The Women of Primrose Square
Page 22
A few of the Zimmer frame brigade threw curious glances her way, as they shuffled past her down the gravelled pathway outside. More than once she heard the odd hissed whisper as she diligently worked away.
‘That’s the daughter. No, not that one, the other one. The one who . . . well, we all know what she did.’
‘She has a right nerve showing her face here, I can tell you. Her poor father must be spinning in his grave.’
This particular beaut was delivered in such a clear, ringing tone, Emily couldn’t but hear it loud and clear. She schooled herself not to let it get to her, though. Nor did she stop working, not once. Instead, for the next hour, she tackled her mother’s overgrown garden, cutting it back with secateurs she’d borrowed from Susan, and trimming everywhere she looked.
With the very first payment from her dole money, Emily had bought a few packets of seeds from a garden centre in town. Sunflowers, which had always been such a favourite of her mother’s, back in the day.
You see, Mum? I remembered. And I’m doing this for you, so I can’t be all bad.
She’d done more than that, too. She’d put by a few quid for her nephew Jamie, determined to repay him what she’d ‘borrowed’ from his piggy bank, no matter how long it took. Plus, it was Sadie and Boring Brien’s wedding anniversary the following week, so she’d texted and offered babysitting services for free, just in case the two of them fancied a night out together. No response back, of course, but still. Slowly and painstakingly, Emily was doing her own little bit to make amends. She was planning to send them an anniversary present too – nothing fancy, given her lack of funds, but still. She’d make the gesture anyway. In for a penny, etc.
Very carefully, she planted a row of sunflowers just under the front window of her mother’s house, so that every time her mum glanced out, she’d have something pretty to look at. She’d even brought a few tough bin liners and filled two of them up to the brim with garden waste, then hauled them back to the reception area, where there was a neat row of compost bins she could fill.
‘You’re wasting your time, you know,’ one elderly man, who’d been playing chess at a table outside, yelled across at her. ‘Your mother’s out.’
‘Saw her leave with my own two eyes,’ wheezed his companion, another old man in a wheelchair who looked about a hundred and ten. Emily remembered the pair of them vaguely from the last time she’d been there and silently nicknamed them Waldorf and Statler.
‘That daughter of hers called earlier to take her out for the day,’ the first one said. ‘The nice daughter, the one she likes.’
For a moment Emily felt a bit deflated, but still. At least this was a little surprise her mother could come home to later.
‘You’re definitely the other one, then, are you? I have to check – my cataracts are at me.’
She shrugged. ‘That’s me.’
‘You’re not going to mug us or anything like that, are you?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Emily called back, putting down the heavy bin liners she’d been struggling with and wiping sweat from her forehead. ‘Why would I do that?’
‘Well, if the rumours about you are anything to go by . . .’
At that, a sprightly elderly lady, who’d been strolling through the rose garden at the back of the park, came over on her walking stick to interrupt.
‘Oh, listen to yourselves,’ she said to the two aul’ fellas. ‘Have you nothing else to do except harass this young woman? Get back to your game of chess, you gossipy pair of old codgers. Pay absolutely no attention,’ she added, turning her attention to Emily. ‘Emily, isn’t it?’
Emily nodded.
‘I saw you working away in your mum’s garden just there and I thought: what a lovely gesture. I imagine you’re thirsty after all that – fancy a cup of tea?’
‘I’d murder one.’ Emily smiled, delighted to meet one person who didn’t automatically presume she was the spawn of the devil.
‘I’m Norma,’ the elderly lady smiled kindly. She had huge cornflower blue eyes that twinkled, and that ageless quality where she could have been any age between seventy and ninety.
Norma linked Emily’s arm as they walked back towards reception and on into a sort of recreation room, with sofas, coffee tables and armchairs dotted about the place. There was a sideboard with makeshift tea- and coffee-making facilities, and a crumbly looking half-eaten packet of plain digestives on a side plate, but that was about it as far as refreshments went. The whole place seemed dead and depressing to Emily, with an atmosphere a bit like a funeral home.
There were a couple of other elderly people in the room, with some of the care home assistants buzzing about. Did Emily imagine it, or did more than a few heads swivel her way when she came in? It made her doubly grateful to have someone like Norma with her, who at least seemed to be on her side.
The two sat in wicker chairs by the window overlooking the park and Emily made tea for them both.
‘Boring as arse in here, isn’t it?’ Norma said, as Emily looked back in shock at her. ‘What?’ Norma replied, reading the look on her face. ‘You think just because I’m old, I’ve forgotten how to swear?’
‘Just surprised, that’s all.’ Emily grinned, very glad now that she’d come in for the cuppa.
‘That’s the worst of being in a place like this,’ Norma said. ‘The sheer boredom is what gets you in the end. Do you know what passes for entertainment around here?’
‘What?’
‘Take a look at the noticeboard. Read it and weep. Come here and I’ll show you.’
Emily did as she was told and walked over to an ancient-looking tiled wall with a clutter of posters on it. Flower arranging was one class advertised. The evening rosary was another. But the biggest, showiest poster of all was reserved for an Elvis impersonator who was: playing live at 5 p.m. on Saturday night – don’t be late!
‘Did you ever see such a pile of shite?’ Norma said, as she stood beside Emily, surveying the ‘entertainments’ on offer. ‘Flower arranging? Can you think of anything more boring? The evening rosary is all well and good if you’re devout, but what about those of us who aren’t? And as for the Elvis impersonator? My back side is more like Elvis than he is.’
Emily couldn’t help snorting.
‘Honestly,’ Norma went on, ‘a concert that starts at five in the afternoon? Did you ever? I was a bit of a Rolling Stones fan back in the day, you know,’ she added. ‘And nothing – nothing – good ever started at five on a Saturday evening, believe me.’
‘Well, well, well,’ Emily said, impressed. ‘A real live rock chick. As I live and breathe.’
‘Here, it’s not cancer or a stroke or a heart attack that gets us, you know, love,’ Norma said wisely. ‘It’s boredom. The sheer, unadulterated boredom. Do you know how it feels to have a diet of afternoon telly and soap operas on a constant loop?’
Emily didn’t want to tell her that, actually, she did. Having spent the guts of the last year in and out of treatment, she knew exactly how mind-numbingly tedious it could all get, day in, day out. She said nothing, though. Just nodded in agreement.
‘I hope you never have to,’ Norma said. ‘And another thing – I don’t suppose you have a cigarette on you, do you? You look like the kind of girl who smokes.’
‘Do I?’ Emily said, surprised.
‘Takes one to know one. I haven’t had a fag in twenty years, and if you could smuggle me in a gin and tonic next time you’re here, I’d die a very happy woman.’
Emily smiled and led her outside for a cigarette.
And in a moment, she knew exactly what she needed to do to really, properly make amends to her mum.
Violet
When Violet had the whole house to herself and nothing but her own thoughts to occupy her, she could still hear Emily’s sharp rebuke ringing in her ears, clear as crystal.
As far as I can see, you spend all day sitting around the house, picking fights with people you barely know.
When Emily finally vacated the premises, Violet did what she always did every morning: took up her armchair seat in the front bay window with her notepad and pen in hand, ready to scribble off missives to anyone whose behaviour she deemed inappropriate or unruly. It was high summertime, so there were rich pickings, and her view from the front window commanded the whole square.
Yesterday alone, she saw young Hugo Kearns freewheeling on his bike through the grass on the square, in spite of a notice gargantuan in size with the simple instruction: Keep off the grass. And as for that sulky Monica Miller from number seventeen? Violet had seen her swinging on the roundabout in the playground area, which was intended for children only, and Monica had to be sixteen if she was a day.
If it wasn’t for me, Violet thought, there would be anarchy on Primrose Square. Yet did she get any thanks for it? Not a bit of it.
She sipped on her morning coffee, this time served out of her china mug with Prince Harry and Meghan Markle on it, which she’d purchased via a most reputable mail order service provided by Majesty magazine, her favourite periodical. She wasn’t enjoying her tea at all, though; Madam Emily’s words had given her heartburn. So instead, she sat back and surveyed the square outside, remembering back to a far happier time, when nobody would have dared to speak to her so cruelly.
*
‘It’s just a night out at the pictures,’ Jayne had said, as the two girls sat together up in Violet’s bedroom, scheming how best to get Violet out of there so she could see Andy without her father finding out. Freddie Hardcastle was at work just then, thankfully, because otherwise even the sight of Jayne Dawson in his house would have sent him over the edge.
‘I’m sure if you’re honest with your father, he’d understand,’ Jayne added hopefully.
‘He’d never understand!’ Violet wailed, throwing herself down onto the bed and lying prostrate. ‘You’ve no idea how bad it is! I’ve seen him in black moods before.’
‘I’m sure,’ Jayne said, rolling her eyes.
‘But never anything to compare with this. Oh Jayne, the morning after the party he almost crucified me! I’m not allowed to go outside the front door for months, probably, and by then – wait till you see – Andy will have forgotten all about me and met some other girl. Some lovely Liverpool girl who doesn’t have a complete tyrant for a father.’
She was almost hysterical by then, but Jayne knew how to soothe troubled waters.
‘Don’t upset yourself,’ Jayne said calmly. ‘It’s nothing. Andy just asked you to the cinema, that’s all. It’s not that big a deal. Not really.’
Actually, Andy had done considerably more than that. He’d called to Violet’s house earlier that day, knocked on the front door, bold as brass, and it was only by the grace of God that her father had been out. Betty had been busy in the kitchen, so Violet had quickly ushered him away from the doorstep and across into the square, so they could talk in peace, far away from prying eyes.
‘You know I go home to Liverpool tomorrow?’ Andy said to her, looking at her with those gorgeous, soulful brown eyes and reaching out to hold her hand. He’d been in Dublin for five whole days by then, and in spite of the horrible tensions at home, Violet was still on top of the world. The memories of that wonderful night, when she and Andy first met, sustained her. Every time her father shouted at her or threatened her, all she had to do was remember dancing with Andy in the nightclub, how tightly he’d held her, how thrilling it all was, and how completely alive she’d felt.
They’d chatted the whole night away, as if there had been no one else present. Then after they’d left the club, Andy had insisted on walking her back to Primrose Square. Dawn was just breaking as they strolled home arm in arm, with Andy’s coat draped around Violet’s thin shoulders to keep her warm. Her birthday party had ended hours and hours before. She knew she’d taken a huge risk, sneaking out, and there’d be merry hell to pay – but she didn’t care. Because something had changed in her tonight. She had to see Andy again before he left. She’d absolutely die if she didn’t and that was all there was to it.
‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘I’d love to take you out before I leave. Just you and me, this time, with no need for Jayne and Tom to chaperone us. It’s not like we’re a pair of twelve-year-olds, now is it, Vi, love?’
There. Andy had called her Vi. Her pet name, that only close family and friends ever called her. It felt so lovely. She let him chat away, adoring his accent, his sense of humour, not to mention the warm, clammy feel of his hand tightly gripped around hers.
‘2001: A Space Odyssey is on at the Carlton cinema,’ Andy said, ‘so if you’re up for it, I’ll get tickets for us. Even buy you a bag of chips on the way home. Can’t say fairer than that, now can I?’ he added cheekily.
‘I’d love nothing more,’ Violet said. ‘But the problem is my father. He’s still so angry over what happened the night of the party . . .’
Andy was ahead of her, though. ‘So how about if we do this right, then?’ he said. ‘The real old-fashioned way?’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked, confused.
‘Your old man wants his daughter to be with a gentleman, so let me show him that I can be just that,’ Andy said, looking intently at her. ‘In spite of the long hair and the fact that I play in a band, let me show him that I know how to treat you right. We got off on the wrong foot, and I did things all wrong by taking you away from your party, but I can always apologise to him and start again, can’t I?’
The idea of her father giving anyone a second chance almost made Violet splutter. She was eighteen years old and never once in the whole course of her life had she ever seen that happen.
‘I know he wants the best for you,’ Andy went on, as Violet wavered, ‘but come on, love, I’m only in Dublin for one last night. Why don’t I call to your house tonight, with flowers for you and a bottle of whiskey for your old man, and let’s start afresh. What do you say?’
Violet stayed silent, afraid to say what she really thought. Which was that if she even dared mention the name Andy McKim to her father, she’d be in real danger of being locked up in her room for the night, like a 1960s Lady of Shalott. She knew Andy only meant well, but she also knew her father would go through him for a shortcut if he as much as thought about crossing the threshold of the house again.
So she took matters into her own hands. An alibi, she thought. That was the solution to all her problems. And she had the perfect one in the form of Miss Adele Lanagan O’Keefe, the most boring girl in her whole year at the Hibernian finishing school, but who her father was forever encouraging her to be pals with, mainly because Adele’s family were terribly grand, living in a mansion out in Foxrock, with its own tennis court and everything. Not only that, but Adele’s grandfather was a senior politician, and the newly minted Minister for Agriculture to boot.
Later that day, and for the first time in her whole life, Violet looked her father in the eye and lied to his face.
‘I know you said I couldn’t go out for months,’ she told him, forcing herself to make the fib sound convincing, ‘but you see, Adele’s invited me to a piano recital in the RDS and all her family will be there, including the minister.’
‘I see,’ said Freddie thoughtfully, sitting in his wing-back armchair by the fire, a copy of the Irish Chronicle in his hands – always, Violet knew of old, the best time to catch him in a good mood. ‘Well, don’t think this means you’re forgiven for how you behaved the night of the party, Vi. Far from it. But I suppose just this once you can go. Only because it’s the Lanagan O’Keefes, though. And you’ll be back here on the stroke of eleven or else there’ll be hell to pay.’
Bingo. As V
iolet got dressed that night, into a sensible tweed two-piece suit, just like one she’d seen Princess Margaret wearing in a magazine, she was brimming over with excitement. Her plan was all set. She’d warned Andy not to come near the house, and instead had arranged to meet him outside the Carlton cinema at 7 p.m., giving her plenty of time to dash into Clerys department store across the road before they closed. Once there, she could slip up to the powder room and change into the mini dress she’d stuffed into the depths of her handbag, which was far sexier and showed off her long, skinny legs, just like Twiggy’s. Infinitely more suitable for a night out with a possible future boyfriend.
‘I’m off now, Father!’ she said cheerily, sticking her head around the door into his study, where he was still sat pouring over that day’s newspaper. ‘There’s no need to wait up for me, but don’t worry, I won’t be late!’
‘Be sure to invite Adele in on your way home,’ her father said. ‘And the minister too, of course.’
Violet didn’t dare answer that one, though. Instead, she just gave a light-hearted little wave and dashed out of the house as fast as she could.
The best I can hope for, she thought, tripping down the steps and walking the short distance towards O’Connell Street, is that Adele doesn’t blow my cover by telephoning the house and ruining everything. As she ran breathlessly down Westmorland Street, Violet offered up a silent prayer to her mother that all would be well. After all, Adele rarely rang her or called to the house impromptu, so what were the odds?
Well worth all the stress and the web of lies, she thought, when she saw Andy’s tall, slim outline waiting for her outside the cinema. He looked unbearably handsome too, wearing a dark navy jacket and tight trousers, as he pulled on a cigarette and shivered against the autumn breeze. She picked up her pace to meet him and he grinned broadly when he saw her coming.
‘Well, now, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?’ He beamed, slipping his arm around her shoulder as he guided her inside. Andy hadn’t a bean to his name, but still insisted on paying for everything, even the Wimpy burger that he treated Violet to in the café beside the cinema afterwards.