The Secrets of Primrose Square

by Claudia Carroll

  ‘You want to talk to me about money and salaries at a time like this?’ she’d spluttered back at him. ‘You don’t think I’ve other things on my mind? Like trying to get justice for our own daughter?’

  ‘What I’m trying to say is that we’ve already lost so much, we can’t afford to lose any more.’

  ‘So you’re just going to leave me and Melissa here on our own?’

  ‘I know the timing is shit,’ he’d said so reasonably that she’d actually thought she might claw at his face. She wanted to draw blood. She wanted to hurt him physically just like he was hurting her. ‘But come on, love, we have to face up to what’s happened and keep on keeping on, don’t we? We have to accept what the police are telling us. That’s what Ella would have wanted.’

  ‘Well, excuse me for not being able to face up to having a dead daughter cold in her grave as easily as you seem to be! And don’t fucking DARE tell me what Ella would or wouldn’t have wanted!’

  Even Skype calls where they’d talk about crap like whether or not she’d watered the plants were better than that, Susan thought bitterly to herself. Besides, Melissa adored her dad; she needed him and, if nothing else, it was at least something that the two of them got to speak daily.

  Melissa . . .

  Oh Christ, Susan thought, actively trying to block out the image of her child’s pale, worried face from the night before. Her heart cracked open with guilt when she thought of her daughter, her little girl, helping to shoo her away from that house, then bundle her into the back of Jayne Dawson’s car, hoping she hadn’t already been seen from inside the house and reported again.

  ‘Now I need you to listen to me very carefully, love,’ Jayne had calmly told her when they were safely back at Primrose Square, after Melissa had gone to bed. ‘I know you’re going through hell right now, and not for one minute would I blame you for doing what you were doing tonight. But there’s Melissa to think of, isn’t there?’

  As if to stress the point, Jayne reached across the kitchen table to take a firm grip of Susan’s thin, bony hand. ‘You still have her, love. Remember she’s struggling with all of this too and, more than anything else, she wants her mammy to be there for her. For God’s sake, she’s only twelve years old, and she’s trying to process this too. Believe me, everything will be so much easier if you put that poor child first from now on.’

  Coming from anyone else, Susan would have spat back at them, told them to piss off, stop interfering and just leave her alone. What the hell did anyone else know about what she was going through? How dare anyone tell her how to behave and how not to behave? How dare anyone tell her how to be a mother?

  But Jayne wasn’t like that. She’d never been one for fake sympathy and faux-sorrowful head shakes like everyone else. Instead, throughout the past year she’d been nothing but kind, compassionate and calm. Always dropping in big bowls of healthy casserole for dinner, always there for a chat, always watching out for Melissa, particularly since Frank fecked off. So Susan sat in silence, holding her tongue at the kitchen table, while Jayne gently reminded her that she was playing with fire.

  ‘Supposing it had been someone else who’d found you this evening, instead of me? What then?’

  Susan didn’t answer, she just sat there mutely, taking it, nodding whenever prompted and thanking Jayne mechanically when she eventually got up to leave, just before midnight.

  ‘Now you will be more careful in future?’ Jayne had asked as they said their goodbyes on the doorstep. ‘No more going back to that boy’s house. That Josh, what’s his name.’

  ‘Andrews,’ Susan had said quietly. ‘His name is Josh Andrews.’

  ‘You’ll stay away from him, though, won’t you? Do you promise me?’

  ‘Promise,’ Susan said dully as she waved the older woman off, not even bothering to lock the front door behind her, as she peeled herself off to bed for yet another sleepless night.

  But hours later, as she stared up at the ceiling through the darkness, she vowed to go back there and do exactly the same thing, all over again.

  Fuck what everyone else said. To hell with what the police kept telling her and to hell with Frank too. Susan knew the real truth and hell would freeze over before she’d ever let the likes of Josh Andrews forget it.

  *

  ‘We’re very sorry, Mrs Hayes, but this prescription has expired.’

  ‘What did you say?’ she asked, trying to ignore the sailor knot of tension in her stomach.

  ‘I’m afraid this script was only good for three repeat prescriptions, and as you’ve already reached your limit, that means I can’t help you today.’

  Jesus Christ, Susan thought, sudden panic electrifying her. Who did this pharmacist one think she was, anyway? The girl looked about fifteen years old, not far off Melissa’s age. And she was wearing a badge that said ‘trainee’. Did she know what she was talking about? Was she even qualified?

  ‘That’s not possible,’ Susan told her, unable to keep the rising note of panic out of her voice. ‘You see, I need the Xanax now, urgently. Can you check your system again?’

  ‘I already did, Mrs Hayes, several times,’ the young pharmacist said nervously. ‘And there’s no mistake; this prescription is well out of date. But if you’ll just make an appointment to see your GP, I’m sure they’ll be happy to issue you with a fresh one.’

  ‘No, no, no, no, no, you don’t understand,’ Susan insisted. ‘You see, I can’t do that. I need the tablets now. Immediately. If I go through my GP, it’ll be tomorrow at the earliest before I can even get an appointment and I can’t wait that long. It’s out of the question. This really is an emergency. Do you understand?’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Hayes, but I really can’t help you – it’s against all our regulations,’ said the pharmacist, biting her bottom lip and glancing anxiously over her shoulder for someone to come along and rescue her. Susan Hayes was well known among the staff at this pharmacy – the woman was trouble, pure and simple.

  ‘You’re not exactly being very helpful,’ Susan snapped, aware that she was raising her voice and that other customers were beginning to stare. ‘So look – can you just go and get Simon for me? He’ll sort me out, I know he will.’

  Simon was the manager; he knew Susan personally. Surely he’d sidestep all their gobshite rules and regulations just this once and give her something to tide her over. He had to.

  The queue behind her had started to swell and she could sense a lot of grumblings and dirty looks directed her way. Susan ignored them, though, because she had no other choice. Besides, she figured, most of these people were probably only queuing up for packets of Lemsip or a few pathetic paracetamol. None of their medications could possibly be as urgent as hers.

  Finally Simon appeared from the back room, a gaunt, older man with a stoop, who looked stressed enough as it was, and whose face fell even further the minute he saw Susan.

  ‘Ahh, it’s you again, Mrs Hayes,’ he said curtly. ‘Can you take over from me in the back room?’ he added to his young trainee. ‘It’s okay, I’ll deal with this.’

  At that, the young girl quickly grabbed her chance to get out of the line of fire, looking relieved.

  ‘Simon, there you are,’ Susan said determinedly. ‘I’m so sorry to bother you, but you really have to help me. My prescription has expired and the thing is, I can’t get through the day without a few Xanax . . . ’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Hayes, but as my assistant explained, there’s nothing we can do for you until you’ve been to see your GP. Now I’m more than happy to make an appointment for you, if you’d like?’

  ‘No!   ’ Susan said, raising her voice, although she hadn’t meant to. ‘I don’t have time for that – I need something right away, Simon. Now. Do you understand? I can’t wait. I promise I’ll get to see my doctor, but just for now, can’t you give me one or two tablets to get me through the day? That’s all I’m asking for. God knows, it’s not much, is it?’

  They knew
exactly what she was trying to cope with. Surely they could spare her a few poxy Xanax?

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Hayes,’ said Simon patiently, ‘but you do understand that would be against practice rules. Now you wouldn’t want me to get into trouble, would you?’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said a narky voice from behind. Susan turned around to see an elderly woman with a tartan shopping trolley at the front of the queue, looking deeply pissed off. ‘Some of us do actually have valid prescriptions, you know, and you’re taking all day.’

  Tempers were getting frayed, but Susan still couldn’t bring herself to budge. She couldn’t face going back to that house again, back to look at her room, her things, her photos – everything – without at least some kind of medicinal back-up. Christ alone knew, the nights were bad enough, but the days were far, far worse and she didn’t know what she could do to fill them. At least a good strong sedative numbed her for a while, so she could function on autopilot, if nothing else.

  ‘Come on, Simon,’ she pleaded, hating that she had to say this in front of an audience of strangers. ‘You know what I’m coping with here. Don’t make me ask you again. Don’t make me beg.’

  ‘While I have the greatest sympathy for you personally,’ Simon answered calmly, ‘I’m afraid I really need you to move aside now so I can deal with other customers.’

  ‘You heard the man, love,’ the elderly lady insisted. ‘Move out of the way, would you? I’ve been here waiting for ages, and I need my blood pressure medication. At this rate, I’ll miss my bus home.’

  ‘Can’t you see he’s dealing with me?’ Susan barked back at her.

  ‘And he just told you he can’t help you,’ said the older woman, squaring up to her. ‘What, are you deaf or something?’

  ‘Come on now, Mrs Hayes,’ said Simon, sounding exasperated. ‘Come back to me with an up-to-date prescription and we’ll sort you out then. That’s a promise. Okay? Next, please.’

  ‘No, it’s not okay,’ Susan snapped, really starting to lose it. ‘Absolutely none of this is okay, Simon. I’m not leaving here without those pills. This is an emergency. I’ll have your precious prescription for you later on this week – will that keep you happy?’

  There was much tsk-tsk-ing from behind her but she was beyond caring by then.

  ‘Mrs Hayes,’ said Simon sternly, ‘I’m afraid I won’t ask you again. Now kindly step aside and let me help other customers.’

  ‘Other customers who actually bothered to go to the doctor and get a proper prescription before they came here,’ came another ratty voice from the back of the queue.

  ‘Yeah . . . unlike your woman,’ muttered another, to loud grumbles. ‘Some people are so self-centered, aren’t they? Think the whole world revolves around them.’

  ‘Please, Mrs Hayes,’ said Simon, trying to break the Mexican stand-off that had developed, ‘if you don’t move aside, then you’ll leave me with no choice but to call security.’

  ‘Excuse me, is that some kind of threat?’ said Susan loudly. ‘What are you going to do anyway? Have me dragged out of here in handcuffs? All I’m looking for is a few lousy sedatives – would that kill you? I’m a good customer, I’ve been coming here for years!’

  ‘I’m a good customer too,’ said the same elderly lady from behind, twitching her umbrella, like she was itching to clatter Susan with it. ‘And let me tell you, Mrs Whatever-Your-Name-Is, you’re being extremely selfish, delaying everyone else like this. Now come on, you’ve already been told three times to move out of the way.’

  White-hot with rage, Susan turned around to face this woman full-on. ‘Don’t you dare,’ she growled. ‘Don’t you dare speak to me like that.’

  Jesus Christ, who were these people anyway? Had they the first clue why she was humiliating herself like this? Was there a single one of them who’d even understand?

  ‘I’ll speak to a rude woman like you any way I like,’ came the sharp response. ‘You don’t deserve any better.’

  ‘Oh really?’ Susan snapped. ‘You’re standing there with nothing more to whinge about than coughs and colds and your bloody blood pressure medication. Have you any idea what some of us are dealing with? Have you a single ounce of compassion in you?’

  ‘Sounds to me like it’s a psychiatrist you need, love, not a pharmacist.’

  ‘What did you just say?’ Susan spat back, in danger of really losing it. She would have said more, might even have lunged at the woman, she was so dangerously close to the edge, only just then, she felt a hand clamp down on her shoulder. A man’s hand, warm and sweaty.

  She looked up to see a security guard, a giant brick wall of a man towering over her.

  ‘Excuse me, madam.’ He glowered down at her. ‘I need you to step this way.’

  Nancy

  NATIONAL THEATRE

  Nancy took a deep breath and tried to ignore the butterflies in her belly. The room fell silent as thirty pairs of eyes turned to look at her with anticipation. Here we go, she thought, as she smiled and addressed the room. This is it, she told herself. Her new start. Her new beginning.

  Showtime.

  ‘Good morning, everyone,’ she said, hoping that she sounded a lot more confident than she felt. ‘And welcome to our very first day of rehearsals.’

  *

  Just an hour earlier, she’d hovered uncertainly in the giant foyer at the National Theatre on Marlborough Street, when a woman about her own age came breezily up to meet her.

  ‘New girl? Hi. I’m Mbeki, senior production assistant.’ She’d beamed brightly, reaching out to shake hands.

  Nancy would later learn that Mbeki, originally from Ethiopia, was now living in Dublin and was officially the coolest girl on the team. Just about everyone fancied her; men went absolutely gaga over her and most of the women seemed to fall under her spell too.

  Two minutes in Mbeki’s company and it was hard not to see why; she was warm, bubbly and probably the first person Nancy had met since she first moved to Dublin who’d actually given her the time of day. Even though it was lashing rain out on a grey, cold, February morning and everyone else was darting in and out of the building huddled up in warm winter coats and snug boots, Mbeki arrived to greet Nancy dressed in a vibrant yellow jumper with boyfriend jeans and chunky metallic shoes, which only made her stand out all the more.

  ‘As soon as the cast read-through is over, I’ll give you the whole tour.’ She’d smiled warmly as Nancy followed her up a flight of stairs to a lift.

  ‘Thanks, I’d really appreciate that.’ Nancy grinned back, delighted that she’d met someone so lovely on her very first day. A good omen, she felt, for what lay ahead.

  ‘So, your first proper day working here,’ Mbeki chatted away, as the lift arrived and both women stepped inside. ‘How are you feeling? Nervous? In dire need of a G&T?’

  ‘You have no idea.’ Nancy smiled back. ‘It’s just that this is a huge deal for me.’ She couldn’t explain it any better, though; her fear of messing up was too huge for her to even verbalise. Just try to be calm, cool and professional, she told herself. That’s how she’d got the job in the first place and that’s what would ultimately win the day.

  ‘I hear you.’ Mbeki nodded. ‘This job would be a huge deal for anyone. But then, your reputation kind of precedes you – after all, you’ve worked on proper West End shows, haven’t you?’

  ‘You know about that?’ Nancy asked.

  ‘Some of the lads in production already googled you.’ Mbeki grinned cheekily. ‘In fact, I was dying to ask you something, if I’m not being too nosey, that is.’

  ‘Ask away,’ Nancy said, as the lift zoomed upwards.

  Please don’t ask, please don’t ask.

  ‘Well,’ said Mbeki, ‘you were an assistant director in the West End. You’ve worked on a lot of the biggies. Matilda, Wicked, huge shows . . . some of the biggest in the business.’

  Nancy blushed a bit, but said nothing. Just watched the lift floors zoom past, steeling herself for what s
he knew with absolute certainty was coming next.

  ‘So,’ Mbeki went on, ‘if you don’t mind my asking, isn’t this show a bit of a sideways step for you? Career-wise, that is. With your CV, I mean, you could probably be working in the Royal Court or the RSC, if you wanted to. It’s cheeky of me to ask, I know, but I just wondered . . . ’

  ‘Why I took this job in Dublin?’ Nancy politely finished the sentence for her. She’d expected questions along these lines, but at least she’d prepared her stock answer in advance.

  ‘Well . . . yeah,’ said Mbeki, with an apologetic little smile. ‘We’re so lucky to have someone like you on board, I know that, but we were . . . just curious to why . . . that’s all,’ she trailed off.

  ‘Well,’ Nancy said, smoothly slipping back into the response she’d already mentally dress-rehearsed. After all, fail to prepare, prepare to fail, as she always told herself. ‘To work with someone like Diego Fernandez, for one thing. Plus,’ she added, ‘it’s good to get out of London to do other things every now and then, you know how it is. Fresh challenges and all that.’

  ‘Of course.’ Mbeki smiled warmly. ‘And if Rumpelstiltskin hired you in for this gig in the first place, then you’re already half way to winning your first Olivier, if you ask me.’

  ‘Ehh . . . did you say Rumpelstiltskin?’ Nancy asked, puzzled.

  ‘Oh, don’t mind me,’ Mbeki said, after a suspiciously long pause.

  The lift pinged open onto the top floor and she followed Mbeki as they weaved their way down a long corridor covered in show posters and on towards the rehearsal room.

  Nancy had only been to the National once before, and that was in the audience, so it was a first for her to even get up to this level. And although she’d hightailed it over to Dublin for her interview with Diego Fernandez, he’d insisted on meeting her for lunch at the intimidatingly posh, five-star Merrion Hotel, just beside Government Buildings.

  ‘If I give you this job,’ he’d said to her in the broken English of someone who’s only recently started to master it, ‘then you must have passion.’