The words were delivered matter-of-factly and brooked no argument. Fran had always known that work came first. She’d discovered that as a child when days or even weeks would pass without a glimpse of her parents as they worked jointly on their current caseload. She had invented stories that they were off saving rainforests in the Amazon or exploring uncharted territory in Africa – it was easier than believing they were in an office twenty miles away, making arguments for their clients.
Fran only wished her mother wouldn’t always make it sound quite so acceptable. All her life these words had haunted her and she had been expected to accept without question the priorities of their lives. And she had. She recalled other absences – ‘We can’t attend the school play, dear, we’re defending someone important.’ It wasn’t until Fran was older that she realised that these important people were drug importers, fraudsters and occasionally murderers.
As a couple they were very powerful people. They associated with high-ranking government officials, judges and diplomats, most of whom had required their services at some time or might do in the future.
‘Frances, are you listening?’
‘Umm, yes, of course,’ replied Fran, feeling like a five-year-old all over again as she allowed the waiter to seat her.
‘So, how is he?’ her mother repeated with an edge to her voice. Alicia didn’t expect to have to say anything twice.
Fran hadn’t been listening but she knew to whom her mother referred. ‘We’re not together any more.’ She wondered why a note of apology had crept into her voice.
‘Oh, why not, what did you do?’ Her voice echoed with the assumption that Tim had ended it.
‘I broke it off.’
‘Yes…?’ Alicia wanted more information.
Fran realised she’d had opposing lawyers friendlier than her mother. ‘That’s it, it’s just over,’ she replied wearily.
‘Why for goodness sake…’ she paused to dismiss the waiter with a flick of the hand, ‘…he was a lovely boy. Good job, good prospects. What’s wrong with you?’
‘At thirty-one he was hardly a boy and there’s nothing wrong with me.’ Her foot began to twitch beneath the table, irritated by Alicia’s words. ‘I didn’t love him,’ she added as though further explanation was necessary.
Fran saw the dismissive look in her mind before it formed on her mother’s face.
‘Still a hopeless romantic at twenty-four.’
From anyone else the words could have been said with motherly indulgence but as the maternal instinct had been surgically removed from Alicia, they were a definite criticism.
‘You may as well face it, Frances, you’re not getting any younger. You need to settle down and have children.’
Again her mother’s lack of tact amazed her. Her expression never changed. She’d just shot an Exocet missile at her daughter’s heart and not a shadow crossed her face. Could she really have forgotten? Fran wondered. A lonely candle burned in her bedroom every year on his birthday. The eyes of her mother were blank, hard and cold. The memory wasn’t there.
How could she have forgotten? Fran wondered as Alicia picked up the menu and perused the seafood section. She almost found the courage to ask but the waiter who had been dismissed earlier arrived at their table at the perfect moment.
The tightening jawbone of her mother caused Fran to shudder. Oh no, here we go, she thought, wondering if anyone would notice if she disappeared beneath the table with her mother’s glass of brandy.
‘Young man, did you see my hand raise to summon you or indicate in any way, shape or form that we were ready to order?’
Fran watched the poor waiter’s fair hair produce a red curtain that fell, covering his whole face.
‘I’m sorry, Madam, I—’
‘If you feel the need to rush us out of here then I will insist on speaking to the manager to explain your conduct.’
‘I’m… s… s…’
Fran closed her eyes. Stammering, stuttering and any other speech impediment irritated her mother to the point of paranoia.
‘Don’t make excuses! When I require your services you will be summoned to the table. Do I make myself clear?’
Afraid to speak, he nodded.
‘You may go,’ she dismissed him.
He went, quickly.
It occurred to Fran that her mother had been born much too late and in the wrong country. She should have been a southern matriarch before the American Civil War.
‘Mother, was that really necessary?’ asked Fran bravely.
‘Don’t be such a child, Frances. You were taught years ago how to treat service people.’
After talking about a recent case for a couple of moments and having made her point, the waiter was summoned by a slight nod.
Fran noticed how his hand shook slightly as he took their order of steamed clams. He narrowly missed another tongue-lashing through his hesitation when Alicia demanded confirmation that the house white was chilled to ten degrees.
Little conversation took place during the consumption of the perfectly cooked clams. Only when the steaming Turkish coffee arrived did Alicia speak again, disturbing Fran from the engaging aroma of the herbs mixed with dark, strong coffee.
‘How are things at the office?’
What else could she have asked? As far as Alicia was concerned, if work was okay then life was perfect. Fran almost expected to receive an agenda the night before they were due to meet.
‘It’s fine, Mother,’ she replied, aware that a headache was forming over her eyes. Eighteen-hour days, legal papers, appeals, twelve cases at once, the pressure of winning, no problem. One dinner with her mother and her head pounded like a jungle drum.
Fran checked her watch, eager to leave. From the moment she’d entered the restaurant, she had once again been reduced to the child that still craved approval from the formidable figure that was her mother. She wanted to shake off the infant that sat patiently waiting for any crumb of attention that fell her way. Why, after all these years, did this woman still hold such power over her?
After a perfunctory goodbye, where no pretentious effort was made at intimacy, Fran watched Alicia leave the restaurant and a question jumped into her mind: what would break first, the solid great wall or her? Fran left after seeking out the waiter to give him an extra generous tip and an apology.
The symptoms started in the car and she only prayed she would be home before her sight started to go. The sensation of her tongue thickening inside her shrinking mouth was the first indication of what was to come. Her breathing became hard and erratic and her hands were clamped around the steering wheel for dear life.
With effort she managed to enter the safety of her home before the shutters on her eyes came down. She felt her way to the kitchen, retrieved a carton of orange juice and started to pour it quickly into her mouth. Greedily she swallowed, forcing the liquid past her tongue. The shaking hands caused some of the contents to gush down over her jacket and shirt. Her fingers would not remove themselves from around the carton. Her breathing had become jerky and irregular as she made her way to the sofa, still clutching the juice. The pounding in her head banged in time with the thudding of her heart. She was afraid it might break through her breast and escape.
She sat in the darkness, the feeling of impending doom turning her stomach inside out while she waited for it to pass. She knew what it was: it was a panic attack. It was frightening and it was lonely.
And it only happened once a month.
4
Fran
Fran’s first memorable lesson from her parents was that a rational explanation should be offered for even the most childish wonderings. There were no moo-moos or tweet-tweets, only cows and birds. Signs, typed and laminated at her parents’ office, were used to educate her around the house. The TV sat beneath a sign stating ‘TELEVISION’ followed by a red cross. Fran learned at an early age that the red cross meant she wasn’t allowed to touch. She also learned that the only appropriate goals were w
hat her parents termed ‘achievable’.
As Fran was nearing her tenth birthday her favourite teacher called her mother in for a private word about her daughter’s artistic ability.
‘I have to say, Mrs Thornton, that your daughter shows an incredible amount of skill for her age. With the correct tuition this could be nurtured into a formidable talent. In all my years of teaching I have never seen this kind of expression in one so young. It really is quite remarkable.’
Fran sat on her fingers, trying to curb the excitement. Her mum would be so pleased that she could do something better than all the other children. Her mum would turn to her and smile, praise her for her pictures.
‘Please tell me how you can see this in a clutch of childish drawings. They look nothing more than finger-painting exercises.’
Fran’s legs became still. She was supposed to be happy.
Flustered, the teacher tried to make her point. ‘Oh no, Mrs Thornton, they show far more than that. It is her use of colour and light and the imagination that she puts into—’
‘So you’re telling me that with the extra classes you’re suggesting, my daughter will grow up to be a revered and prominent artist. That she will be the best.’
‘Oh no, I couldn’t possibly promise that at this stage but she could have a wonderful future.’
Alicia stood and smoothed her knee-length skirt. ‘I assure you that she will have a wonderful future whichever route I choose for her, Miss Nightingale, and as you cannot promise that she won’t starve in a garret in Paris I will not be taking you up on your offer.’
‘But surely…’ The teacher’s words trailed off as the eyes stopped her dead.
‘Second best is not acceptable. Do I make myself clear? Come along, Frances.’
The teacher swallowed and nodded as Fran trailed behind Alicia out of the classroom. She wanted to go back and say sorry that her mum had been so rude but Alicia was already storming towards the end of the corridor.
That night Fran’s paints were removed without explanation. They simply disappeared. Three days later, in her search for the art equipment, Fran wandered into her father’s study. It had always been out of bounds to a child that might disturb the controlled order of paperwork.
Her mouth gaped open at the rows of leather-bound books that stretched from the thick, plush carpet to the detailed coving at the high ceiling. She ran her hands lovingly over the cold, smooth leather bindings then quickly snatched them away. Her father might know that she’d touched them.
Her attention was caught by photograph albums on the fifth shelf. They were arranged methodically in date order, clearly labelled: who, where and when. By standing on her father’s office chair on tiptoe she could stretch her slender body high enough to reach one that had her name on it. To remove any footprints she rubbed at the soft, cool leather with the hem of her nightdress.
She sat on the floor, her frilly white dressing gown splayed around her, gazing at images of herself in pretty dresses with gleaming red hair, sitting demurely at a photographer’s studio. In every picture she was on her own.
Two short rings of the telephone disturbed her quiet concentration. Her heart leapt a beat – that meant her parents were on their way home. The call served as a signal to Mrs Thomas to be ready for their arrival, whatever the time.
Fran jumped to her feet, clambering back on to the chair to replace the album. In her haste the wheels of the chair rolled slightly, causing her to fall back against the bookcase. The movement disturbed other albums, which crashed down around her.
‘Oh no, oh no, oh no!’ she whispered while trying to gather them together.
As she struggled to lift two at the same time something swooped down from side to side through the air, like a feather. It landed beside her.
Mrs Thomas barged into the room, one curler dangling over her forehead, smelling of Fairy soap.
‘What are you up to, child?’ she asked, her voice fraught with panic. It lost some of its anxiety once she surveyed the limited damage. ‘You know you’re not allowed in here. You’ll have me sacked.’
Fran covered the stray photo with her hand. ‘I’m s… sorry.’
‘Go on, upstairs with you, child! I’ll sort this mess out and we’ll say no more about it.’
She nodded gratefully, closing her hand over the photo, but she dared not tell Mrs Thomas about it. They’d never have time to find its home.
Once safely in bed she glanced again at the black and white print of a woman with long, unkempt hair. She examined the slightly familiar features that stared back at her with pure joy shining from the dark eyes. She hid it inside the back cover of Bleak House, where it remained, forgotten, until she was sixteen years old.
‘But, Mother, I’d work just as hard if I went to a local school.’
‘Frances, we have this argument every time you return for the holidays. It’s a good school.’
‘But I’d rather be here with you.’
‘Nonsense,’ Alicia sniffed, her jaw tightening at the open emotion. ‘You’re a young woman of fifteen. You should be making friends, the right friends,’ she said pointedly.
‘But, Mother—’
‘No more, Frances. That school should be teaching you the discipline you obviously need. Your arguments are based on emotion, not reason.’ Alicia held up her hand to signal the end of the discussion.
Fran stormed upstairs to pack. Reason, not emotion – had her mother forgotten she was at home and not in the courtroom?
For six weeks she’d done everything to be the model daughter. She’d worn her hair tied back tightly, worn designer slacks instead of jeans, walked slowly around the house just as her mother wished to prove that she was growing up and could be what Alicia wanted.
‘All for nothing,’ she stormed, throwing the navy blazers into her case. All she wanted was the opportunity to be a part of their lives. She slumped down into the cane chair beside her bed. What more could she do? She had tried to be everything her mother expected, yet it wasn’t enough.
While her parents had spent the summer defending a very important client, whom Fran suspected was no less important than Jesus Christ himself, she had taken the time to catch up on reading, discovering a love of Tolstoy. More than once her hands had itched for a paintbrush or a pencil, often when images filled her head of the sumptuous ball gowns she had imagined while reading Anna Karenina, but the thought of Alicia’s disapproving expression kept the pencils hidden in her school bag.
She kicked idly at the frilly covers overhanging the double bed. For some reason she longed to ruffle the bed, pull down the lemon canopy overhead, anything to disturb the quiet order of the bedroom.
For as long as she could remember the stuffed toys had sat on the ottoman at the bottom of her bed and the collection of china dolls were always placed just out of reach on top of her dressing table. If she’d wanted to hold one when she was younger she’d had to ask Mrs Thomas to reach one down. She glanced again at the stuffed toys that were not worn and ragged as they should have been. She’d never been allowed to get attached to one cuddly toy; they’d been replaced with a new, fresh model as soon as they showed any signs of love.
Frances picked up Pooh Bear from the ottoman and placed him on top of her pillow. She liked the homely look of him sitting there as though waiting for her next visit. For a few moments she sat back, listening for the sounds of home to take back to school with her. She tipped her head. Every house has its own noises, she thought, its own form of breathing. Strange sounds that are inexplicable but show that the house is alive. Only silence met her keen ears.
She carried her cases downstairs, aware that her mother would disapprove, and waited for Mr Thomas to carry out his perfunctory checks to the tyres and mirrors of the Mercedes. Her father was still at the office so there would be no goodbye from him and her mother had disappeared, as she always did when Fran was about to leave. When she was younger Fran had thought it was because she was tearful at watching her daughter leave
; she now knew it was to avoid any open displays of emotion.
Fran took the opportunity to dart upstairs to grab Bleak House, a book she hadn’t read for years. Her room felt suddenly different, alien already, yet she’d only left it ten minutes earlier. Something had changed. It wasn’t until she was halfway to the train station that she realised: Pooh Bear had been placed promptly but definitively back on the ottoman.
‘Hiya Fran, glad to be back?’ asked Kerry, her best friend, roommate and the only person allowed to call her Fran.
‘Remind me…’ she said, eyeing the narrow single bed, desk and plywood wardrobe ‘…why exactly do our parents pay those big bucks?’
‘In the name of education, my dear, but you forget, I’m on a scholarship. Nothing but my own excellent grey matter brought me into your sad, dreary existence,’ she claimed dramatically.
Fran threw her pillow, hitting Kerry full in the face. ‘Yes, imagine, if not I might have had someone decent to share a room with.’
‘Quick, Fran, quick, quick, take it off!’ Kerry shouted urgently.
‘What?’ Fran looked around her, startled.
‘Your mother’s voice.’
Fran scowled as Kerry wandered over to the mirror to check her lipstick.
‘I do not sound like my mother,’ she stated in a clipped voice that was exactly her mother’s.
Kerry’s reflection met her eyes. ‘Not normally no, but every time you return from “Straitlace House” I have to mould you back into a real person and cut away the strings.’ Kerry walked towards her, imitating a puppet.
‘That’s not true. I’m the same person wherever I am.’
‘Yeah sure, anyway a few of us are going over the wall tonight. Are you up for it?’
‘No, I need to catch up on some studying.’
‘Please yourself. I’m off to give those lads hell.’
‘Tart!’ laughed Fran.
‘And she’s back, the Fran we all know and love. A round of applause, if you please.’ Kerry spoke into the hairbrush.
The Forgotten Woman: A gripping, emotional rollercoaster read you’ll devour in one sitting Page 6