Her Revolution

by Gemma Jackson

  Her

  Revolution

  GEMMA JACKSON

  This book is the work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organisations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  Published 2019

  by Poolbeg Press Ltd.

  123 Grange Hill, Baldoyle,

  Dublin 13, Ireland

  Email: poolbeg@poolbeg.com

  © Gemma Jackson 2019

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  © Poolbeg Press Ltd. 2019, copyright for editing, typesetting, layout, design, ebook

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978178199-3316

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  www.poolbeg.com

  About the Author

  Gemma Jackson was born in the tenements of Dublin. She is the fifth child of Rose and Paddy Jackson. Gemma has travelled extensively and experienced life from a viewpoint of wealth as well as extreme poverty. She freely admits she preferred being wealthy.

  She grew up listening to and being fascinated by storytellers. The radio was a large part of her growing-up years – back in the days of the dinosaurs – when stories were read aloud on the radio to the delight of millions. She has never lost her love of stories. To open a book and escape into an unknown world still delights her. To be able to share her world with her readers is a great joy.

  Also by Gemma Jackson

  Through Streets Broad and Narrow

  Ha’penny Chance

  The Ha’penny Place

  Ha’penny Schemes

  Impossible Dream

  Dare to Dream

  Published by Poolbeg

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you – two little words with so much meaning attached. Thank you to the people who buy my books. Thank you to those who take the time to comment on reader forums. Thank you to all the amazing people who have populated my life.

  I could fill the page with grateful mention of so many people. It is humbling when you really think about all of the people who touch your life in big and small ways. I have a lot to be thankful for.

  The ladies of Poolbeg. Paula Campbell for giving me the chance to fulfil my dream of being a published author. What a thrill even to write those two words – published author. Gaye Shortland who takes every word of my wittering and turns them into pearls. The woman deserves a medal.

  Kate Nash my agent – it’s nice to have someone fighting your corner.

  My daughter Astrid for the river of tea she serves while I work away. If I didn’t have her to remind me to ‘stand away from the computer’ I might well be found hunched over my desk unable to move. I do love writing and escaping into other worlds.

  Finally, the people at Newry computer who jump to help when I’ve once more blown up the computer and crippled the keyboard. No, I am not exaggerating!

  Rathmines, Dublin, Ireland

  June 1998

  Chapter 1

  Finn walked into her kitchen, thrilled the work on the house was finally completed. The house was free of what at times had felt like hordes of workmen. She had cleaned and polished this area last night before falling into bed in a state of self-satisfied exhaustion. The wide smile on her face almost hurt. She couldn’t wait to put her mark on this – her domain. She looked around at the seeming miles of countertop. She gave a fond pat of her hand to the kitchen island as she passed. It was time to put on the kettle and make her first pot of tea of the day.

  She leaned against the unit that hid the kitchen sink, her back to the window overlooking the long wide stretch of garden to the rear of the old house. The golden sunshine streaming into the kitchen delighted her. Ireland was enjoying an unusual spat of sun-filled days. She couldn’t bear to darken the glass of the kitchen window with blinds to keep light out. She sipped her first cup of tea of the day, filled with pleasure. It was done – after years of planning and hard physical labour on her part – the house was finished. She would refuse to take part in any more updates. The house was perfection. She allowed herself to bask in her own accomplishments for a moment.

  She loved the early-morning hours when she was the only one awake in the house. When her two boys were small she had almost held her breath, praying they would remain asleep while she crept around. She needed this precious time to herself. She did miss the company of their old dog. She didn’t miss sweeping up dog hair or the heated disputes over whose turn it was to pick up the dog poop. She smiled sadly at the sweet memories of a loving companion. It was time to get the day started. First order of the morning: get a pot of coffee on for her menfolk.

  She touched the sensor pad on the worktop and watched the very expensive coffee machine rise up from its hidden location. It stood proudly, all bells and whistles, ready for action. She wanted to laugh aloud as a vision from one of the old movies her father loved appeared in her mind’s eye – Esther Williams, Olympic-medal-winning swimmer turned movie star – rising from the sea – sparkles, make-up and diamonds glittering. Perhaps she should have musical accompaniments to the sudden appearance of her kitchen appliances. She’d have to remember to share that idea with her father. It would tickle his funny bone.

  “Nuala, I hope you haven’t forgotten I plan to arrange a photo shoot for the house.”

  The disembodied voice caused Finn to start in surprise. She hadn’t turned on the communication system. Wasn’t she supposed to do that? Surely his voice had echoed around the house – what button had he pressed – what command had he given?

  Finn turned to look at the screen that appeared when the clever tile wall-adornment cleared – wasn’t technology wonderful? Once upon a time the gentry rang for their servants. These days, with this newfangled computer system, the demands came with pictures and an on-screen glare.

  “That kitchen needs to remain immaculate. I hope you are not planning to indulge in one of your ridiculous baking marathons.” Her husband’s beautifully modulated voice echoed around the kitchen. Patrick Brennan – the Voice of Dublin – beloved of housewives around the country.

  “Mother, where is my blue shirt?” Ronan’s voice barked out as the screen split to reveal his image. “I expressly stated that I would need it this morning.”

  “Mother,” Oisín’s face joined the others on screen, “my shoes haven’t been cleaned.’

  She stepped back as three visions of male displeasure glared at her.

  “I’ll be down for my coffee presently.” Patrick Brennan, looking camera-ready, glared at his wife.

  In spite of the fact that he had made his mark on radio, Patrick insisted they should all be groomed to perfection before coming downstairs. No messy hanging around the kitchen in your PJ’s – not in this house – not anymore. His image didn’t frown – the Botox injections didn’t allow it.

  “I want fruit salad and yogurt. I hope you have completed that project on those women’s protection schemes I asked for?” He didn’t wait for a response but snapped off his side of the connection.

  “Mother, are you even liste
ning to me?” Ronan, his image on the screen a blue-eyed blond copy of his father, frowned fiercely. At twenty he didn’t have to worry about frown lines. “I need that shirt today. What have you done with it? I expected it to be laid out. I can’t be late to the studio.”

  Finn took the remote control from the pocket of her beige knee-length walking shorts and, aiming it like a gun, switched off the screen. She could have done it with a touch but there was something very satisfying about holding the power in your hand. Sighing deeply, she turned to the recessed fridge freezer and began to pull ingredients from its depths. How dare her son speak to her as if she were an underling? What had happened to the blue-eyed little cherub who would jump laughing from his bed into her arms first thing in the morning for a kiss and a cuddle? She should never have agreed to turning their home into a computer-dominated space – ‘smart home’ indeed.

  “I hope there are no grapes in my fruit salad?”

  Patrick Brennan, his long lean body beautifully attired in a silver-grey tailored suit and one of the white shirts she sent to the laundry after he complained she was not ironing them to a high enough standard, stood in the open kitchen doorway allowing her to admire his perfection – not a blond hair out of place. He entered the kitchen, sure of his own place in the Universe. He walked with ground-eating strides over to the kitchen island and took a seat.

  “Coffee!” He snapped his fingers, impatient at any delay in his workday. “Really, Nuala,” he said with a longsuffering sigh, “I did tell you I’d be down.” He didn’t raise his eyes from his yogurt and fresh fruit salad while she stood pouring the coffee into the mug she’d had ready. “And sweep those peelings away immediately. Really, Nuala, you must keep this kitchen clean at all times. We are in the modern world now – try and remember that – this is not one of your father’s mobile homes. We have standards to maintain.”

  Finn wondered when her name had become ‘Really, Nuala?’. She tried to ignore the hurt that lodged beneath her breastbone. Patrick unknowingly used his beautiful voice as a weapon. He didn’t realise his words were hurtful. The poor man was under a great deal of pressure. The disappointment of failing – yet again – to get a television slot had put him in a foul mood recently.

  Patrick clicked his fingers and the screen appeared. “If you boys expect to travel to the studio with me, you had better get down here now.” He checked his image on screen, pleased with what he saw.

  Finn stiffened at the sound of Patrick’s voice echoing around the house. He had activated all screens again it would appear. The sound of running feet sounded over her head. The two boys certainly jumped at their master’s voice. They didn’t react like that when she screamed at them to get ready.

  “Coffee.” Oisín dropped into a chair across from his father. He grunted and inhaled the delicious scent of fresh coffee Finn poured from the carafe in her hand.

  “Did you not bake this morning?” Ronan stood in the kitchen doorway, glancing around in expectation of the usual morning treats his mother provided.

  “I don’t want your mother turning this kitchen into a French bakery for you two.” Patrick hadn’t removed his eyes from his own image on screen. He was perfect for television and he knew it. Why couldn’t those bloody-minded producers see that? “Time and past you grew up. Sit down.”

  Finn served the three men, her heart galloping in her chest. They were such pranksters. Honestly, ignoring her like that – did they think she wouldn’t see through their game? She glanced around the kitchen, searching for anything out of place. What would it be? She had been dropping hints for months. Had the boys hidden it in the garden? Oh, she couldn’t wait for her surprise. She did love special days.

  “I’ll have that report now.” Patrick snapped his fingers in her general direction.

  The surprise must be in her home office. She almost ran from the kitchen, wanting to know what they had bought for her. She stood in the doorway of the office. looking around. She didn’t see anything out of place. Oh, they did like to tease her!

  She picked the thick folder of facts and figures from her desk. She had already downloaded the information to Patrick’s computer but he did like to have the information in black and white. It had been a fascinating and disturbing project. So many women and young children in need of protection – it had made her appreciate her own lot in life, gladdened her heart to know she was one of the lucky ones. She had written a detailed and amusing speech for Patrick to deliver to his colleagues. She hoped he liked it. It thrilled her to be able to help him in his work.

  Back in the kitchen, she saw Patrick had stood up, his impatience obvious.

  “It took you long enough.”

  The boys hastily gulped the last of their coffee, knowing their father meant it when he said he wouldn’t wait for them.

  “It’s a shame your speaking voice is so unpleasant.” Patrick took the folder from her fingers. “It would be far more convenient for me to listen to your findings as I drive to work. These old-fashioned written reports are a thing of the past. Still, it spares me having to listen to you, I suppose.” He hit the folder against his grey-suited thigh and walked from the kitchen.

  Their two sons jumped to their feet and ran after him.

  Finn listened to the sounds they made walking away from her to the front of the house. She had left Patrick’s Mercedes parked and facing the street on the driveway as she did every morning. It saved him having to take the time to back the car out of the garage.

  “Clean that mess up immediately.”

  Finn almost jumped out of her skin.

  “Those juices could stain the worktop!” Patrick’s voice barked into the kitchen and echoed around the house. “The boys have just informed me they will not be home this evening – nor will I.”

  Finn stood for a moment, frozen in shock. Her green eyes took in the mess left for her to clear up. When had they stopped picking up after themselves? Once upon a time they had picked up their dishes and put them in the dishwasher – hadn’t they? She fell onto one of the chairs at the kitchen island, tears flowing from her eyes.

  “Happy Birthday, Finn,” she whispered into the silence. “Happy Anniversary too. We love you, Mum, see you.” She put her head in her hands and sobbed.

  Chapter 2

  “Right, Finn, enough feeling sorry for yourself.”

  She restored order to the kitchen. She’d spent so many hours designing this space. Keeping the old-world charm while adding all the up-to-date fixtures and fittings hadn’t been easy but, looking around, she thought she’d succeeded.

  She’d been looking forward to a day baking. Her boys loved her hazelnut cheesecake – always a birthday treat. She had the ingredients for one of her deluxe meals in the fridge. What was the point? They would not be home for dinner.

  “This place looks like nobody lives here.” She didn’t care that talking aloud to yourself was considered one of the first signs of madness. It was an inveterate habit of hers. Who was it who justified speaking to yourself with the words ‘When I speak I know there is an intelligent person speaking and when I listen I know there is an intelligent person listening’? She thought it might be Oscar Wilde. Anyway, that was her excuse and she was sticking to it.

  “Today is my birthday!” She slapped the worktop and almost cursed when an appliance appeared. She took the remote control from her pocket and with an experienced flick of her fingers shut the system down. She didn’t want to live in a bloody computer. This was supposed to be a home for goodness’ sake! “If no one else is going to mark the day I am – it’s my day.” She pulled open the door from the kitchen to the wide stretch of garden. “How often do we get sun-filled days in Dublin?”

  She marched out onto the tiled patio and looked around, wild-eyed. “I am going to spend the day in the garden and to hell with the rest of the world.” She began pulling an old-fashioned deck chair from one of the garden sheds onto the trimmed green lawn. She wasn’t foolish – as a natural redhead underneath the blo
nde she had to be careful – she set the chair up in the shade.

  She looked down at the outfit she was wearing. Patrick picked her clothes. It had started early in their marriage. She had not dressed in a fashion suitable for the wife of an up-and-coming TV and radio presenter. The family had an image to project. She sighed and shrugged. That was fine and dandy but she was alone in the garden. Who was going to see her? She spun on the heels of her brown loafers and almost ran into the kitchen and up the stairs to the master bedroom.

  “No.” She stared into the depths of the wardrobe. The interior revealed a veritable sea of beige. No colour dared to peek through the row of hanging garments. “I don’t want beige today. It is my day.” She ran out of the bedroom into the long beautifully decorated hallway. She ran to the back of the house and the servants’ stairway leading to the attic. “There are no cameras and speakers up there, thank God!” She ran up the stairs, mentally making a search of the cupboards that she’d put up here.

  She walked carefully across the wooden floor and with a laugh pulled open the door of what she thought of as her holiday wardrobe. She fell to her knees and with a smile pulled a brightly coloured swimsuit from the drawer at the bottom of the wardrobe. A matching cover-up and a pair of her much-loved embroidered espadrilles joined her pile.

  “Not bad for an old broad,” she said when she stood in front of the wall of mirrors in the bathroom.

  Patrick insisted she was fat. Finn turned to look at her own back. She didn’t think so but then – she sighed – everyone in the media seemed to be stick-thin – each to his own, she supposed. Maybe her breasts were bigger than they needed to be but what could you do? She knew she could afford to lose twenty pounds, but the darn fat seemed to come and go at will. You got the body you got in this life. The swimsuit had a built-in bra and she thought it was flattering.