‘Thank you, honey,’ Francesca said, looking back at her with shining eyes.
‘For better or for worse,’ said Emily. ‘Shall I get you a glass of water, so you can wash down those pills?’
‘Down in one?’ Francesca asked.
Emily grinned. ‘Down in one.’
Gracie
If there’s one thing that Ben had never been to his mother, it was an enigma. Every thought that went through her son’s head, Gracie could predict; every emotion he was feeling, she was able to second-guess, purely by looking at the food he was shovelling into his body. For years now, food had been an emotional barometer with Ben, and Gracie could almost gauge what he was feeling in direct proportion to what he ate.
From his early teens, Ben had always been something of a clean eater. Food was a big passion of his, and although he occasionally allowed himself white meat and fish, chips, carbs and anything too sugary or starchy was right out. Gracie had always been prouder than proud that she had a son who’d turn his nose up at McDonalds, who she’d regularly come home to find chopping onions and garlic to make a Thai green curry from scratch, frequently teaching Amber as he went along.
When Ben was in good form, he lived off the cleanest food going, wolfing his way through whole bunches of kale, forever at his mother to stock up on fresh smoked salmon, organic veg and spelt bread. Whenever he was stressed out, though, it was the total opposite. For instance, when he’d been in the throes of the Leaving Cert exams, he tucked into the carbs like someone on death row. No matter how much food Gracie stuffed the fridge with, Ben would get at it, and two minutes later, there’d be nothing but an empty tub of Häagen-Dazs and the remains of a few sad oven chips staring back at her.
When Ben broke up with his first girlfriend, Gracie had known just how upset he was about it when she noticed empty Tayto packets lying all around his computer screen.
‘Comfort eating,’ she’d said to Frank, back when he was still living at home. A very bad sign. She’d only realised that Ben was over said girlfriend and getting back to himself when blueberries and ripe avocados started disappearing from her fridge again.
Ever since Frank had moved out though, he’d been living off nothing but pizza and chips, to the extent that Gracie was starting to get seriously concerned. Officially, Ben had finished school and had a part-time summer job in a vegetarian restaurant. Officially, this should have been a happy, carefree summer for Ben, having worked so hard in school the previous year.
Not now, though. Not anymore. Since Frank had left, Ben had become more and more withdrawn. Yet another reason, Gracie thought, to wring Frank’s selfish, gobshite neck for visiting all of this on his blameless family.
Time and again she and Frank had tried in their own clumsy ways, to reach out to the kids, to somehow find a way to parent them through this. Gracie grudgingly had to at least give Frank that much; he probably spent more time with Amber now than he ever did when he was living at home.
But Ben was a totally different kettle of fish; he’d shut himself down emotionally and was refusing to engage with anyone. At the very least, though, Frank did appear to be making a big effort with him, constantly driving him places, always there for his son at the drop of a hat, if and when needed.
That therapist they were seeing, Beth what’s-her-name, had talked to both Frank and Gracie about having a ‘healthy transition’– if you could even believe such a thing existed. Gracie certainly didn’t, but she did very much want to protect her kids with every last breath in her. She tried her level best to talk to each of them in turn, to broach the tender subject, to try to gauge how they felt about Frank’s transitioning.
With Amber, it was impossibly difficult to find the right words, and harder still not to feel resentful and angry that she was reduced to having these mortifying conversations in the first place. Invariably, Amber would look up at her mum, puzzled and confused, and say, ‘But all I want to know is . . . when is Daddy is coming home?’
What kind of a mother am I, Gracie thought sadly, that I can’t protect my child through this? Frank was the one who’d put her in this position – why the hell couldn’t he clean up his own mess and explain it to the kids himself? Why did she have to do his dirty work for him?
Ben was the toughest of all. He was eighteen years old, a grown man now, and the strong, silent treatment was about as much as Gracie could get out of him.
‘You never have your friends over anymore, love,’ she tried saying to him one night, after Amber had gone to bed and it was just the two of them on their own in the kitchen.
Ben grunted, but kept his head buried in the fridge, where he was picking at a family-sized tub of potato salad, which ordinarily he’d have lectured Gracie for buying in the first place. A very, very bad sign.
‘I can’t remember the last time your pal Hugo was here,’ she added. ‘All you ever seem to want to do is hang out at his house these days.’
‘Whatever,’ he said, without even turning around.
‘So . . . would you like to ask him around this weekend?’ she offered. ‘I’m taking Amber to Granny’s, so you’ll have the whole house to yourself?’
Ordinarily, Ben’s eyes would have lit up at the thought of a free house. Not now, though. Instead, he took out a big bowl of leftover cheesy pasta, unpeeled the cling film from it, then sat down at the kitchen table with a giant serving spoon and tucked in, like this was his last meal on earth.
‘You could have some of your mates from school around?’ Gracie said gently. ‘Dare I say it, you could even have a party?’
Again, silence.
‘Ben?’ she persisted. ‘Did you hear me, love? You’ve been at me all year to have a party here in the house, and now I’m saying it’s OK. Go ahead. Just stay the hell out of my bedroom,’ she added, trying to lighten the mood, ‘and you and me have a deal, buddy.’
At that, Ben lowered an overstuffed spoonful of penne pasta and looked at her for the first time.
‘Thanks, but no thanks,’ he said.
‘You sure? This is my final offer, kiddo. I’ll even sweeten the deal by tossing a few quid your way, so you can go shopping and cook for your pals?’
‘Mum, I already said no.’
‘But Ben,’ she said, ‘you love cooking for the guys. You always say it relaxes you. Come on love, I’ll even take you to the farmer’s market at the weekend so we can shop for ingredients together, if you like?’
He sighed, put his spoon down, wiped a blob of creamy sauce off his mouth and sat back.
‘Look, I know you mean well,’ he said. ‘I know you’re just trying to keep the show on the road for Amber and me. But you have to remember – my mates were here that night. They all know. They all saw. And now I’m the guy whose dad goes around in high heels and dresses. So if you think I’ll ever have any of my friends round to this house again after that night, after what that selfish bastard put us through—’
‘Ben, that’s your dad you’re talking about,’ Gracie said loyally, although she had absolutely no idea why she was bothering to be loyal. Force of habit, she figured. ‘Whatever he’s done, he’s still your dad and we’re still a family. I know you and Amber didn’t ask for any of this, and I know you’re angry. Believe me, love, you’re not as angry as I am. But somehow we have to find a way to work through this, and I know the only way we can is if we stick together.’
‘Mum,’ Ben said, sitting forward, looking like he wanted to stab someone with his spoon. ‘He’s not my dad anymore. He’s not the same person. And the dad I’ve always known, it’s not – it’s not really him, is it? And after all that, after all the lies he told us and what he’s put you and Amber and me through, I never want to see him again. He’s ruined us.’
‘I know, sweetheart,’ Gracie said, wincing a little at his disparaging choice of words. ‘But I need to protect you and Amber, and make sure that your lives go on as normal. That’s my job. That’s what I need to do.’
‘No, Mum,’
Ben replied. ‘It’s the other way around. I’m the one who wants to protect you. If he ever hurts you or Amber like that again, I’ll never, ever forgive him. As it is, I don’t want to see him or speak to him or have anything more to do with him. And that’s not negotiable.’
Gracie sat back and bit her lip, and when she thought of what lay ahead, was suddenly very, very worried.
Violet
Hmph, Violet thought crossly. It was nigh on ten o’clock in the morning on a gloriously sunny July day and that lazy lump upstairs, Madam Emily, was yet to rise from bed and vacate the house. Violet liked to have her peace and privacy during daytime hours and made it perfectly clear to both her paying guests that immediately after breakfast, they were expected to clear off till dinner time at least. Not an unreasonable request, surely?
Frank was no trouble. He was up at the crack of dawn, quiet as a mouse, and rarely came back to the house till he’d seen his children in the evening – or at least the daughter, the one with the housemaid’s name. The sole member of his family who was still speaking to him, apparently. Frank, as far as Violet was concerned, was a delightful guest and a model lodger.
Madam Emily, however, was an entirely different story. Ten a.m. came and went, and there still wasn’t as much as a stirring from inside her bedroom – Violet had already had a good listen at the door. She’d then taken particular care to walk loudly up and down the corridor outside, banging her walking stick as noisily as she could, but no, still nothing.
Eventually, after twenty minutes of thudding noisily around the bare boards of the house, Violet reached breaking point.
Hammering on Emily’s door with her walking stick, she yelled, ‘Kindly leave the property at once! This is not a house where you can loll about in bed all day, you know.’
There was rustling from behind the closed door, then a moment later, a dishevelled, sleepy Emily stuck her head around the bedroom door, her hair a complete disgrace, with the remnants of some class of sooty black maquillage streaked down her face. Not only that, but Madam Emily appeared to have slept in some class of white long-sleeved night attire with Your Worst Nightmare written across it in lurid pink.
How appropriate, Violet thought.
‘Jesus wept,’ Emily groaned. ‘Where’s the fire?’
‘Out!’ Violet barked back at her. ‘I’m giving you exactly five minutes to get out of this house. This is not the Ritz Carlton, you know.’
‘You can say that again,’ Emily yawned.
‘You needn’t think you can laze about in bed at my expense all day.’
‘Oh, keep your hair on. You think I want to be here all day under the same roof as you? Get real.’
‘Then I strongly suggest you find some class of gainful employment,’ was Violet’s crisp retort. ‘What sort of person just hangs around the house all day anyway?’
‘I dunno,’ Emily said. ‘Someone just like you, I imagine.’
‘Out of here in exactly five minutes!’ Violet said. ‘Or be warned, I shall come in there and take particular pleasure in escorting you out the hall door myself. Somehow, I doubt that this would be the first establishment you’ve been thrown out of, Madam Emily Dunne!’
‘Don’t suppose there’s any chance of a strong coffee before I go?’ Emily added cheekily, before banging her bedroom door right in Violet’s face.
That’s her seen off, Violet thought half an hour later, twitching at the curtains in her drawing room and watching Emily finally leave. Insolent little rip. Looking like a homeless person too, she thought sniffily.
Suddenly, she had the need to hear something soothing, restful. An antidote to that awful madam and her rudeness. Instinctively, she gravitated towards the upright pianoforte in her drawing room, the one item of furniture she’d categorically refused to pawn when times were rough and money tight. Violet would starve before she could be without her music, and besides, always hovering at her shoulder, in this of all rooms particularly, was the absent ghost of Freddie Hardcastle, tall and proud, standing at the bay window and surveying the comings and goings up and down Primrose Square.
Bach, she wondered, as she stretched out her fingers, expertly skimming over the keys. No. It was far too sunny and pleasant outside for Bach. Mendelssohn. The very man for a summer’s day. Letting her subconscious take control, Violet began to play the opening bars of his wonderful piano concerto in G minor, and without knowing how, she found herself thinking back to a beautiful summer’s evening in that very drawing room, with her father standing proudly at the same window she was now playing at.
*
She’d played Mendelssohn that particular evening too, before any of their guests started to arrive.
‘It relaxes me,’ Father had said. ‘And besides, it sets the right tone for the evening ahead. Ladies of class and culture play the piano at parties. Let them all see how beautifully you can play, Vi.’
But oh, how very differently the drawing room had looked that night. The whole room had gleamed for her party – Betty, their housemaid, had seen to that. Giant floral arrangements donned every surface, and everywhere you looked, you were left in no doubt that a wealthy, prosperous family lived at number eighty-one, Primrose Square. Extra staff had been hired for the night to help with the catering, and Father had even allowed a makeshift bar to be set up in the dining room, where a bow-tied barman was on duty for the whole night, with the strict order to keep the drinks free-flowing.
Not only that, but Father had generously given Violet money to go shopping. ‘Remember, that’s to buy yourself something classy, Violet, love,’ Betty had warned her. None of those mini-skirts, now, or any of that plastic stuff that you see all the young ones parading around in. Your father will have a fit.’
‘You don’t need to remind me, Betty.’ Violet had laughed, but then she and Betty were only a few years apart and had become friends as much as housemaid and the spoiled, privileged daughter of the house. ‘Stay as far away from Mary Quant as possible, and all will be well.’
‘Laugh all you like,’ Betty had replied briskly, as she ran wet sheets through the wringer downstairs in what was then the laundry room, and which was now a decaying outdoor shed. ‘But you know what Mr Hardcastle is like. For God’s sake, Violet, just keep him happy and everything will be grand.’
For her eighteenth birthday party, Violet had struck a wonderful compromise regarding her wardrobe. With the money that her father had given her, she treated herself to a brand-new evening dress from Arnotts – white satin, and tight-fitting, so it showed off her tall, elegant figure to perfection, yet high-necked and long-sleeved, so even Father couldn’t object. Besides, Violet had thought, handing over the unheard of sum of five pounds and ten shillings for the dress, if he did give her a hard time over it, she’d just tell him that she saw exactly the same one on Princess Margaret in a magazine, and that would surely keep him quiet.
Father had wanted everyone to come, and indeed, everyone had. Neighbours from Primrose Square, family, most of Violet’s old school friends and a few of Freddie’s former work colleagues – the very few who he deemed swanky enough to be invited to such a glitzy celebration.
The drawing room had been packed to the rafters and everywhere you looked the waiting staff where dashing about, topping up champagne flutes and taking care of the glamorous guests, who’d turned out in force for Violet.
Every single one of her friends from finishing school had shown up, ‘looking like a beautiful bunch of Tralee Roses,’ as Father had said proudly. ‘Nice, well brought-up young ladies from good families. Perfect company for you, Violet.’
*
Just then, Violet’s long, slim piano fingers reached the tricky bit in the concerto, the part where you really had to concentrate or else the 4/4 staccato beat would run away with you.
Funny, she thought. She’d been at exactly the same point in the music when he’d walked in through the drawing room door, with his old friends Jayne and Tom Dawson from number nineteen Primrose Square.
Not many people could divide their lives neatly in two, like slicing an orange right down the centre. But Violet could. There was before that night, before the party – before everything that had led to this point.
And after.
After Andy McKim had casually strolled into her father’s drawing room and into her life.
Emily
‘Can’t do it,’ Emily said. ‘Can’t and won’t.’
‘You have to.’
‘It’s a total fucking waste of time. Theirs and mine.’
‘So how else are you going to fill in your day? It’s not like you’re rushing off to a job, now is it?’
‘Gimme a break. As a matter of fact, getting a job is next on my list. If I have to spend a minute longer under the same roof as my landlady, I will actually throttle her.’
‘She can’t be that bad. I’ve seen her glaring out the front window of your house loads of times. She’s a little old lady on a walking stick. You’re honestly telling me you’re afraid of a little old lady on a walking stick?’
At that description of Violet, Emily had to resist the urge to guffaw into her coffee. She was with Leon in a greasy spoon café, just off Dublin’s Capel Street. Leon’s taxi was parked close by and, given that he was about to do a ten-hour shift, he said he needed at least three eggs, two rashers and a clatter of white toast to kick-start the day.
Emily meanwhile, sipped at a coffee and pretended she wasn’t hungry, although the truth was she barely had enough cash on her to pay for the coffee, let alone breakfast. Her stomach rumbled at the smell of the fry-up Leon was horsing into. Did she know him well enough to stretch out and help herself to a bit of leftover toast he wasn’t eating?
But then she thought of what the day ahead held for her and her appetite instantly turned to ash.
‘You know what?’ she said. ‘Today’s not a great day to do this. I think I’ll leave it till tomorrow. Weekends are always better.’
The Women of Primrose Square Page 15