The Women of Primrose Square

by Claudia Carroll

  The greatest, most loveless frump, she corrected herself. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror behind the bar and almost got a shock when she realised how haggard and careworn she looked, surrounded by all the pretty young things.

  I might as well be their granny, she thought sadly. I haven’t gone out and got pissed and had fun like this in decades, and it shows on every corner of my face. I’m a middle-aged, exhausted, separated mother of two who’s pushing fifty.

  Suddenly Gracie felt very, very alone. And the worst thought of all: this was doubtless the way her love life would stay for her from here on in – because what man in his sane mind would ever look at someone like her again?

  It certainly wasn’t what Gracie had signed up for; not at all. She’d married a good man who she loved deeply, and now that she had a few drinks in her, she could admit to herself in all honesty that she hadn’t stopped loving Frank, not really, not deep down, in spite of everything. She’d signed up for a happy family life; she had thought she and Frank would grow old together, as each other’s best friend and closest companion.

  Now, though, and through no fault of her own, her marriage had ground to a shuddering halt. Frank had mortgaged their whole future, without consulting her, without talking to her, without even thinking about her, more likely than not. Gracie could be as angry about it as she liked, but it didn’t change a single thing; whether she liked it or not, she was alone for the rest of her days, end of story.

  She had many a time and oft overheard some of the girls in work bemoaning the lack of decent single guys out there – and they were all perky, pretty twenty- and thirty-somethings who came without baggage. So what chance had someone like Gracie of ever striking it lucky again? Received wisdom had it that over the age of fifty, women just became invisible. Even if she were ever to try online dating, who’d take a second glance at the profile of a separated mother of two with a transgender ex-husband, now facing into her fiftieth year? How could she even begin to explain the mess her family was in to someone else?

  By then, the queue at the bar was unbearable and Gracie was just about to give up and go home, when out of the corner of her eye, she became aware of another, younger-looking woman glancing her way, as if she knew Gracie from somewhere, but couldn’t quite place her. Gracie felt the eyes on her, but when she looked back to see who was staring over at her so intently, she almost gasped.

  Because this woman was truly breathtaking. She was tall, lean and long-legged, with a cascade of glossy chestnut brown hair, immaculately made up and wearing a stunning mid-length primrose yellow dress that clung to her perfectly. All around her, people were stumbling around the worse for wear, yet she still looked demure and graceful. Whoever this woman was, Gracie thought, in a sea of girls dressed in club wear, she seemed like a swan surrounded by cygnets.

  She continued to stare over at Gracie. To the point where it became almost disconcerting. Gracie decided she could take no more, curiosity having totally got the better of her. Inching her way through the crowd, she wound her way closer to where this glamazon was sitting on a barstool like a queen on a throne.

  ‘Excuse me, do we know each other?’ Gracie asked, racking her brains to think of from where. School? College? Work? Not a chance. This woman was a stunner; there was no way she’d ever have forgotten someone as striking as her.

  ‘Gracie?’ the woman said, sounding surprised. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘You know who I am?’ Gracie said, sounding tipsier than she thought she was.

  ‘Of course I do, honey. Don’t you recognise me?’

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘Take a closer look. It’s me. It’s Francesca. Frank. Don’t you know your own husband?’

  Amber

  Earlier that evening, Amber was stretched out on the sofa at home, a bucket of popcorn balanced precariously on her tummy.

  ‘Ben?’ she said, deep in thought.

  ‘Shut up, will you? I’m trying to watch this,’ Ben said, glued to Netflix.

  ‘Why does popcorn taste different when you make it? It’s much nicer the way you do it.’

  ‘Because I don’t slather it in butter, like they do at the Odeon. It’s better for you this way. Less saturated fat.’

  ‘Ben?’

  ‘Shh! I’m trying to watch this.’

  ‘Why don’t you ever come to the movies with me and Dad anymore?’

  Ben sighed and pressed the pause button on the remote control.

  ‘I thought you wanted to watch this movie?’ he said, folding his arms wearily. ‘You haven’t stopped yakking since I put it on. You’re the one who picked this film, kiddo, not me.’

  ‘Is it because you’re still angry with Dad?’ Amber asked her big brother innocently. It was rare for the two of them to have the house to themselves at night-time, without either of their parents present, and she was determined to make the most of it. They could watch a stupid old movie anytime. This conversation was far more interesting.

  ‘Am I angry?’ Ben sniffed. ‘Yeah, right. That’s putting it mildly.’

  ‘Why, though?’ Amber said, not letting it drop. ‘Dad keeps saying he’s sorry if he upset us, so why can’t you just forgive him?’

  ‘Because it’s not that easy,’ Ben said tightly, drumming the remote control off his knees, itching to get back to the TV.

  ‘But . . . why not?’ said Amber. ‘You and Dad always used to be friends. And if you just went back to being friends again, then we could all go back to normal and we could go to the movies together, like we used to. Back when we used to be a proper family. I miss being a proper family,’ she sighed wistfully.

  Ben said nothing.

  ‘And I really hate the way Dad has to live with that horrible witch Violent Hardcastle,’ Amber went on. ‘Phil from next door says she shaves her throat with a razor and turns into a werewolf every first Friday.’

  Ben took a fistful of popcorn before answering. ‘Serves him right,’ he said.

  ‘Now you’re just being mean,’ said Amber defensively. ‘Why are you being so mean about Dad?’

  ‘It’s complicated,’ he said.

  ‘Complicated how?’

  ‘Complicated because it’s not just a case of Dad saying sorry and me saying, “Oh, OK then, that’s the end of that”. This crap he’s going through is going to change his whole life – and ours.’

  ‘But that’s not true,’ Amber persisted. ‘Dad keeps saying that nothing will change, and I believe him. Dad never lies to us, ever, and neither does Mum.’

  ‘But he did lie to us, kiddo,’ Ben said carefully. ‘This has been going on for years. And he’s wrong when he says every-thing is going to be the same. Sure, look around you – it’s already different. And that’s why I’m angry and that’s what I can’t forgive. Do you understand?’

  Amber wrinkled her face. ‘My religion teacher says forgiveness is the hardest thing of all,’ she said, after a thoughtful pause. ‘But if I can forgive Dad, then why can’t you?’

  ‘Amber,’ Ben sighed, switching off the TV, knowing he’d never get to see the end of the movie now. ‘I know Mum and Dad have tried to talk to you about what’s going on here, but how much exactly do you know?’

  Amber went silent, deep in thought. ‘They both keep talking about change,’ she said, ‘and how it’s nothing to be afraid of, and how Dad might look a bit different on the outside in future, but that he’s still the very same on the inside.’

  ‘Except . . .’ Ben said hesitantly, ‘that it’s going to be a bit more than that. Do you know what I mean, kiddo?’

  ‘Do you mean . . . that he’s going to dress more like the way Mum does?’ she replied gravely. ‘Like he did the night of his birthday party?’

  ‘More than that,’ said Ben. ‘Dad’s not just playing at dress-up here; this is going to be a permanent thing. He’s actually going to change into a woman. Do you understand? It’s a pretty big deal, actually, and he kept it secret and humiliate
d us. He didn’t even think about us at all and that’s why Mum and I are so angry with him.’

  ‘But . . . he’ll still be the same on the inside?’ Amber asked thoughtfully. ‘He’ll still love us the same and drive us everywhere and play with us and bring us on holidays and talk to us over dinner and make all our problems go away? Like he’s done always, all our lives?’

  ‘Well, yeah,’ Ben said reluctantly. ‘I suppose . . . yeah, he’ll still do all those things with us.’

  ‘You know what? I think we’re lucky,’ said Amber. ‘There’s a girl in my class and her dad died last year of leuka . . . leyke . . .’

  ‘Leukaemia?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s it. So she doesn’t have a dad at all and that’s so sad. But we’re really lucky, Ben. We have a great dad.’

  Ben thought about this for a minute.

  ‘But he’s not going to be our dad anymore, is he?’ he said. ‘He’s going to start looking completely different and people will talk about us and it’s just . . . weird.’

  ‘Actually,’ said Amber, sounding by far the more grown-up of the two now, ‘it’s not a bit weird at all. There’s a girl in my school whose brother is a lady. And she’s so cool. Whenever she comes to the school, everyone says how brilliant and brave she is. Our teacher told us something about how Ireland is changing and we all need to embrace change and be kind to each other and then something about tol . . . toler . . . I can’t remember the right word.’

  ‘Tolerance,’ Ben finished the sentence for her. ‘I bet she meant tolerance.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Amber smiled. ‘That’s it – tolerance. So I don’t care what Dad looks like on the outside, and I don’t care what anyone says. It’s what’s inside that really counts. Isn’t it, Ben?’

  Violet

  Violet rarely allowed herself to think of her past, but the date she dreaded every single year was growing ever closer and some memories wouldn’t be denied.

  *

  For weeks they wrote to each other, she and Andy. Hard to believe now, but back in the 1960s, that was what you did. His letters were long and interesting and always, always bitingly funny. So what if he did make more than a few spelling mistakes, and if his grammar was slightly less then flawless? Andy always used to say Violet’s lengthy replies never failed to make him laugh. I can almost hear your posh accent coming through the pages, he wrote to her once, in a letter she cherished. I’ll have to write a song for you one of these days, my classy Irish lady.

  My classy Irish lady, Violet thought, rereading the letter time and again, till the paper frayed at the edges. He means me. It was hard to put into words how very happy that made her.

  Then, out of the blue, an invitation came. Andy wrote to say that his band were going out on the road and would be playing a concert at the Odeon cinema in Hammersmith, London. It’s a huge deal for us to play London, he wrote to Violet in his scribbled handwriting, and an A&R man from Decca Records has promised to come and see us. It would be great if you were here to bring me luck. Come on, Vi, what do you say?

  He gave her the date and the name of the hotel the band would be staying in, asking her to let him know her answer as soon as possible. Violet, of course, went off into a tailspin of panic, desperately wanting to see Andy, but feeling as trapped as if there were chains, bars and bolts on every window and door in her house at Primrose Square. It was one thing to sneak out in Dublin, but London was so very far away.

  Yet she had to see Andy. She just had to. It had been almost two months since they’d been to the pictures together and she was aching to be with him again. It tortured her to see images of The Beatles out on tour, surrounded by hordes of gorgeous young girls just like her, screaming their heads off and even climbing up fire escapes to break into their idols’ hotel suites. Beatlemania, they called it; the papers were full of it every day. It was often something Freddie would snort at over his Evening Herald.

  ‘Bunch of over-loud, overpaid louts,’ he used to mutter. ‘They won’t be heard of in years to come, mark my words.’

  Violet adored their music, though, and even Betty was often heard singing along to ‘When I’m Sixty-Four’ when it came on the radio in the kitchen, which was several times a day back then. But whenever Violet thought of Andy, and all the girls who must be throwing themselves at him and his band mates, just like they did with The Beatles, she felt sick to her stomach.

  ‘I don’t even know what an A&R man is!’ she wailed hysterically to Jayne, as the two of them spent an afternoon together in Arnotts department store on Henry Street. ‘All I know is that Andy says this is a huge break for him and I’m not even there to support him!’

  ‘I believe it stands for artists and repertoire,’ Jayne nodded wisely. ‘Basically, it’s like a talent scout. Tom says Decca Records turned down The Beatles, so of course now they’re trying to find the next big thing. When are they going to see Andy play?’

  ‘Oh . . . I’m not too sure,’ Violet said lightly.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Soon, I suppose . . .’ Violet trailed off. She didn’t dare tell Jayne the truth: that she was now racking her brains to find a plausible way to get to London to see Andy in concert. Jayne could be so goody-goody two-shoes about being honest with people. Doubtless Violet would only end up getting a lecture about how she should really tell her father the truth.

  ‘Well, I think it’s lovely that you two are still in touch,’ Jayne said, steering them both towards Arnotts’ linen department. ‘We’ll have to get Andy back here again for another visit. If he’s not too famous to come and see ordinary folk like us again, that is.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Violet distractedly, as Jayne sifted through a pile of tea towels on special offer, at two and six for three of them. ‘Can we go now, please? I want to go to the ladies’ fashion department to buy something new to wear. Come on, my father gave me my allowance this week and I want to spend it now. This is so boring.’

  If Violet sounded a bit like a spoilt princess, she knew her friend was far too kind to say so. Instead, Jayne picked up a neat white tea towel and jokingly waved it in Violet’s face.

  ‘This, my dear,’ she said, ‘is what married life is really about. Tea towels and bedlinen and all the things that you think are so boring now.’

  ‘Well, when I get married,’ said Violet, ‘I’m never going to be one of those housewives who goes trawling through lovely shops like this, looking for rubbishy old household stuff. I want to shop in the fashion department, and wear fabulous clothes all the time, like Jackie Kennedy.’

  ‘And suppose you marry a man with no money? Like Andy, for instance? What then?’

  But Violet ignored her, and when Jayne was at the till queuing to pay with all the other boring housewives, looking like complete frights with their headscarves on over rollers, she slipped off to the second floor all by herself. There, she spent a full five shillings and sixpence on a beautiful pair of capri pants, with a tight black polo neck to go with it, just like Diana Rigg wore on The Avengers.

  Fabulous, Violet thought, surveying her long, slim figure in the changing-room mirror. She looked sexy and thin, and if she got her hair set the night before, she’d look perfect for her trip to London to see Andy take the city by storm.

  Wait till you see, she thought happily, delighted with herself as she peeled off a wad of notes from the generous monthly allowance her father gave her to pay for her new outfit. Andy would become just as famous as Paul McCartney, and she’d be famous too, because the girlfriends always were, weren’t they? She’d go to all his concerts and the two of them would go to film premiers and big West End opening nights together, and Violet would be the envy of everyone she knew in Dublin. Who knows? She might even get to meet royalty.

  One thing was for certain, though, Violet thought. She’d have the most fabulous, glittering life, and hell would freeze over before she’d be caught dead queuing up to buy tea towels in Arnotts ever again.
<
br />   Gracie

  She’d had a lorry-load to drink that night at the club, but the minute she got home, Gracie began to feel stone-cold sober.

  Francesca. Right there, in all her glory. Just sitting on a barstool, enjoying the evening like everyone else. Make no mistake – this wasn’t Frank, the husband that Gracie thought she knew inside out and upside down. This was Francesca, and trying to reconcile the two in her head was nigh-on impossible. Gracie had been there and seen it for herself with her own two eyes, and yet she still couldn’t really take it in.

  Because Francesca, this new, rebooted version of Frank Woods, bore absolutely no resemblance to her creator. Where Frank was shy, Francesca was brimming over with confidence. Where Frank was diffident in manner, forever apologising till you wanted to yell at him to shut up and get over himself, Francesca was utterly self-assured and in control. This woman was effortlessly cool – and ‘cool’ was the one thing that poor Frank could never have been accused of in the whole course of his life.

  Everyone in the club noticed Francesca. She was the type of woman who half the room fancied, and the other half of the room wanted to be. Hell, there was a sizeable part of Gracie that wished even she could be a bit more Francesca-like herself. Once she’d got over the initial shock, the two of them had begun to talk, stilted and formal at first, mainly because Gracie kept repeating over and over: ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘And what’s wrong with a night out on a Friday after work?’ was Francesca’s innocent response.

  When Gracie probed further, it seemed that for some time now, Francesca had initially gone to the odd ‘safe’ club in town, where she could meet other like-minded souls, quietly and privately. She was finally getting to properly know more people like herself, to talk to people with similar experiences. These outings were rare enough in the early days, but as her confidence grew, the time came when she felt comfortable going out and about a bit more.