Her Revolution

by Gemma Jackson

  “I live in a ghost house.”

  She walked down the long elegant central staircase, her fingers caressing the highly polished wood of the rail.

  “I have given a whole new meaning to the term housewife – I was married to a bloody house and didn’t even know.”

  She walked towards her office, her steps dragging.

  “I am beginning to bore myself. Time to administer a swift kick in my own arse – I have a life to plan.”

  She sat at her desk, staring at the painting she had begun to think of as ‘The Beige Lady’. It was all very well to say she was resigning as a wife and mother – but how would she survive?

  She looked at the laptop on her desk with a sigh deep enough to shake her body. She needed to pay attention to what she had discovered in sound and image. The video of Patrick and his love interests could remain frozen forever as far as she was concerned – however, she might need it in the future.

  She set the visit of the two strangers to play. She needed to study it, now that she was sitting down and had no fear of discovery.

  “I need a pot of tea before I can watch that again.”

  She paused the image and stood – she knew she was procrastinating – but she was still reeling from the shocks of the day. The sight of her own image passing a long art deco mirror in the hallway almost gave her a heart attack. It took her a moment to recognise her own changed reflection.

  She put the kettle on to boil. “I don’t care what time of the day or night it is, I’m putting a dash of whiskey in my tea. I need something to put fire in my belly.”

  With a cup of the whiskey-laced tea close to hand, Finn pressed play and sat back to examine the scene being played out before her. She had been astonished at the facts and figures Patrick reeled off to impress his company – but this time of viewing she noticed that Patrick consulted his electronic notepad a few times before giving a figure. What was that all about? She watched the scene twice more before shutting the video down.

  She began to pull files from her drawers and put them with care on the surface of her desk. The brown file jackets were dated to the first days of her work on the house. She had taken pride in documenting every step of the refurbishment. She’d sent dozens of photographs to her father and Rolf. She had copies of those photos in the relevant files. She had a collection of computer disks that were filled with a pictorial history of the house changes she had instigated over the years.

  “So why did Patrick claim he had done the work?” She stood back and looked at the small mountain of paperwork that covered her desk. “Why did he claim he paid for all the work done – and where did he get the exact figures – what the hell is going on – and who was that man with him?”

  She sat at her computer again and opened her banking files. She kept exact figures – she always had. She scrolled through years of expenses, studying the debit and credit columns she’d updated religiously. What was she missing?

  She went to her file-cabinet and opened the bottom one. Patrick threw his paperwork all over the house – she picked it up and filed it – he never asked what happened to it.

  Back at her desk, she began to study the documents. Dear God – he’d been borrowing large sums of money for years – money he claimed he needed for restoring this house – it had been going on since the early days of their marriage. What did he do with the money? She’d never seen any of it. Her father had paid for the work done on his ancestral home.

  “How much of a blind fool can one woman be?” She stared at the beige figure in the painting as if expecting an answer. “He paid back the money over time. But what did he do with such large amounts? He can’t have spent it all – surely to God I would have noticed.”

  When no answer was forthcoming from the Beige Lady, she stood. She needed to process the information she had discovered.

  “I’m going into my workshop and I am going to beat out my frustrations on helpless pieces of metal. I’ll have to do that – I’m sorely tempted to beat Mr Patrick Brennan senseless. I have to get control of my rage and disappointment. The workshop is the safest place for me right now.”

  She carefully locked away all of the documents. She would need to put a file together but had no idea what she would need – or indeed how she would or could use the information. She had to think and beating metal into fun figures had been her escape for years.

  She unlocked her garden workshop and stepped inside. She felt like a madwoman – her brain simply would not stop running in circles. She put her protective clothing over her body and in minutes was lost in the mindless action of beating metal. She pulled the safety goggles over her eyes and applied flame to her welding torch. She began to melt metal.

  Chapter 7

  Finn picked at the flowers in the bouquet her sons had sent her. The leaves were beginning to dry out and drop from the huge bouquet. The fine weather had broken the day after what she had come to think of as her World’s End. She had spent the last week escaping to her workshop, beating out her frustration on the metal figures she created. The sound of the rain falling against the metal roof of her shed suited her mood. She hadn’t spoken to her sons or her husband in days. She hadn’t even seen them. She crept out of her bed early. She had a kettle in her workshop. She used the hand-held computer controls to creep around the house unseen. It might be childish and slightly ridiculous but she couldn’t bear to see any of them until she had her head on straight.

  She had taken time out of her self-imposed exile to contact a lawyer. That had been a joke – one on her.

  “Sit back – keep your head down – shut your eyes – shut your mouth and count your blessings.” Finn sucked the blood from her finger. She had stabbed herself on one of the long-stemmed yellow roses in the bouquet. “I paid good money – money I can ill afford for that crap advice. Do men like him take courses in abusing women verbally?”

  She had asked the man, a local lawyer, for an emergency meeting – just for a talk. Talking – that was a joke, more like being talked down to by that twit. She needed advice and guidance. She’d wanted to know her legal position if she chose to kick Patrick out. She’d given her name as Finn Emerson – with the change in her appearance she had hoped the man wouldn’t recognise her. It hadn’t made much of a difference. She’d needed a basic idea of the problems in front of her. She’d supplied a brief verbal history of their marriage. She’d worked long and hard on her presentation. She’d gone so far as to practise every point she wanted to make. She’d made notes about what she wanted to say. While beating the crap out of what felt like a ton of old pots, Finn had listened to her own arguments. She’d thought she was prepared.

  “A woman of your years cannot expect to catch another husband.” The twit of a lawyer had looked at her over his glasses and smirked.

  She’d wanted to punch his lights out. She wasn’t looking for another husband. She already had one too many.

  “You state that your husband has provided a luxurious home for you and your family.” He’d given her another look over the glasses, examining her clothing. “You claim you did the manual work on the house.” He’d smirked again. “I hardly think choosing wallpaper and paint colour can be considered manual labour.”

  His attitude, while seriously riling Finn, made her realise she needed proof to back up her words.

  She needed to spend time sorting out the many albums of pictures that recorded her work on the house. Finn had inherited her Uncle Rolf’s habit of filming everything. She had mountains of photos of her looking filthy and delighted, with a smartly suited grimacing Patrick. She’d gather that information together for when she needed it: one more piece of evidence for her side of the argument.

  The lawyer had talked down to her – had given her a totally unnecessary potted history of marriage laws while she’d sat grinding her teeth, thinking about how much he was charging her. He had thrown out the name of several lawyer colleagues who handled domestic disputes, in order to impress her with his intimate kno
wledge of the system.

  He’d only mentioned one woman. Orla Mountjoy. An easy name for Finn to make a mental note of. She’d intended to name any daughter she might have ‘Orla’ and Mountjoy was a jail. Easy. She’d scribbled the name down as soon as she’d left the twit’s office.

  The experience infuriated Finn. Did every woman have to put up with this kind of attitude? She paid the large bill before leaving the office. She would not be returning under any circumstances.

  She would ask around about the woman he’d mentioned but actually talking to Orla Mountjoy in person would have to wait.

  She had a date – at least she thought she did – with her two sons.

  “It’s coming to something when a woman has to send a message to her sons and make a date to see them.” She wiped the beads of sweat from her brow. Thank God for short hair. The rain had stopped and the weatherman was promising the return of sunshine – in the meantime, it was muggy and close. “I suppose I should be glad they both agreed to turn up.”

  The potato salad was under cling film in the fridge. God forbid she’d serve a meal without potatoes. The barbecued pork was slow-roasting in the mammoth gas barbeque unit that sat in silver splendour on the patio. She’d opened cans of baked beans and added her own barbeque sauce with extra treacle just as her boys loved. The beans were keeping warm in the oven section of the barbeque unit – corn on the cob was ready – she’d even made their favourite French bread. Her famous hazelnut cheesecake was sitting on a glass stand in the cool room. She knew her men – the way to their hearts might not be through their stomachs but a mountain of food would guarantee they remain seated at the table – and she needed to talk to them. A huge pitcher of Sangria sat ready in the fridge.

  She ran up the stairs. She needed a shower and it was time to dress.

  “Looking good.” Finn examined her image in the steamy bathroom mirror. She looked closely at her eyebrows and eyeliner. She had to be careful not to get them wet for a while longer. She’d returned to Paul to have them tattooed on. The peeling she’d been warned about was gone, thank goodness. She’d waited to talk to her sons until she didn’t look like something the cat dragged in.

  “Who knew I was vain?” she asked her own image and left the bathroom.

  She had a cotton shirtwaist dress ready on the bed. It had been a gift from her da-ma. The green was almost the exact colour of her eyes. She pulled underwear out of her drawer, wishing she could go braless. She pulled the dress over her moist skin before turning to examine her image.

  “Why have I never worn this dress – it’s gorgeous – and it suits me.”

  She remembered Patrick’s reaction to this dress. He hadn’t approved of it – surprise – surprise.

  A sound from the computer screen she’d aimed towards the driveway caught her attention. She felt her heart sink. It was Patrick’s Mercedes arriving. She didn’t want him here this evening. She wanted to talk to their sons on her own. Perhaps she should have waited. Patrick was leaving to begin a demanding tour of outside broadcasts. She had packed his bags already. They were standing on the floor just inside the bedroom door, waiting for him. She had thought he’d use this time to visit his mistress. Once the very thought of a mistress would have brought tears to her eyes – now she just felt relief.

  She felt the air leave her body when Patrick’s voice came through the speaker. “You two boys need to think about getting your own cars. Your old man won’t always be available to drive you home.”

  “We were going to take the bus,” Oisín said.

  “I was coming this way anyway. I have things to take care of before I leave to record those outdoor broadcasts. You can tell your mother I have a business meeting – remember, tell me everything she says. I really think she’s losing the plot – shame the days of a man committing his batty wife to the asylum have long gone.” With a loud laugh and a toot of the car horn he reversed out into the street.

  Finn sank onto her bed. She took a deep breath and forced herself back to her feet. She slipped her feet into her open-toed sandals and walked to the door.

  She walked slowly down the stairs to greet her children. She tried to look at her sons with fresh eyes – she needed to see them for the young men they were, not her mental image of little boys.

  “Mother!” Ronan stared open-mouthed at the woman walking down the stairs. What the hell had happened to her?

  Finn continued down the stairs, smiling at her boys who were staring in astonishment.

  “You probably want a shower,” she said. “Don’t be too long. We’re eating on the patio.”

  “Jesus!” Oisín said and ducked, expecting a slap for swearing as she walked past them towards the kitchen.

  But Finn didn’t react.

  “I’ve got to tell you, bro,” Oisín said, “I feel like someone in a body-snatcher movie. Who was that and what the hell has happened to our mother?”

  “I know what you mean, bro.” Ronan stood for a moment, staring after the redheaded woman. “Come on, we’d better get showered and changed. I can’t wait for a homecooked meal. I’m sick and tired of sandwiches and salads.”

  “I hear yeh.”

  The two young men ran up the stairs, eager to sit down to one of their mother’s offerings.

  “You are both very angry with me, aren’t you?”

  Finn had waited until they had shovelled in enough food to keep a small army on its feet.

  “I don’t know what you mean, Mother.” Ronan almost licked his lips. God, the woman could cook.

  “We will never get anywhere if we continue to lie to each other.” Finn was determined to get these two to talk to her. She refused to lose her sons. “We need to talk – have an adult conversation.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Mother!” Oisín bit back the words he wanted to spew.

  “We need to talk about the changes taking place in this house, don’t you think?” she said.

  She waited to see if they would say anything.

  When they remained silent, she said, “I plan to visit my father and Uncle Rolf for a few days. I’d like to leave with no unresolved issues between us. What do you think?” She leaned forward to stare at them, mutely begging.

  “I notice you didn’t think to ask us to accompany you.” Ronan patted his mouth with his linen napkin. “We haven’t seen Grandfather in some years. We could have arranged time off.”

  “You’ve made a point of keeping good old Uncle Rolf and Grandfather Emmet away from Ronan and me.” Oisín desperately tried to keep the words back but they poured from him. “What’s the problem? Are you ashamed of us or do you have something to hide?”

  “I don’t understand.” Finn stared at her sons. She hadn’t expected the conversation to turn in this direction. They complained bitterly when she drove them anywhere in her little car. They had never mentioned a desire to visit her father before. “Why on earth would you think I am ashamed of you or have something to hide?”

  Oisín didn’t understand what was going on with his family. Once they’d been a picture-perfect family – a happy father, mother, two children – now they were all adrift. Their mother had become a stranger creeping in and out of the house like a thief in the night. Their father was busy chasing skirts young enough to be his daughters. Ronan and he were being abandoned – left to their own devices – it wasn’t fair.

  “What exactly do you two imagine is going on?” Finn asked.

  “I don’t have a bloody clue what’s going on!” Oisín didn’t know what he wanted. Yes, he did. He wanted his life back the way it was before his mother had lost her mind. They forgot her birthday and suddenly she didn’t want to be their mother anymore.

  “Nor do I,” Ronan said. “What the hell is going on inside your head?” He was trying not to shout. “Just because we forgot your birthday?”

  “How many of your birthdays have I ever forgotten or ignored?” Finn asked sadly.

  “It was a simple oversight on our part!” Ronan snapped. �
��I can’t believe that was enough to make you practically disappear from our lives. You’ve been avoiding us.”

  “I needed time to think about my place in this family. To you two I’m there simply to wait on you hand and foot. Someone you take for granted and abuse.”

  “Abuse?”said Ronan.

  “We never!” Oisín objected.

  She didn’t respond, just allowed the silence to linger.

  “Mum …” said Oisín.

  Finn stared at him. “Oisín, you called me ‘Mum’. I hate being called ‘Mother’. I don’t know why you two ever started calling me that – I find it cold and distancing.”

  “See, that’s typical!” Oisín jumped to his feet. He began to pace, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets.

  “We never talk as a family,” Ronan said. “It’s a cosmic joke. Our father, the head of the family, is known for opening up topics of conversation that no one else will touch. His radio programme has supposedly helped millions of people improve their lives. The great Patrick Brennan has helped the entire nation of Ireland to express its emotions. But what do we do as a family? Nothing!”

  “We have all been living alone.” Finn had felt separated from her family for such a long time – now she discovered her sons felt the same way. She was the parent here – she had to try and save what remained of the family she had created. “I’m sorry but I’m not a mind-reader. I don’t understand what’s going on inside your heads. There was a time when you ran to me and whispered your secrets in my ear.” She smiled sadly. “Those times are long gone. If you two don’t speak to me, don’t tell me what you’re feeling, how am I supposed to know?”

  “We need to know what you want from us.” Oisín was pleased with himself. He thought that had sounded just right.

  “I want us to be able to talk to each other – express our opinions.” She wanted her sons back.