So now’s as good a chance as I’ll ever get, Frank thought.
‘I’d really like to talk to you, son. It’s important.’
‘Not now, Dad. I’m not in the mood, OK?’ Ben growled back at him, putting his feet up on the dashboard, even though he knew Frank hated it.
‘But you’re never in the mood to listen, are you?’ Frank said, as they drove through the dawn to Primrose Square. ‘You’ve been avoiding me every chance you get.’
‘Oh, here we go again,’ Ben said theatrically, rolling his eyes. ‘Look Dad, I’m already ahead of you on this, OK? So let me just save us both all the bother and mortification of this conversation. Yes, I already know what cisgender means. And I know that you’ve been doing a great impression of a cisgender man up until all this shite started. I know what trans is, and I know the difference between a cross-dresser, a transvestite and a transgender person. And I hope you know how bloody mortifying it is for me to even have to use these words when I’m trying to talk to my own father. When are you going to drop this so we can get back to how it was before?’
‘But Ben, that’s what I need you to understand—’
‘Have you any idea how upset Mum is?’ Ben interrupted him, sounding more and more sober. ‘She’s stressed out of her mind with this court case she’s working on – and now this?’
‘I know. I never meant to hurt her—’
‘And Amber?’ Ben insisted. ‘Did you ever stop to think about her? She’s only eleven, Dad. She feels she’s being punished over something that she doesn’t even understand. We all hate this.’ He kicked at the dashboard in frustration. ‘You’re putting us all through hell! And to lie to us all that time, to let us find out like that – do you realise what a selfish prick that makes you? Or do you even care?’
Frank winced. Bit his tongue. Reminded himself that he was dealing with a hurt child, then tempered his response as best he could.
‘Everything that I did or have ever done,’ he said gently, ‘was for you and Amber, and for your mum too. Every hour I’ve worked was for you. Every cent I ever earned was to make your lives better.’
‘Whatever,’ Ben said dismissively.
‘No, I’d really like you to listen to me,’ said Frank more firmly. He looked over at Ben, who was lying stretched out on the passenger seat by then, with that expression of boredom mixed with deep mortification that only teenagers can really pull off.
Be truthful in all things.
That’s what Beth kept saying. You’d be amazed how much human beings can deal with, if you’re completely honest and upfront with them. That was her mantra.
All his life Frank had lived a lie. So now, wasn’t it time for the truth?
‘I know you feel I’m being selfish,’ Frank said, ‘but if I could just make you see this through my eyes—’
‘And if I could just make you see this through mine, Dad,’ said Ben, sounding scarily grown-up. ‘Because nothing will ever be normal again. Do you get that? You and Mum will never be you and Mum again and you’ll never be my dad – what am I even supposed to call you now? And you’ve just fecked off and left us and decided you want to be a woman, and moved out to your new life and left us all behind. I see what you’ve done to Mum and Amber and I hate you for it. Do you hear me? I hate you.’
Frank sat back, focused on the road ahead and bit his lip.
Frank Woods mightn’t be able to say or do the right thing around his son.
But Francesca certainly would.
*
The only thing that cheered him up was seeing Amber later on that evening. She’d just got her music test results, scored top marks and wanted to go out with her parents to celebrate.
Gracie, however, quickly put the kibosh on it.
‘Oh honey, you know I’d love to,’ she said to Amber, ‘but I’m flat out with this case and I really need to catch up. Why don’t you go with your dad and I’ll take you shopping at the weekend to celebrate?’
Point made, albeit subtly. No way in hell was Gracie going to play happy families with Frank around, not if she could help it.
‘So where would you like to eat, pet?’ Frank asked his youngest and dearest as the two of them strapped themselves into the car. ‘Wherever you want, the sky is the limit.’
Amber, however, had gone unusually quiet.
‘Honey?’ Frank prompted. ‘You OK?’
‘It’s not about spending money in a fancy restaurant, Dad,’ she said so softly, he almost had to strain to hear her. ‘All I wanted was for you, me and Mum to be together. But that’s not going to happen now, is it?’
‘Well, maybe not right now,’ Frank conceded reluctantly.
‘Dad?’ she asked, as they stopped at traffic lights.
‘Yes, pet?’
‘When will all this be over? I mean, I know you and Mum are fighting and that she and Ben are so angry with you, but . . . Dad . . . why don’t you just say sorry and then we can all be happy again?’
‘Because . . . because it’s not quite that simple, love.’
At that, Amber let out an exhausted, grown-up sigh and sat back against the car seat.
‘Whenever I ask Mum what’s going on, she says you’re having some problems and that you just need a bit of time out, that’s all. And now when I ask you, you keep saying that it’s not that simple and that I wouldn’t understand. But all I want to know is this, Dad. When are you coming home?’
Frank’s heart cracked as he looked over at her. I’m quite literally the worst father in the world, he thought, for putting her through this. But then, what could he possibly say? Being open and honest and transparent with Ben was one thing, but with an eleven-year-old girl, it was something else entirely.
Living the lie might have been a long, slow death sentence. But it was so much easier than living the truth.
Emily
Emily had always been a great believer in not doing things by half measures. When it came to boozing, she wasn’t your common or garden unhappy alcoholic, she was an all-guns-blazing, go-down-in-flames drinker, the kind who took whole families down with her. And now, when it came to trying to rebuild her life, she figured she might as well start at the top and work downwards from there.
Her mother.
It took her two buses and a very long walk to get there, but eventually she found herself standing outside the gated entrance to sheltered housing for the elderly – or ‘independent living’ as the sign outside referred to it. It was called Ambrosia Independent Living, it was located quite literally in the back arse of nowhere, and it was every bit as vile as it sounded.
‘Ambrosia has a lovely view overlooking the mountains,’ her sister Sadie told her, not long after their father’s funeral. ‘Mummy will be very happy there.’
‘She’s used to living in the suburbs,’ Emily had retorted. ‘Mum is used to her good neighbours and her lovely home and the garden she’s spent her whole life tending. Look at this place – it’s a bloody shoebox!’
‘Well, whose fault is that? Bit late for you to start developing a conscience now, isn’t it, Emily? Always remember that Mum’s only here in the first place because of you.’
It was a cruel remark, Emily thought now, but probably about ninety per cent true.
She strode through the main gates, sucked on her last and final fag for comfort, stubbed it out on the gravel, then followed the signs to the reception building. It was light, airy and modern inside, with everything painted in a shade of primrose yellow that would have sent her running for the hills had she been hungover. Every available sofa and cushion was covered in bright floral fabrics, which was doubtless meant to be cheery and uplifting for the residents, but which actually looked like Cath Kidston had vomited on it.
Two elderly men sitting in wheelchairs, staring vacantly into space, perked up considerably the minute Emily walked past them. She nodded a curt hello, then made her way through another set of doors to the reception desk, where a woman in her twenties
was completely absorbed by the computer in front of her. Emily caught a sneaky glimpse of her screen: she was updating her holiday posts on Facebook.
‘Hi there,’ Emily said. ‘I’m here to see Mrs Beryl Dunne. Can you tell me where to find her?’
Without even looking up from the screen, the receptionist muttered, ‘What’s the name?’
‘I’m her daughter. Can you just tell her I’m here?’
Heaving a long, exhausted sigh, the receptionist pulled herself away from her computer, checked a stuffed file in front of her and dialled a phone number.
‘Mrs Dunne? I’ve a visitor at reception for you. Says she’s your daughter.’
A muffled sound of a response down the phone, then the receptionist turned back to Emily.
‘She says it’s not your day for visiting.’
‘Tell her I’m not that daughter. I’m Emily. Tell her the prodigal one is here.’
This time, Emily heard a muted, hushed conversation, even though the receptionist took care to cover the phone with her hand.
‘Sorry,’ she said a moment later, hanging up the phone. ‘I made a mistake. Wrong number. Your mother’s not there. No one home. It’s probably best if you leave now. Pointless you waiting here.’
‘Oh yeah, is that right?’ said Emily. ‘So, who were you talking to just now? The butler from Downton Abbey?’
But the receptionist just shrugged and went back to her Facebook page.
‘What number is her house?’ Emily persisted.
‘I’m hardly going to tell you that, now am I?’ came the cheeky response. ‘I just told you there’s no one home. In your shoes I’d just take the hint and leave.’
Realising she was going to get nowhere, Emily held her temper and resisted giving two fat fingers to the receptionist, then stomped off back through the doors she’d come in. Not that she was all that surprised at her mother’s reaction. But she’d come such a long way, it was a right kick in the teeth having to leave without doing what she’d set out to do.
Then, just as she was about to haul the heavy outer glass door open, one of the elderly men in wheelchairs stopped her in her tracks.
‘So you’re the famous Emily Dunne,’ he said, in a voice that sounded more like a tubercular wheeze.
Emily turned to look at him. ‘You know who I am?’
‘Emily Dunne, as I live and breathe,’ his companion hissed. ‘Your mother always said hell would freeze over before you ever came to visit her, and now lo and behold, here you are.’
‘Oh dear,’ the other man wheezed, ‘I hope this doesn’t mean one of us dies tonight.’
‘For God’s sake, she’s a middle-aged woman in a fleece jumper and trainers, not the angel of death.’
‘Do you know where I can find my mother?’ Emily asked, chancing her luck.
‘Flat sixty-one. Five doors down, on your left. You didn’t hear it from us, though.’
Emily thanked them warmly, then stepped back outside into the warm, summery sunshine. It’s like Butlins for the elderly here, she thought, taking in the surreal neatness of the gravelled pathways and the overriding smell of boiling cauliflower. Make no mistake about it: this place really was God’s waiting room.
Picking up her pace, Emily strode to the little flat she’d been directed to, as a few residents who were sitting under the shade of a tree playing cards all stopped to watch her go by. One braver inmate – sorry, resident, she corrected herself – was on a motorised mobility scooter and looked like he fancied himself as one of Hells Angels, even though he was wearing pyjamas and doing about four miles per hour tops, down a gentle garden path. He stopped to wave at Emily, curiosity getting the better of him, and she gave a quick little wave back.
Two minutes later, she was standing outside the flat she was looking for, neat as a new pin, with a gleaming front door and well-tended pots full of geraniums dotted outside. All so very her, Emily thought, bracing herself as she rapped on the front door.
There was a pause. So she knocked again. Another pause. Then the sound of an inner door opening, and a TV on full volume. Even from the far side of the door, Emily could hear the theme tune to Agatha Christie’s Marple blasting out at full volume.
‘Cathy, lovely, is that you?’ came her mother’s unmistakable voice, her Cork accent as singsong and musical as ever. ‘Is it time for my medications already? One minute there, lovie, till I unlock the door!’
Seconds later, the hall door was opened and there she was, her mother, the same woman who’d told her that she was dead to her. The same mother who’d tried to bar her from her own father’s funeral. Ordinarily she was a smiling, cheery woman, but she certainly wasn’t smiling now.
There was a throbbing moment as both women stared at each other.
I’ve missed you, Mum, Emily wanted to say so badly. I know I’ve fucked up, but I’m here and I’m asking for a second chance.
Her mum registered shock – but then her face went a funny colour. Red first, then scarily snow white. Emily took the chance to really have a good look at her, and the good news was that her mum looked healthy and robust, dressed in a floral twinset and a sensible pair of slacks that doubtlessly came from M&S, like just about every other stitch in her mother’s wardrobe.
Then snippets of their last, horrific conversation came back to her.
‘You as good as put your poor father in his grave, you know that?’ her mother had said to her, through near-hysterical tears. ‘You broke his heart first, then you broke mine. And now you have the barefaced cheek to turn up at his funeral, like nothing happened? Go to hell, Emily Dunne. You’re no daughter of mine, and you’re not welcome here.’
Every word was like a stab to the heart. Worst of all? Emily knew she deserved every single word. That, if anything, she deserved far worse.
And now here she was, face to face with the woman she’d wronged more than anyone else, with the impossible task of trying to make amends.
‘Hi Mum,’ she said, forcing herself to smile and sound cheery. ‘Surprise!’
Her mother just stared numbly at her, gaping now, slack-jawed in shock.
Emily grabbed the chance to fill in the silence. ‘Here,’ she said, fumbling around in her huge, overstuffed handbag and producing a paper bag with The Sweet Emporium written on the side of it. ‘I brought you a present. Nougat. You see? I remembered how you always used to like nougat.’
Look at me, Mum – I’ve changed, I’m better now and all I’m asking for is a chance.
From the corner of her eye, she was aware that the other residents who’d been playing cards close by had abandoned their game, so they wouldn’t miss a minute of the unfolding drama. She could feel their eyes boring into her back as her mother composed herself enough to speak.
‘I thought I told you,’ her mum said, low and clear, ‘that under no circumstances were you ever to come near me again.’
‘Please,’ Emily said, acutely aware that they had an audience, ‘can I just come inside? For a minute? There’s something I need to say to you and it’s really important. I only ask that you hear me out and then I’ll be on my way. I faithfully promise.’
But her mum ignored her, and instead waved across the garden to where the card players were sitting, riveted.
‘Ladies?’ she called, her voice panicky and shrill. ‘Can you call security? Tell them it’s an emergency and to come as fast as they can!’
At that, one of the card-playing old ladies hobbled off on a zimmer frame, so Emily took her chance. Audience or no audience, she’d come to say her piece, and it was too late now to back out.
‘Please, just listen to me, Mum,’ she tried to say. ‘I know I’m the last person you want to see, but I’ve come a very long way and I only want to talk to you for a second.’
Her mum yelled, ‘Don’t you think about saying another word. Just go!’
‘For Christ’s sake!’ Emily said, stepping inside the doorway, trying to get even a modicum of privacy. ‘All I want is to say sorry. Tha
t’s it. That’s all. That’s the only reason I’ve come here.’
She’d rehearsed a great speech on the way to Ambrosia Independent Living, but quickly realised that she hadn’t a chance of getting a word of it out. Not now.
‘Just leave,’ her mother said, borderline hysterical. ‘You can’t do this to me – I have a heart condition, you know! You can’t threaten me in my own home like this. Haven’t you done enough to me? Security are on their way and they’ll turf you out any second now!’
‘Please, just look at me,’ Emily said, making a ‘calm down’ gesture. ‘Just take a good, long look at me.’
She was about to say: because I’m dry now.
She was about to say that she’d always be an alcoholic, because it wasn’t something that could magically be cured, but that she was a sober alcoholic now.
She wanted to tell her mother that it had been months since she’d last had a drink. She wanted to say that the Emily of old was long gone.
But not a single word would come out. Because just then, Emily spotted the family photos that lined the walls in her mother’s doorway. Photos from decades ago, Christmases that they’d had as a family – Emily, Sadie and both of her parents, back when her dad was still alive. Photos of Sadie’s Communion, confirmation, her wedding pictures, and then in pride of place, recent photos of Sadie with her husband, Boring Brien, and Jamie, their son.
But Emily herself had been cut out of every single one. Decapitated, deleted, erased. Most hurtful of all was a particularly old photo of her and Sadie as kids, playing with their dad, who was dressed up as Santa Claus. Emily had only been about seven when the photo was taken; she remembered it vividly. Now though, the photo had been completely torn in two, so only Sadie remained.
If a picture spoke a thousand words, then these spoke millions. Slowly, silently, Emily scanned the hallway, taking it all in.
The Women of Primrose Square Page 12
