The Women of Primrose Square

by Claudia Carroll

  Violet

  Your ‘friend’. That’s how young ladies discreetly referred to their menstruations back then. Back at the Hibernian School for Young Ladies, with alarming regularity, one of Violet’s classmates would cry off whatever hockey match or outing the girls were due to take part in, ‘because my friend’s come to visit’.

  Violet herself had never had any truck with such euphemistic nonsense. If she had stomach cramps, she told no one and said nothing and got on with it. That was very decisively the end of that.

  This, however, was very different. It had been a full six weeks now since her monthly ‘friend’ had come to visit and she was worried sick. But who to confide in? Her family doctor? That was a joke. Dr Patterson was an elderly man who regularly went to the races with her father – how could she possibly open up to him about something as terrifying this?

  Betty? A very firm no to that, thank you very much. Violet and Betty were close; Betty had always been a sort of cross between a housemaid and, on occasion, even a friend. But yet again, there was always the threat that Betty might, just might, feel it was her Christian duty to tell Violet’s father – so that ruled her out.

  In utter desperation and out of her mind with worry, Violet found herself sitting at Jayne’s kitchen table one weekday morning, when she knew Jayne’s husband Tom would be at work and they could talk confidentially. There was something comforting about being in Jayne’s warm, cosy kitchen; it always smelled of delicious home-baking and Violet found it far easier than she thought to pour out her troubles.

  Even if she hated seeing the look of pure shock that slowly crossed her friend’s face.

  ‘Oh Vi,’ Jayne said, looking horrified. ‘You should have told me! You went all the way to London on your own without saying a single word? What if your father had found out?’

  ‘He didn’t and he won’t either,’ Violet said firmly, ‘so that’s one less thing to worry about.’

  In fact, that was the single good thing about this whole sorry mess. Her father was still under the impression that Violet had spent a happy weekend all those weeks ago up in Castle Leslie, swanning around in a whole new wardrobe and meeting suitable young gentlemen of her own age. She’d got away with it and that, at least, was something to be grateful for.

  ‘I don’t know what to do, Jayne,’ Violet said, white-faced and almost ready to throw up with worry. ‘I’ve had this pressing on me for weeks now and I’ve nowhere to turn. I’ve tried writing to Andy at the address I have for him in Liverpool, in the hopes my letters will be forwarded on, but he never seems to get any of them. My last three letters have all just bounced back to me, unopened.’

  ‘And you think you might be . . . you know?’

  Violet nodded. This was unthinkable; this was every girl’s worst nightmare. How could she, of all people, have done something so utterly stupid? She and Andy had taken precautionary measures; everyone knew you couldn’t get pregnant using the Billings method. Violet had eagerly read up on it in a copy of Cosmopolitan magazine she’d smuggled into the house. Mind you, the Billings method was also nicknamed Vatican roulette, and now she could plainly see why.

  ‘Oh dear God,’ Jayne said plaintively. ‘Violet, this is so unlike you! What on earth possessed you?’

  ‘I love him,’ Violet said, beginning to cry. ‘And he said he loved me too. And there were all these other girls hanging around him and I knew if he didn’t end up with me, he’d have gone off with one of them.’

  Even as Violet said the words aloud, she could see Jayne thinking: But that’s not real love at all, is it?

  ‘Let’s try to be calm here,’ Jayne said. ‘Panicking is going to get us nowhere. Worst-case scenario, suppose you were . . . expecting. You could always go away for a year or so? Maybe to your Aunt Julia’s down in the country? You could have the baby quietly and privately, then put it up for adoption?’

  ‘You have got to be insane!’ Violet said, looking aghast. ‘This would . . . it would ruin my whole life! Auntie Julia would tell my father immediately, and you know what he’s like. He’d disown me. And what man would ever want me again after something like this?’

  Jayne bit her lip, deep in thought. She passed over a tissue to Violet, who had burst into hysterical tears by then.

  ‘What am I going to do, Jayne? I can’t get hold of Andy and I’ve never been so frightened! You have to help me. You’re the only one I can trust.’

  At least Jayne had a good answer for that one.

  ‘I’ll tell you exactly what we’re going to do,’ she said firmly. ‘We’re going to make an appointment to see my GP, who’s a wonderful lady you’ll really love. She’s discreet and professional and she’ll help us. Wait and see, Vi – this is probably just a false alarm.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’ Violet asked her, between big gulping tears.

  ‘Definitely.’

  But Jayne didn’t look one bit convinced as she said it.

  *

  Dr Maguire was kind and understanding and gave Violet a thorough examination, inside and out. She took blood and urine samples and promised that she’d have the results in a few days.

  Exactly one week to the day, the results arrived.

  In a letter addressed to Miss Violet Hardcastle of number eighty-one Primrose Square, her very worst nightmares were confirmed.

  *

  16 August.

  It was that date that Violet dreaded. Every year it rolled around and Violet quietly ‘took to her bed’, blocking out the world, ignoring the telephone and the post and even Jayne when she called in, which she never failed to do on this awful day.

  Somehow, exactly fifty years on, this year was worse than ever. Fifty years. Fifty long years and she could still vividly remember that dull, aching torture that went on for hours, followed by the most agonising sharp pains Violet had ever felt, before or since.

  From the heavy mahogany four-poster bed upstairs in her room, she could clearly overhear Frank and Emily having what sounded like a most convivial evening down in the kitchen together. They were chatting away gaily and even laughing at some shared joke.

  How anyone could laugh on a black day like this was utterly beyond Violet. So she pulled the heavy bedspread over her head and tried to block out the noise.

  Tortuous thoughts still wouldn’t stop spinning through her head though, as she thrashed around the bed, desperate for this to end.

  Dear God, she thought, it had been five decades to the day. When would her penance finally come to an end?

  *

  Worry. Sick-making worry was her constant companion. What to tell her father? Need she even tell him at all? Maybe he wouldn’t notice, Violet thought in her more cowardly moments. If she got Jayne to run her up some particularly baggy clothing, maybe she’d get away with it. Maybe he’d even be happy at the idea of a little grandchild, she thought in her wilder flights of fancy – though deep, deep down, she knew that was never going to happen.

  Jayne was the only living soul who she could unburden herself to, but even she foresaw trouble ahead.

  ‘I can come with you when you tell him, if you want, Vi?’ she’d offered supportively. ‘He mightn’t be as angry as you think, if there’s two of us there to break the news.’

  In the end, though, Violet could have been spared the trouble of worrying herself sick over how to tell her father, or whether to tell him at all. Unbeknownst to her, a simple medical bill for three shillings and sixpence had arrived from the doctor’s surgery, addressed to: Mr Hardcastle, 81 Primrose Square.

  Violet had been out walking, pacing restlessly around the square because she’d read somewhere that meant you have a higher chance of losing it. Be a dream come true if she could lose it naturally, she thought. No matter what the health consequences were for her and to hell with what the Catholic Church taught about your soul being damned to hell for having ‘relations’ outside of marriage. At least that way she’d get away with it with minimal fuss, and without her
father ever having to know.

  Suddenly, Betty came rushing out across the square to find Violet.

  And the white-faced, horrified look on her face said it all.

  *

  Violet thrashed about upstairs in her bed, trying to block out her memories and the vile, horrible words her father had used. How violent he’d been, even slapping her across the face as he trembled with rage.

  ‘All that money for your education and this is what I’ve reared?’ he spat at her, his face roaring red as sweat poured down his forehead. ‘A useless slut? A slattern? You’ve disgraced me in front of everyone and you’re no daughter of mine!’

  Violet remembered something Emily told her: that her own mother had said something similar to her too. Disowned by a parent. It was something the two had in common.

  And throughout the whole of her living nightmare, there wasn’t a single word from Andy. Even Jayne and Tom were frantically writing to him and trying to telephone – but at every corner, it seemed to be a dead end. He was away on tour, Germany this time, and message after message went unreturned and unacknowledged.

  Today, Violet thought bleakly, women had babies out of wedlock all the time and no one batted an eyelid.

  But this was holy Catholic Ireland in early 1969. Times were different and she was treated very differently. For an unwedded, pregnant woman, make no mistake: this was where your old life as you knew it ground to a shuddering halt.

  Frank

  It was exactly 7.59 p.m. when Frank’s neat little Prius pulled up into his usual parking space on Primrose Square, punctual to the dot. But then he’d taken care to avoid exit seven off the motorway, as there was a seven-minute tailback, according to a handy app on his phone that kept him fully up to speed on all traffic delays.

  He was just taking his briefcase and a few shopping bags from Tesco out of the car when he spotted Jayne from across the square waving over at him. Such a fabulous neighbour and all-round human being, Frank thought, as he walked down the square to say a fond hello to her.

  ‘I was watching out for you, Frank,’ Jayne said, coming up to him with a warm smile. ‘I knew you’d be here on the dot, as always. Sure I could set my watch by you.’

  ‘It’s wonderful to see you,’ Frank said. ‘Will you come into Violet’s with me? I’m sure she’d love to see you.’

  At the mention of Violet’s name, however, Jayne’s face fell a little.

  ‘It’s actually Violet that I wanted to talk to you about,’ she said, as her tone shifted.

  ‘Oh really?’ Frank said. ‘Is everything OK? I was just about to make her some dinner. She often comes to eat with me in the evening and we always have great old chats. Maybe you’d like to join us? Plenty of food for us all,’ he added, holding up the grocery bags.

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ Jayne said, ‘but I’m afraid I’m a little worried about Violet just now. She’s a bit . . .’ She broke off though, as if she wasn’t sure what more to say.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The thing is,’ Jayne went on, ‘I went to see her earlier. That is, I tried to get in to see her, but . . . well, I couldn’t. She wouldn’t even let me into the house.’

  ‘Maybe she’s not feeling too well?’ Frank asked tactfully. Maybe it was some sort of nervous condition, he wondered. Maybe the poor lady suffered from panic attacks. Maybe that was why she was . . . well, like Violet Hardcastle.

  ‘Violet is fine physically,’ Jayne said. ‘It’s just that around this particular date is always very hard for her, you see. Now, of course I know she’s not the easiest to live with, but, well, Violet has been through a great deal and right now, just needs a lot of TLC.’

  ‘I understand,’ Frank nodded. ‘In fact, now that you mention it, I did notice that she seemed a little withdrawn over the past few days. Not like herself at all.’

  He wanted to say that Violet wasn’t thudding around on her walking stick, grumping about the neighbours, scribbling off missives to anyone who dared annoy her, and in between all that, still finding the time to chat to Frank about the Duchess of Cambridge and some new hat she was wearing. Definitely not like herself at all.

  ‘I’ll mention it to our housemate Emily as well,’ Frank added. ‘We’ll both be sure to be extra-mindful of Violet just now.’

  ‘Thank you, love,’ Jayne said. ‘I knew you’d be great about it.’

  ‘Would it be cheeky of me to ask one more thing?’ Frank said, as they fell into step together and drifted back towards number eighty-one. ‘Why is this particular time of the year hard for Violet?’

  Was it her birthday, he wondered? Or an anniversary, perhaps of her father Freddie’s passing, who she often spoke about and whose photo dominated every surface in her drawing room?

  Jayne sighed before she spoke. ‘Frank, love,’ she said, ‘there’s so much you don’t know about the past. But it’s Violet’s story to tell and not mine. Ask yourself this, though – do you ever wonder why the poor woman never goes outside of her own front door?’

  ‘Oh,’ Frank said, caught off guard. ‘I always assumed it was because she was afraid of falling? She struggles to walk even with her stick.’

  ‘It’s not because she can’t, Frank. It’s because she’s terrified.’

  Violet

  The awful, chilling silence at number eighty-one Primrose Square was so much worse than any name-calling or abuse her father might have hurled at her. She wasn’t even permitted to go to Mass with him and Betty. But then, no words needed to be spoken – her father’s bloodshot glare spoke volumes. So Violet stayed up in her bedroom, safely out of harm’s way.

  That was, until one day the key turned in the front door downstairs and voices were heard in the hall below. It sounded like two men this time. Her father and . . . Violet couldn’t place the other voice. Yet he sounded vaguely familiar, whoever he was.

  ‘Your father wants to see you right away,’ Betty said to her, cold and detached. ‘He’s downstairs in the study with Monsignor Bell. Hurry up, now, don’t keep them waiting.’

  The Monsignor was here, in the house? Violet had never liked the Monsignor; he always smelled of brandy and had a greasy, oiled-back comb-over, as if someone had melted half a pound of butter on top of his head.

  She had a horrible, ominous feeling, as if whatever was brewing certainly wouldn’t end well for her.

  *

  ‘Get into the car,’ was all her father grunted, unable to even look her in the eye.

  No one told her where they were going or where she was being taken to.

  ‘But, why?’ she asked him, with panic in her voice. ‘Where are we going? And why aren’t you coming with me? What’s going on?’

  ‘Ignore her,’ her father said to the Monsignor, as he squeezed his portly girth into the driver’s seat and started up the engine. ‘And don’t even think you have to be nice to her on the way there. Idiotic little slut deserves no more.’

  Hours crawled by on that awful car journey, passing through town after town. Violet badly needed a wee but was too embarrassed to ask the Monsignor to pull over at a hotel so she could use the facilities. Wherever they were headed to, he clearly wanted to get there before nightfall.

  Then, just as it was getting dusky, the car finally pulled into the gates of what looked like a huge parkland estate with a long driveway that led to an imposing gothic-looking building, with stone walls and crucifixes everywhere you looked. A third-rate hotel, perhaps, Violet thought wildly.

  No, she thought, as the car crunched up on the gravelled driveway and the Monsignor barked at her to get out, which were the only two words he’d spoken to her on the entire journey. This place was most certainly not a hotel.

  It seemed to be some sort of a convent, Violet realised, as a surly-looking novice nun opened the hall door and led her and the Monsignor down a long, polished oak corridor towards a little office that was more like a den. She’d been sent to a convent in the middle of nowhere, and yet that made no se
nse either.

  ‘Monsignor,’ she tried to say as the door was opened and an older, stony-faced nun stood waiting, ‘what are we doing here? I’ve already left school; I’m hardly in need of full-time education. Surely there must be some kind of mistake?’

  ‘This is her, then?’ the nun asked coldly. She was a large woman with a black wimple that covered her entire head and the most appalling teeth Violet had ever seen.

  ‘This is her,’ the Monsignor repeated, handing Violet over as if he wanted nothing more to do with her. Violet was beginning to feel panicky now, but she willed herself to stay strong.

  ‘Are you in charge here?’ Violet said to this nun, whoever she was. ‘If so, can you kindly telephone my father in Dublin and tell him that I really do need to come home right away? There appears to have been a dreadful misunderstanding.’

  True, Violet’s father could barely look at her, never mind speak to her. Surely, though, when he realised the awfulness of what had happened, he’d relent? He couldn’t possibly be cruel enough to leave her in this dreadful place. Could he?

  ‘Listen to the little madam now,’ said the nun, mockingly. ‘Did you ever? A dirty, fallen woman, daring to speak to me like this?’

  Violet looked at her, shocked.

  ‘My name is Sister Helga,’ the nun told Violet. ‘I’m Mother Superior here and if you ever speak to me like that again, my girl, you’ll feel the back of my hand. Understand?’

  ‘That’s the stuff, Sister,’ said the Monsignor approvingly. ‘Needs a firm hand, this one. She’s been completely spoiled at home, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Didn’t stop her from making a disgrace of herself, though, did it?’ Sister Helga said. ‘Didn’t stop her from fornicating and getting herself into this state in the first place. Now you just listen to me, Violet Hardcastle. You’re here for one purpose and one purpose only. You will work like you’ve never worked before in your life, and through hard work, you will purge your sins before God. Outside of these four walls, you may be daddy’s little princess, but here you will be known as Mary, after Mary Magdalene, as a daily reminder of the filthy sinner that you are. Do you understand?’