She was a big girl and she could handle the myriad of humiliations she had to deal with herself on a daily basis. It was only when she looked across the car seat to Amber that she felt like a mother tiger defending one of her cubs. I could gladly commit murder, she thought, and it would serve Frank right for putting us all through this.
‘Are you OK, Mum?’ Amber said in a worried little voice, a few more miles down the motorway. ‘You’ve gone all quiet.’
‘I’m fine, pet,’ Gracie said tensely, hating herself for the lie. ‘Mummy’s absolutely fine.’
Violet
Violet must have fallen asleep on the chaise longue in the drawing room – fully clothed too, which was most unlike her. Even more curiously, she’d woken up with a woolly blanket neatly tucked around her, a cushion at her head and her shoes carefully placed beside her.
Well, it must have been Frank who’d been so kind while she slumbered, she thought. Madam Emily Dunne certainly wasn’t capable of anything thoughtful. Violet had shuddered awake just as the grandfather clock in the hall chimed four in the morning, whereupon she gathered herself up and inched stiffly upstairs to her own bed.
Then, there was an even more bizarre occurrence. When she finally roused herself, at exactly nine the following morning, she heard a distinct noise coming from the kitchen directly beneath her. Loud clattering and the sound of pots being banged together. Frank would long since have vacated the premises to get to work, Violet knew, so what on earth could possibly be going on? Alarmed, she wrapped herself in her tattered quilted dressing gown and slowly made her way downstairs, armed with nothing more than her heavy mahogany walking stick.
Burglars? she wondered. She readied herself to call the police as a surge of anger swept over her. This house was her safe place, her respite and her Fort Knox all rolled into one. How dare any burglar intrude on her? Violet felt no fear as she braced herself to open the kitchen door – just the bittersweet thought that any criminal who’d broken into her home had far more to fear from this particular elderly lady than they could possibly have reckoned with.
But then the unlikely smell of rashers and sausages wafted up to her. Followed by a sight that utterly knocked Violet for six – none other than Madam Emily Dunne herself, standing at the cooker and flipping sausages on a frying pan. She was dressed in some class of undergarment that read: I will not keep calm and you can f**k right off. Delightful.
‘There you are,’ Emily said casually, turning around to acknowledge Violet as she heard her come into the kitchen, as if the two of them met for breakfast every day of the week.
‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’ Violet demanded.
‘What does it look like?’ Madam Emily shrugged back. ‘I’m making breakfast, aren’t I? Now, do you want a rasher and a few sausages or not?’
Violet just glared at her, as if she couldn’t quite take in what she was seeing.
‘You needn’t worry,’ Emily said, second-guessing what Violet was thinking, ‘I paid for all the food myself out of my dole money. None of this is costing you a penny. Now sit and eat, would you? You’re making me nervous standing there, glaring at me.’
Violet didn’t have a single iota what had brought about this volte-face in Madam Emily, but out of curiosity more than anything else, she did as she was bid, taking her usual seat at the head of the dining table. The smell of the fry-up was too divine to resist and, although she was loath to admit it, her stomach was already rumbling.
‘Tea?’ Emily asked.
‘Thank you,’ Violet said crisply. ‘Served in my good china cup, please. The one with the picture of the late Queen Mother on it.’
‘You could easily get a few quid for all the royal family shite on eBay, you know,’ Emily said, boiling the kettle and making a big pot of tea.
‘Must you use such foul language at this hour of the day?’ Violet retorted. ‘If you persist in swearing, I shall have no choice but to introduce a swear box.’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake,’ Emily said, ‘I’m trying to do a nice thing here, OK? Now just sit and eat and quit nagging me for two seconds, that’s all I’m asking.’
At that, she plonked a plate of bacon and sausages in front of Violet, along with some hot toast, fresh out of the grill. Violet demurred for a bit, as all ladies should correctly do when presented with food – but then hunger got the better of her and she began to nibble delicately at a corner of a piece of toast.
‘Grub OK?’ Emily asked, sitting down across from her and horsing into her own fry-up. ‘Happy I’m not trying to poison you?’
‘Such a thought never crossed my mind,’ Violet replied, taking a sip of tea from her favourite Queen Mother cup. ‘My curiosity was piqued, that’s all. What on earth has caused this sea change in your behaviour, Miss Dunne?’
‘It’s Emily, as you know right well. And aren’t I allowed to do a random act of kindness every now and then?’
‘It just seems grossly out of character for you,’ said Violet. ‘You’ve been here for weeks now and I’ve barely had a civil word out of you. If you think this is going to get you a reduction in rent, then you’d best think again.’
‘Oh, come on,’ said Emily. ‘Why can’t you all just give me a chance? Why is it that people get the wrong idea about me?’
‘How should I know?’ said Violet, taking a delicate mouthful of a particularly juicy, well-cooked sausage.
‘It’s been happening to me my whole life,’ Emily said. ‘Everyone seems to have me down as a total waster, but I’m not. At least, I’m trying my best not to be. I’m trying to rebuild my life and all I’m asking is that people stop treating me like a terrorist. That’s all.’
‘If you’re serious about rebuilding your life, as you put it,’ said Violet snippily, ‘then you might start by pursuing some class of gainful employment.’
‘Do you always talk like that?’ Emily asked, genuinely puzzled.
‘Like what?’
‘Like a Victorian. There’s characters in Edith Wharton novels less formal than you. All you’re short of is a hoop skirt and a penny-farthing parked at the railings outside.’
‘Hmph,’ Violet snorted. ‘Well, at least now I’m beginning to see the reason why society has deemed you unemployable. Rudeness gets you nowhere, young lady.’
Emily sat back, cradling the hot mug of tea in her hands. ‘A job,’ she sighed, ‘would be the answer to my prayers. And I’m searching high and low for one, I really am. But the problem is that when any prospective employer sees the long gap on my CV and asks about it, I have to tell them the truth, which is that I was having treatment. Interviewers are always very polite and supportive about it, but I can practically hear them going: “next!”’
‘What is it that you’re trained to do?’ Violet asked, curiosity getting the better of her. Some lowly class of menial job in a secluded office, she assumed, where someone as rude as Emily Dunne didn’t have to interact with anyone.
‘Event management,’ Emily said flatly. ‘Although I was never really much good at it. I looked after corporate events – swanky work dos in posh hotels, that sort of thing. It’s a very social gig, you see, and towards the end, when my boozing went out of control, I ended up drinking a chunk of the profits at every event I ever organised. And I might have rubbed a few gold standard clients up the wrong way too. I can’t remember a lot of it. So there you go; not what you might call an ideal employee.’
‘And you have no other source of income?’ Violet asked. ‘No rental properties? No savings to speak of?’
‘Ha! Are you having a laugh? No offence or anything, Violet, but do you think I’d be living upstairs in your box room if I had any dosh of my own?’
‘We are not yet on terms,’ Violet said witheringly, ‘where you may address me by my Christian name.’
‘Sorry, your Royal Highness.’
Violet went back to her sausages and toast. Then another thought struck her. ‘May I ask,’ she said, ‘what it is that you want to work
at?’
She had a particular reason for asking, too. Oftentimes, if there was nothing else on the telly box, Violet found herself watching some inane television show where hordes of young persons would sing, most of them excruciatingly badly, in front of a panel of judges, headed by a person whom all the others seemed to defer to and who they referred to as ‘Simon’. Not a single one of the contestants appeared to have a musical bone in their bodies and Violet often found herself wincing at off-key crotchets and tuneless half quavers they’d come to pollute the air with. This particular programme was supposed to be a musical contest, yet not one of the contestants appeared to know an Aeolian cadence from a strong bar of carbolic soap.
In spite of their ignorance, though, contestants frequently spoke about ‘their dream’. ‘But this is my dream!’ they’d often protest, usually when about to be eliminated from the competition. It was a bizarre concept to someone like Violet, that one could indeed ‘live one’s dream’. Yet that’s what all young persons seemed to think was their absolute birthright nowadays.
‘What is your dream?’ Violet said out loud.
Emily almost guffawed into her mug of tea. ‘Where d’you learn to talk like that? That doesn’t sound like you at all.’
‘Nonetheless, I should very much like to know,’ said Violet. ‘Surely you have some type of ambition? Some goals in life to which you aspire?’
‘Architecture,’ Emily replied, without even having to think about it. ‘I always loved design and buildings and structure. I was actually studying it at one time, before I dropped out of college.’
That took Violet completely by surprise. But then she was remembering her father’s words. ‘A good architect is manna from heaven for a developer like me. Most of them don’t know a handsaw from a beer mat.’
‘You know, if you had a decent budget and the will to do it,’ Emily said, looking around the kitchen, ‘then this house here could be something very special. The bones are all there: the high ceilings, the pine floors, the statement staircase. Gimme a good building crew and a half decent designer and this house could be the envy of Primrose Square.’
‘It used to be once,’ Violet said thoughtfully. ‘A very long time ago now. This house used to be the most beautiful home for miles. Everyone said so.’
Abruptly, Emily got up, clattering cups and plates and taking them to the big Belfast sink to wash them.
‘Anyway,’ she said to Violet, ‘architecture was only ever a pipe dream for me. The fact is, I’d be doing very well to get a job scrubbing public toilets, with my track record. You done eating yet? Hurry up, will you? I want to get the washing-up done before I go.’
Violet wasn’t done eating at all, as it happened. She was far hungrier than she let on and was greatly enjoying the fried collation on her plate. Even if it was common-as-muck trucker food, the sort one might expect to find in a cheap roadside café.
‘Where are you off to?’ she asked Emily, still munching on toast, reluctant to let go of her plate.
Emily rolled her eyes as she put on a pair of Marigolds and started to fill the sink.
‘To go and see another elderly lady who can’t stand the sight of me.’
‘To whom can you possibly be referring?’
‘None other than my mother,’ said Emily. ‘Who’s effectively disowned me. I’m going to try to make my peace with her and show her that I’m a nicer person now, even though the woman will probably call security as soon as she sees me coming. If what happened the last time is anything to go by.’
Violet didn’t answer. It wasn’t too great a stretch of the imagination to imagine Madam Emily with a mother who couldn’t abide her.
‘You could come with me, if you want?’ Emily offered, running her plate under the hot tap. ‘You and Mum would get on great. You could form a little “we hate Emily” club.’
‘Was that comment intended to be sarcastic? Because sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.’
‘Any other tips for me?’ Emily said. ‘Put yourself in the position of a mother who’d prefer to dance on her offspring’s grave singing alleluia, rather than have a conversation. You don’t have kids, I know, but what would you do if you had?’
There was a long pause, as the whole atmosphere in the room seemed to shift. Violet glared hotly back at her, too indignant to even speak.
‘What now?’ Emily said. ‘Did I say the wrong thing? Yet again? Wow, that makes about twenty times I’ve offended you in a single morning. Must be some kind of record.’
At that, Violet stood up, taking care to give her walking stick a right good thud off the floor to really indicate her displeasure.
‘While I enjoyed this morning’s collation,’ she said icily, ‘I must inform you, Miss Dunne, that on this occasion, you go too far.’
Normally, Violet found that this was perfectly sufficient to silence all around her. Normally, when she adopted her imperi-ous manner, she sent all and sundry scuttling for the hills. It appeared that Madam Emily was not your normal person, however.
‘Oh, get over yourself, would you?’ Emily said. ‘Your Margaret Thatcher act doesn’t wash with me. Now come on, I asked you a straightforward question – how do I handle another cranky old lady who can’t stand the sight of me? You’re not my mother, but just imagine for a second if you were.’
‘Stop it!’ Violet snapped. ‘Stop it right now.’
‘What’s got into you?’ said Emily, bewildered. ‘I’m only asking for a simple bit of advice. There’s no need to bite the face off me.’
‘It’s rudeness of the highest order,’ Violet said, ‘to make presumptions on matters about which you know nothing. Now kindly vacate the premises. I’ve had quite enough of you for one morning. I’m a busy woman and I have important work to do.’
‘And what important work would that be?’
‘None of your business.’
‘Because as far as I can see,’ Emily said, ‘you spend all day sitting around the house, picking fights with people you barely know.’
‘How dare you!’ Violet spluttered.
‘Or else you just sit around the place wondering what colour Prince Philip’s arse is today.’
Violet didn’t even lower her dignity to reply to such a crass comment. Instead she pounded her way to the kitchen door on her walking stick, then paused in the doorway, determined to get the last word in.
‘If it is indeed your intention to show that you’re attempting to become a nicer person,’ she said frostily, ‘then I strongly suggest you try doing the one thing you clearly have never once done in your life.’
‘Which is?’
‘Instead of being rude to me, you might instead try being kind to your mother.’
Emily
‘You’re always bitching about that landlady of yours,’ Leon said to Emily, when he picked her up in his taxi from Primrose Square that morning. ‘But from what you’ve been saying, she does actually come out with the odd pearl of wisdom every now and then.’
‘Oh piss off, don’t you start.’ Emily clambered into the passenger seat beside him and handed over a sausage sambo she’d made and carefully wrapped in tin foil earlier. Leon was forever driving her around all over the place and part of her was mortified he never once let her pay for any trip. So the very least she could do, she figured, was feed him brekkie.
‘“Try being kind to your mother for a change,”’ Leon said, gratefully taking the sandwich. ‘Yeah, I like it. There’s worse things you could do on a sunny morning like this.’
‘Let me tell you something,’ Emily said. ‘This is like the Matterhorn of all this step eight malarkey for me; this is the K2 of atonement. Because I don’t think I was ever nice to Mum throughout my whole adult life – certainly not when I was drinking.’
‘Ahh, you’re being very hard on yourself there,’ Leon said. ‘It can’t all have been bad. I’m sure you even made her proud when you were younger, pre-drink.’
At that, Emily threw her head back and laughed bitter
ly. ‘My mother,’ she said, ‘has never been proud of me once, in the whole course of my life. My sister Sadie is the only one who gave her bragging rights, even when we were kids. There’s one in every family, you know – the good kid, the one who never puts a foot wrong. Anyway, with us, it’s Sadie. She gets to have her photo plastered all over the house and she’s the one Mum will chat about to her pals. The absolute best that a nobody like me can hope for is to try and make her less ashamed.’
‘You’re not nobody,’ Leon said. ‘You’re never nobody.’
To her surprise, Emily was genuinely touched at that.
‘Thank you,’ she said simply.
Twenty minutes later, they pulled up outside the gates of Ambrosia Independent Living and Leon hopped out to help Emily with the canvas bag she’d stuffed into the boot of his car.
‘Jaysus,’ he said, feeling the weight of it. ‘What have you got in here – a dead body?’
‘The contents of this bag,’ she said, ‘are the price of penance.’ Then, taking the bag, she leaned over to give him a quick little half-hug.
Leon blushed, told her to feck off with herself and a moment later was gone.
Why did I just do that? she asked herself. She was most definitely not a touchy-feely, huggy-type person, and couldn’t explain it to herself, other than Leon was just being so out-of-the-ordinary kind to her. And kindness had always been in short supply in the life of Emily Dunne.
Right then, she thought, steeling her nerve and walking through the heavy iron gates. Showtime.
She found her mother’s little house straightaway but didn’t even bother to ring the doorbell. Waste of time, she figured. Her mother would just slam the door straight back in her face again, so she might as well save them both the aggro. Instead, she unzipped the canvas bag she’d brought with her, rolled up her sleeves, got down on her hands and knees, and started to tidy up the garden, weeding and deadheading roses.
The Women of Primrose Square Page 21
