with the kids. I want them to know how much I love them and that nothing in their lives will change. Absolutely nothing.’
‘Except that everything has already changed, hasn’t it?’ she said. ‘The man I loved vanished into thin air overnight.’
Frank stood there and took it, trying to understand how he’d feel in her shoes. I deserve this, he thought. I’ve no right to expect any more.
‘Did you ever even love me in the first place, Frank? That’s what I want to know.’
That hurt. That stabbed him deep.
‘Oh Gracie, of course I love you . . . You’re everything to me. Being Francesca, it doesn’t change that. Not for a single minute.’
‘So from now on, you’ll be . . . what exactly? A lesbian trans-woman? Is that what you’re telling me?’
Frank nodded, looking guiltily down at the floor.
‘Let me get this straight,’ Gracie persisted. ‘You’re telling me you’re attracted to women – but the thing is, I’m not. Never was, never will be. So where exactly does that leave me, Frank? Did you ever stop to think that I might have feelings too?’
‘Gracie love,’ he said gently, ‘my feelings for you are the same as they always were. I wish I could make you understand that you and the kids . . . you’re everything to me . . . you must know that . . .’
But she quickly silenced him.
‘Oh, spare me this patronising crap,’ she snapped, going back to her chopping and dicing. ‘You had this whole secret life on the side for years and years behind my back. You can’t love someone and do that to them, Frank. Don’t you realise that?’
‘Please . . . If you’d just listen . . .’
‘You betrayed me,’ she said. ‘And you betrayed us. Worst part of it is I still don’t even understand why.’
‘Gracie, please . . . if you’d just let me explain—’
‘Go on then,’ she interrupted furiously. ‘Go ahead and talk to the kids, if your mind is made up. But if you hurt a single hair on their heads,’ she added, ‘God help me, I won’t be held responsible.’ She brandished her sharp chopping knife threateningly as she said it.
‘Now get out of my sight before I make your surgeon’s job a helluva lot easier for him.’
*
‘Jesus, Dad, will you just PISS OFF?’
This was the blunt response Frank got on his first attempt to speak to Ben, just the two of them, father and son, alone.
‘For fuck’s sake, what part of “leave me alone” don’t you understand?’
That was the second attempt.
By Frank’s third attempt, Ben
wasn’t even bothering to be obnoxiously rude, instead he just pointedly shoved in earbuds whenever his dad was at the house, blanking him out completely.
He’s hurting, Frank took pains to remind himself. His son might be over six feet tall and eighteen years of age, he might look and sound and act like a man, but inside, Frank knew only too well, there was a little boy whose whole perception of the world around him had just been blown apart.
I’ve done this, Frank told himself. And only I can make it better.
He thought back to Ben’s childhood – how incredibly close they’d been, how much simpler life had felt back then. He thought back to all the weekend days that he’d spent in the icy cold on the sidelines of a soccer match, cheering his son on, always so ridiculously proud, no matter how badly the team fared. Frank didn’t follow soccer or rugby, but made a pretty good fist of pretending to, purely so he could bond with Ben on the way to or from a match.
He’d tried to interest Ben in theatre and the arts over the years, but without success. So Frank did what any good father would: developed an interest in Arsenal FC, took his son to away games as often as money would allow and pretended to have an informed opinion when Arsène Wenger finally stepped down.
If there was one thing Frank Woods was particularly good at, it was pretending.
On Frank’s fourth attempt to speak to his son, he fared a bit better. Ben had been out late celebrating the end of his Leaving Cert exams and called his dad at 5 a.m. to say he hadn’t any money left for a taxi home, and was there any chance of a lift?
‘Believe me,’ he’d slurred down the phone, his voice sounding groggy after the night’s celebrations, ‘you’re the last person I want to call, Dad. But I’ve no choice. Besides, you’re not really in a position to give me a bollocking after what you did, now are you?’
Frank sprang out of bed, wide awake. Never mind that Ben sounded utterly wasted. This was a golden opportunity to spend time alone with his son and one he wasn’t about to let pass.
Half an hour later, Frank waited outside the house party as his eldest child grudgingly clambered into the passenger seat, looking wrecked and smelling like a brewery. Quickly, Frank realised all that was wrong was that Ben had had a few too many tins of Heineken and that a good sleep would soon set him to rights. He’d drunk enough to celebrate the night, but hopefully not so much that he’d forget this conversation.
The Women of Primrose Square Page 11