The Women of Primrose Square

by Claudia Carroll

  ‘But it’s never about fun,’ she explained. ‘Going out in public for me is really just about being accepted. You’ve no idea what it means, to be able to sit on a barstool and chat as the real me, to new friends. Friends who take me as I am and who don’t judge me, or scorn me, or laugh at me. It’s wonderful. It’s liberating. Cisgender people take something as simple as that for granted. But for people like me, it’s a sort of miracle.’

  It was the first time Gracie and her husband had talked, properly talked, since the awful night of the party. Strange thing; it felt like a huge relief, and yet it broke Gracie’s heart all the same.

  When she eventually got home, Gracie thrashed about in bed half the night, unable to sleep, then eventually gave it up as a bad job and hauled herself up. All her life, she thought, she prided herself on not being prejudiced, racist, or biased. It was how she’d brought up her kids and it was her baseline ethics code in work. Equality, fairness and tolerance in all things. Always listen to the other side of the story, she’d drummed into Ben and Amber. Never, ever rush to judge.

  Yet here, under her own roof, had she denounced Frank for what, after all, wasn’t really his fault at all? She’d been so fixated on the kids and on her own anger towards him, never once did Gracie actually pause to think what it must have been like for Frank himself. All this time she’d been utterly focused on losing the man she’d loved in the worst way imaginable. She’d been completely wrapped up in her own pain, grieving the end of her marriage and somehow trying to protect her kids. Poor me, poor me was all she could think, morning, noon and night.

  But what about Frank? This, Gracie was finally beginning to realise, was a man who’d basically denied who he was for most of his life, and all for the love of his family.

  Am I one of those vile people who bangs on about tolerance, but is abusive to anyone who doesn’t conform to the norm? she wondered. Jesus Christ, I’ll be voting Trump next.

  Wearily, she pulled on her dressing gown and made her way downstairs. Ben was already up and awake, even though it was barely eight on a Saturday morning. He was bright as a button and sitting at the kitchen table having avocado toast and a glass of the kale juice he’d insisted the whole family convert to. So he was back to eating healthy food again, Gracie thought. A very good sign. A definite shift in the right direction.

  ‘Hey, Mum.’ He grinned at her. ‘You look like total shit.’

  ‘Thanks, love,’ she grimaced. ‘Any chance you’d make your old mother a very strong coffee?’

  ‘So how was your night?’ he asked, getting up to put a pod of coffee into the Nespresso machine. Then he turned to face her as a fresh thought struck him. ‘Actually, isn’t this a bit weird?’ he said. ‘Isn’t this, like, total role reversal? Shouldn’t you be the one giving out to me for crawling in at all hours stinking of booze? You’re the parent, not me. I was tucked up in bed by eleven last night, I’ll have you know.’

  ‘Very funny,’ Gracie said groggily, sitting up at the kitchen island and massaging her throbbing temples.

  ‘Want some eggs with your coffee?’ Ben asked. ‘Great for a hangover. Not that I’ve ever been wasted drunk,’ he added, a bit too quickly.

  Gracie smiled and nodded yes. Then there was silence, while Ben expertly whipped about the kitchen, and she looked on, filled with pride at the sight of her son.

  He’s in his right and proper place, she thought. Right here and right now. The slick, professional way Ben glided about between the island, the hob and the fridge was a bit like watching poetry in motion.

  There’s no doubt about it, she thought. Ben belongs in a real chef’s kitchen, doing what he loves best. He’s his best self here. Just like Frank was his very best self last night. Two men who she loved very much – both alive and well and very much living their truth. And who was she to stop them, Gracie wondered? She may as well try to hold back the tide.

  *

  Later that same morning, Gracie Woods did the one thing she vowed she’d never, ever do on pain of death. She walked out of her own house and down Primrose Square to knock on Violet Hardcastle’s front door.

  The last time she’d banged on that same door, she reflected, had been all of about ten years ago, when Violet had sent her a particularly stinking letter complaining about Ben. And his crime? To knock on Violet’s door at Halloween when he was out trick-or-treating with a gang of his pals. They hammered with such ferocity, according to Violet, that they’d damaged her paintwork, so the entire door would have to be repainted and paid for in full by Gracie and Frank.

  Ben at the time was all of eight years of age.

  Gracie had wanted to fight back with the full weight of the law behind her. ‘This is bullying, plain and simple,’ she’d said at the time, adding that a good, strongly worded cease and desist letter would put an end to Violet Hardcastle, and the way she terrorised the neighbourhood once and for all.

  Frank, of course, had made her see differently. ‘Just because she treats us like this,’ he’d said at the time, ‘doesn’t mean that we should respond in kind. Where’s the neighbourliness in that? Turn the other cheek and just try to remember, we know so little about Violet or why she is the way she is.’

  Over time, everything did indeed settle down, and Gracie grudgingly had to admit that Frank had been right. But then, that was Frank to a T – always seeing the other person’s point of view, always choosing kindness. Tolerance was his natural, default factory setting.

  The front door of number eighty-one Primrose Square creaked open, and there was Violet Hardcastle herself, standing tall and proud, even on her walking stick. She was a legend around the square; people almost loved to be insulted by her, trying to top each other with stories about her rudeness. In the local supermarket on Pearce Street, you could always hear neighbours swapping tales from the coalface.

  ‘That Violet Hardcastle!’ Gracie overheard one middle-aged woman chatting away to another just a few weeks ago, as they stood in the middle of the vegetable aisle. ‘She was sitting at her front room window today, with the window wide open because it’s so hot, yelling insults at anyone who passed her by. She told me I was mutton dressed as lamb and that I should be locked up for going out in a mini skirt at my age!’

  ‘That’s nothing,’ her companion replied. ‘Last autumn, she threatened me with a letter to our local county councilor unless I took down my Halloween decorations punctually on the first of November. She said I was lowering the tone of Primrose Square and that blow-ins like me needed to be taught manners.’

  Yet the folk figure of legend definitely wasn’t the same Violet Hardcastle who opened the door that sunny Saturday morning, though Gracie found it hard to put her finger on what exactly was different. Violet seemed subdued, for one thing. Wrapped up in her own thoughts to such an extent, she didn’t even bother having a go at Gracie for wearing flip-flops, as she ordinarily would have.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said, when she saw who it was.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Hardcastle,’ Gracie said politely. ‘Sorry to bother you, but can I have a word with Frank, if he’s home?’

  The Violet of old would doubtlessly have barked at Gracie to wait on the doorstep outside – but not today.

  ‘You’d better come in then,’ Violet said in a very downcast voice, before leading Gracie into the drawing room at the front of the house. ‘I’ll just go upstairs and let him know you’re here.’

  What’s going on with her? Gracie wondered, as she gingerly picked her way into the dusty, gloomy room, which felt damp and dank, even on a warm summer’s day like this. Violet was almost – God forbid – civil. Could the woman possibly be on medication?

  Then Frank came downstairs, doing a double take when he saw that it was actually his wife standing at the fireplace waiting for him.

  ‘Gracie!’ he said in surprise. ‘I was expecting Amber. We were planning on having brunch and then maybe going for a walk on the beach.’

  Gracie looked at him for a long time, fo
rmulating exactly what it was she wanted to say. Frank must have sensed something was coming, because he automatically closed the door behind him for a bit of extra privacy.

  ‘Seeing you like that last night . . .’ she began, picking her words very, very carefully.

  ‘Was a terrible shock, I’m sure,’ Frank said, taking off his glasses and wiping them distractedly. ‘Of course it must have been. I really am so sorry if I upset you in any way.’

  ‘No, Frank, don’t apologise,’ she said. ‘I’m not here to read you the riot act. I only wanted to say that Francesca was . . . I mean . . . you were . . . glorious. Like a butterfly. That’s what you came across as, Frank – like a beautiful butterfly emerging from out of a chrysalis.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, in total surprise. ‘I wasn’t expecting that.’

  A throbbing moment while they each looked at the other.

  ‘So, that’s it,’ Gracie said, walking back into the hall and getting ready to leave.

  ‘You’re leaving already?’ Frank said, confused.

  ‘Of course I’m leaving,’ she said, opening up the heavy hall door. ‘This doesn’t mean that you’re forgiven or that any of this is OK, Frank. Because I’m still angry that you never told me what was going on inside your head, and hurt that you didn’t share this with me. That aside though,’ she added, ‘I just came here to say . . . well, that I understand a little bit better, that’s all. I came away last night feeling like the worst person in the world.’

  ‘But why, love?’ Frank asked. ‘Why would you feel like that?’

  Gracie sighed exhaustedly. ‘Because I try to be tolerant,’ she said. ‘I think of myself as being so liberal and left-leaning and open-minded. But seeing you made me realise . . . maybe I haven’t been practising what I preach after all. I may still be angry with you . . . and so sad for what I’ve lost, but at least now I’m beginning to see your reasons why. And that’s it.’

  ‘Okey dokey,’ he said gently.

  Just then, Amber’s coppery head of curls popped around the door. Seeing both her parents standing there together in the drawing room, she burst into a wide, open smile.

  ‘Mum and Dad! You’re here – together! This is amazing! This is going to be the best day ever! Dad and I are going for brunch and then for a big, long walk down the beach, so why don’t you come with us, Mum? Please?’

  Violet

  Frank and his wife seemed to be deep in conversation downstairs in the drawing room, so Violet left them to themselves and retreated back to the privacy of her bedroom.

  Solitude suited her, as it happened, so she could indulge her memories in peace.

  *

  Lies, lies and more lies. Violet had told so many, she was an expert by now. After all, she’d got away with it once before, and even though this was to be a two-night weekend stay, she thought her story was pretty fool-proof.

  As far as her father was concerned, she was travelling up to County Monaghan for a birthday party at Castle Leslie hosted by one of her school friends, a cousin of the titled, aristocratic Leslie family. Violet had exhausted herself trying to think of the perfect alibi, and this was the best one that she could come up with. In one fell swoop, she could account for a weekend away, and yet appeal to her father’s sense of snobbery at the same time.

  The Leslie family were proper aristocracy and her father puffed up with pride when Violet told him where she was going. He even slipped her the astonishing sum of ten pounds: ‘to buy yourself something nice to wear for the party. You never know who you might meet at Castle Leslie.’

  Violet felt a twinge of guilt lying to him, particularly when she saw how pleased he was. But it didn’t stop her from taking the ten-pound note and going straight to a hair salon on Grafton Street, where she had her hair cut, washed and blow-dried, before hitting Clerys department store and spending the rest on sexy black underthings.

  If this was to be the night she and Andy ‘did it’, then by God, she was determined to look her very best. Out with her old-fashioned garter belts and the girdles all young ladies were told made for good, solid foundation garments. Instead, she treated herself to Maidenform chemises and lacy brassieres, with underpants that were so sheer and light, they may as well have been made of gossamer.

  It made Violet feel dizzy with anticipation when she thought of Andy, seeing her parade around in her brand-new underwear for the very first time. But then, why should she not lose her virginity to him if that’s what she wanted? This was the Swinging Sixties, after all, or so all the magazines kept saying. Everyone seemed to be sexually free and easy – except for Violet.

  The night before she travelled to London, she took particular care in packing her little overnight bag, tucking the black underwear discreetly into a corner, just in case a chambermaid at the hotel unpacked for her. Then she slipped out of the house to a telephone box around the corner from Primrose Square on Pearce Street, so she could place a call to Andy’s hotel confirming all the arrangements, and making sure he knew exactly where and when to collect her.

  In his last letter, Andy had said the band would be staying at the Adelphi Hotel, which Violet had no doubt was somewhere fabulous and swish, just like the Shelbourne Hotel on Stephen’s Green. After all, his band was trying out for Decca records, and only the best would do.

  It took an age to put in a long-distance call through to London, and the operator had to ring her back, but as good luck would have it, there was no one else standing behind her queuing to use the telephone, so at least she had some privacy.

  ‘Adelphi Hotel,’ said a lady with a London accent Violet recognised. It wasn’t a posh accent, though, like you heard on the BBC radio news at 9 p.m. that her father liked to listen to. This was more like the kind of accent you heard on Radio Caroline.

  ‘Hi, there. Can I speak to Andy McKim, please?’ Violet asked. ‘He’s staying with you at the moment, with his band.’

  ‘Who did you say, dearie?’ came the bored reply, as Violet fed shilling after shilling into the coin slot at the side of the phone box.

  ‘Andy McKim, who’s with The Moptops,’ she said, just in case the name of the band carried any extra weight.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the woman said, ‘but I can’t tell you who is or isn’t here. How am I supposed to know that, then?’

  ‘Well, can I at least leave a message for him?’ Violet asked, surprised at her rudeness. ‘Can you please tell Mr McKim that Miss Violet Hardcastle will be at London airport tomorrow at twelve noon and to kindly collect me there, please. If you’d be so kind.’

  ‘La-di-da, listen to you,’ came the reply. ‘What do you think I am then, love, a bleedin’ noticeboard?’

  Violet couldn’t be certain whether she was cut off or whether the receptionist had hung up on her. Which was odd, she thought. But no matter. What she knew for certain was that come hell or high water, she was going to London tomorrow, and wild horses wouldn’t hold her back.

  Never one to cut corners when it came to spending her father’s cash, Violet had splashed out on an airline ticket with Aer Lingus and was flying from Dublin Airport directly to London Heathrow.

  She couldn’t have felt more excited and grown-up as she tripped through Dublin Airport, aware of more than one appreciative male gaze following her as she strode through the concourse. The sight of the glamorous air hostesses in their neat green uniforms and tricorn hats filled Violet with a mixture of pride and envy – pride that she was a young lady who’d officially joined the jet set, at a time when no one, absolutely no one she knew, ever flew anywhere. And envy that the air hostesses, who were every bit as well made-up and glamorous as she was, got to travel like this every day of the week.

  The only pity of this whole trip, she thought, happily settling back into her seat on the aircraft and sucking on a boiled sweet she’d been offered, was that she could never brag about this to anyone, ever. Andy was the only person who’d ever know the truth, and that was the way it
had to stay.

  There was a gentleman sitting beside Violet in a heavy wool overcoat, who looked a bit green about the gills with airsickness as the place thundered down the runway, but Violet felt nothing except exhilaration. Every moment brought her closer to Andy – and all of this, the expense, the lies, the risk, everything was for him.

  *

  Arriving into London Heathrow airport was both exciting and terrifying.

  ‘Got a lovely holiday weekend planned?’ one of the chatty air hostesses asked her.

  ‘My boyfriend is collecting me,’ Violet told her proudly. ‘And I’m seeing him perform in concert tonight. At the Odeon,’ she added, to really impress.

  But when Violet clipped through the draughty, icy cold arrivals hall, Andy wasn’t there to meet her at all. She checked her watch and waited for a good hour before finally admitting defeat.

  Obviously there has to be a terrible mix-up, she thought. An innocent mistake. There’s no way Andy would let her make a journey like this all on her own, then not have the decency to be there to meet her. Doubtless it was the fault of that dimwit receptionist who’d been so rude on the phone the previous day. Clearly she’d never given poor Andy the message about Violet’s arrival time and he was probably back at the hotel now, not knowing where she was or when she was coming – or if she was coming at all.

  Panic seized Violet. She was more than grateful she was travelling with wads of money, so taking a cab directly into the hotel in the centre of London wasn’t an issue. Somehow, she found an empty taxi outside the terminal building, gave the hotel address, then sat back and tried to ignore the knot of worry in the pit of her stomach.

  To distract herself, she looked out the window. Never having been abroad before, driving from the airport into the centre of such a sprawling, vibrant city was a huge adventure. Violet loved Dublin, but the noise, the crowds, the impatience and the urgency of London really were overwhelming.

  Wait till you see, she told herself, trying to calm down. The Adelphi Hotel will be out of this world for luxury and Andy will probably be up in his room waiting for me, maybe even with a bunch of roses and a bottle of champagne to toast my safe arrival. She was beside herself with excitement to see him and, once they’d caught up properly, Violet hoped that he’d have enough time to show her some of the amazing sights and sounds of London.