Family
Affairs
Pamela G. Hobbs
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, businesses, organisations and incidents portrayed in it are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published 2019
by Poolbeg Press Ltd.
123 Grange Hill, Baldoyle,
Dublin 13, Ireland
Email: [email protected]
© PAMELA G. HOBBS 2019
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
© Poolbeg Press Ltd, 2019, copyright for editing, typesetting, layout, design, ebook
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978178199-329-3
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
www.poolbeg.com
Acknowledgements
With sincere and heartfelt thanks to the three men in my life: Johnny, Matthew and Redmond – their continual support and encouragement, whether verbally or caffeine related, ensured I kept typing away, no matter what.
Thanks to my ‘girls’, best friends a woman could have and a constant source of stability and love in my life since childhood.
And to my own siblings and our various family affairs – you are all bonkers – thank goodness!
For Mum
(1920–1987)
Chapter 1
Damn. Frankie gripped the leather wheel and steered her rental car in the general direction of . . . south. Her shoulders were hunched and on a sigh she realised she was leaning forwards at a stupid 45-degree angle like a novice. Contrary to what an onlooker might believe, Francesca Jones liked driving. She was a fairly decent driver.
Well, most of the time.
Except when it was, in many ways, all so bloody new to her. In her defence, it was the first time she’d driven on Irish roads and, indeed, on the left-hand side of any road, so she reluctantly accepted her limitations.
And her anxiety levels were ridiculously high – not to mention the tight ball of nerves lodged in her stomach.
But, Christ, there were some fecking idiots out there – funny, that, how she naturally reverted to using mostly forgotten Irishisms the very first hour she was back in the country.
Bloody M50.
How is a person supposed to know where to exit the motorway when they’ve never actually driven on the damn thing? Who takes note of exits and boring directions when one has only been a passenger before? Keep going south, she’d been told.
Well, she was going south, and in more ways than one. With another sigh she forced her grip to loosen on the wheel and leaned back in the seat on a few deep breaths. She could do this.
Frankie knew there was a hospital near her exit but couldn’t remember the name. Evil thoughts about Irish road planning flew around in her head, but she managed to manoeuvre the rental car onto what she hoped was the right exit. At last, a recognisable landmark. She saw the obelisk on top of Killiney Hill in the distance and knew that she was in the approximate vicinity of her destination, the road that joins Dalkey village to Coliemore Harbour.
After a few more miles of twists and turns and further curses and insults about the directional changes she was witnessing first hand, Vico Road was before her. The car’s GPS was there in front of her, telling her loud and clear where to go, but Frankie had wanted to test her mettle on this first road trip “home”. Overreaching control freak, she admonished herself, when will you ever learn?
But oh, now, this view hadn’t changed – at least not out to sea and towards the island. Pulling the car into idle at the side of the road, she paused and simply sat for a few moments to drink in what was locally known as the “Irish Riviera”. No point putting off the inevitable though, and signalling to the coming traffic, she moved on.
***
The house looked the same. The trees and shrubs had grown, the wisteria around the doorway and windows on both floors had expanded somewhat, but the feeling was the same. Thank God. Frankie eased the BMW to a stop on the gravel driveway and sighed deeply. Thank God. Maybe some things didn’t change. Yeah, and maybe pigs might fly.
Jo’s car was parked in its usual spot – Frankie smiled as she looked at the old MG. Tomato red convertible and at least thirty years old, there it was, Jo’s statement that she would always retain her individuality. Naturally because of the size of her brood she also used to drive a minivan, but as they were all now grown up with their own transport, Frankie suspected that the van might have been traded in for a new paint job on the MG.
While Frankie was retrieving her bags from the boot, the front door opened and she looked up to see a woman emerging, a puzzled expression on her face. She was small and light-haired, somewhere in her early sixties, with a fresh complexion, despite some visible lines. Her pistachio-coloured linen pants, pink Crocs and loose white shirt layered over a bright pink T-shirt should have looked odd on someone her age but somehow didn’t.
Frankie edged sideways to stand directly in full view of the woman she loved as much as she’d ever loved anyone. Her heart thudding, she held her breath in an agony of doubt. Should she have called first? The question raced through her mind as the older woman put her hand to her mouth in shock and they gaped at each other in silence for a few seconds.
Frankie slowly lowered her bags to the ground and waited. It must be Jo who made the first move. It would be Jo who decided the next phase of Frankie’s life by her reaction. A slight breeze ruffled Frankie’s hair. The movement startled Jo from her trance and she blinked rather rapidly.
“Francesca Mary,” she began, her voice slightly husky, “what on earth took you so long to come home?” She held her arms wide and without even being aware of moving, Frankie found herself enveloped in a tight hug.
“Come in, darling, you must be exhausted. Did you just arrive in Dublin today? Why didn’t you let us know you were coming? Goodness, I’ve so many questions – but let’s get you settled first. We’ll bring in your gear and get the kettle on.”
Without drawing breath, Jo swung into action and, as usual, took charge. The cases were dispatched upstairs to her bedroom and Frankie was sent to refresh herself as, true to her word, Jo switched on the kettle and laid out some brown soda bread, butter and home-made marmalade.
Before long, Frankie was sipping a cup of strong hot tea while eyeing the warm bread with sudden pangs of hunger. It had been a while since she’d eaten properly, couldn’t even remember the last time she’d actually sat down to relish a meal. Her stomach growled. Loudly. Jo chit-chatting about flights and times, delays and airports, allowed time for Frankie to eat some of the bread and work her way towards her second cup of tea.
Silence settled on the kitchen. Her stomach eased a bit but Frankie still gripped her cup tightly, her knuckles whitening against the delicate bone china.
“You’ll snap that cup to pieces if you don’t relax.” Jo gently covered Frankie’s hand with her own. “Frankie, love, whatever it is, whatever problems you’ve had, they can all wait. You don’t have to talk about it now. You don’t have to talk about it at all, in fact. Sorry to say, but you look like hel
l and have obviously not been getting much sleep.
“We know a bit of what has happened – we read the papers; we’re not so cut off from New York here, you know. Well, of course, Patrick doesn’t read those awful tabloids, but the girls keep him updated.” Jo smiled as she rattled on, mentioning her husband and daughters. “And I won’t pretend we aren’t – how shall I phrase it? – interested to know the whole story, but we can wait until you’re ready, love, and not a moment before.
“Now,” she said briskly, gathering up the remains of their snack and beginning to load the dishwasher, “you go take a nap and I’ll get the crew together for a nice welcome-home dinner. I’ll run to the shops while you snooze, so don’t worry if I’m not here when you wake.”
“Jo, please don’t go to any trouble . . .”
“Trouble? Of course I’m going to trouble, you silly girl! I’d be shot on sight if I didn’t let the gang know you’re here. And no one in my family comes home without the fatted calf being dragged out and suitably slaughtered! Well, of course not an actual calf, you understand. I believe Caro is on a vegetarian stint at the moment or no, I’m wrong, it might be Molly, as her new fella is pure vegan – anyway, lots of food will be the order of the evening in true Fitzgerald fashion! Off with you – I’ve calls to make and groceries to get.”
Jo hustled Frankie up the stairs and pushed her gently but firmly into her room. She closed the door and Frankie could hear her soft tread on the stairs as she headed back down to the kitchen and then a quiet one-sided conversation as Jo used her phone. Content to let things fall where they may, she slipped gratefully under the covers and closed her eyes.
Frankie slowly became aware of muffled sounds, but she felt so disorientated on waking that she had no idea what she was hearing. Breathe, she ordered herself, slow down and breathe. She’d had the dream again, the same damn panicky dream she’d been having for weeks now. Deep, long breaths later and slowly, her heart calmed and she opened her eyes.
The curtains were drawn but the early summer evening light filtered through to cast a soft glow in the room. Frankie loved this room. She loved the entire house, but this room had been a sanctuary from heartbreak many times in the past and, it seemed, was to be so again.
She’d been welcomed in this house for twenty years – twenty years of acceptance and love, security and consistency. Those had been qualities much needed by the ten-year-old tragically orphaned brat who’d been dumped on the Fitzgeralds’ doorstep that summer long ago. After years of trailing around the world with her wayward mother, the infamous film star Carolina Jones, or being left for months at a time in various boarding schools to wonder when or if her only parent would bother to collect her, she was abruptly packed off to Ireland to stay with her godmother, Jo.
The fact that her mother had just died violently in a much-publicised car crash, leaving Frankie in deep shock, excused some of her unacceptable and morose behaviour that summer. Used to getting her own way entirely, either through conniving, tantrums or blackmail, being a part of a family and all that entailed was an alien concept to the child.
And how she had fought.
The schools had assessed her truthfully: wilful, dramatic, attention-seeking and way too precocious for her own good. In reality, and with hindsight, even Frankie admitted she’d just been a lonely, heartbroken girl who badly needed to be corrected and loved in equal measure.
She threw back the duvet and wandered around the room, touching the familiar surfaces as memories flooded back. The following summer she’d returned to Ireland as cheeky and disruptive as ever. But this time Jo had known what to expect, and so had the other children. This time she was treated as simply another Fitzgerald, albeit one with a sizable fortune.
And that, pretty much, had been that.
Christmas and Easter holidays were spent in some exotic location with Enzo di Franco – a lifelong friend of Carolina’s and “stand-in” uncle for Frankie – and often an entourage of film stars, directors and producers. Immediately following her mother’s untimely death, the media had had a field day, with pictures of a forlorn Francesca plastered on every newspaper and snippets on the “entertainment news” on TV.
But the legal side was easy. Frankie continued in the private boarding school in Connecticut in the US during term time as it was deemed the most suitable for her personality. The Fitzgeralds’ home was to be considered hers also – as and when she needed. Jo and Patrick wanted to adopt Frankie officially, but the judge involved in the case ruled against it since her natural father was out there somewhere – just never been found.
And so life had settled into an odd but happy routine for Frankie over the following years. The Fitzgerald siblings became hers and she spent her summers with them. Every year she came back to this very bedroom, which Jo freed up especially for her. “The joys of having a large house,” was the only reason Jo gave when Frankie tentatively broached the subject of having her very own room.
It was a big house, situated overlooking the sea on the outskirts of the quaint village of Dalkey, several miles south of Dublin city. It had been built in the Georgian era, fronted with gracious windows, a roomy front entrance with obligatory fanlight above the dark green door, spacious hall with black-and-white tiles and grand stairway leading to two more floors. There was always a huge vase of flowers on the hall table, winter or summer, gathered from the extensive garden that was Jo’s pride and joy.
The large kitchen had all mod cons now but never lacked warmth. Because of the size of the Fitzgerald gang, the formal drawing room and dining rooms got just as much use as the kitchen and den, and the Waterford crystal and china sets got everyday use along with the designer pottery, handblown glass, supermarket tumblers and catalogue tableware. There was very little standing on ceremony in this household and everyone was expected to pitch in with preparation and clearing, though rarely without argument.
Hearing raised voices now, somewhere dimly in the house, recalled Frankie to the present. She dressed quickly in the soft jeans and once crisp white shirt she’d worn travelling and mussed her hair with her fingers. Too exhausted to take a shower, she added a dash of perfume, some strong lipstick and a sweep of mascara to her tired eyes, hoping it would cover a multitude. Squaring her shoulders, she opened the door and headed downstairs, her stomach in butterflies as if she were about to go on stage.
Silly girl, she told herself, these people care about you and good God, if you can’t act your way through this evening, you’re not the star the whole world thinks you are! With that in mind, she headed downstairs to greet the rest of her “family”.
Dinner wasn’t yet served and the noise level was already deafening. Frankie felt shell-shocked, her head whirling from all the activity surrounding her. How could I have forgotten this, she wondered, this madness, this crazy, insane carry-on? Yet, no one else seemed aware of the bizarre scene before her: Fitzgeralds of all sizes bustling about, chatting, arguing, bossing and bumping into each other as the table got laid. Final touches put to the meal, wine served, exclamations and squeals as bits of news or gossip were exchanged.
After the initial greetings of delight at seeing her again, Frankie was pretty much left to her own devices. Obviously all under Jo’s strict orders not to crowd her, she was, nevertheless, overwhelmed. Beginning to think that coming to Ireland was in fact a bad idea, as unobtrusively as possible she began her slow breathing exercises, trying to calm her racing pulse. Please don’t let me get another panic attack, not now, in front of this tough crowd.
Breathe, breathe, breathe . . .
“You okay?”
Flynn, the eldest Fitzgerald, spoke quietly beside her, offering her a glass of red wine with one hand while placing the other gently against her neck. “Wouldn’t you swear we hadn’t seen each other for years, with all this clatter? But not so. You’ll remember we all celebrated Toby’s thirteenth birthday just two weeks ago and as many as possible of us try to visit here at some point on a Sunday. Well, Moll still
lives here, of course, but the rest of us continue to treat it like a halting site.
“You remember Sundays in this madhouse, don’t you, Francesca? A huge pot of some concoction of Mum’s simmering all day, loads of fresh bread, sponge cakes and scones by the dozen, and Dad with a never-ending bottle of wine. Here we are, all grown-up and still trotting back to the parents to be fed once a week. Are we a sad and sorry bunch?”
Flynn’s soft voice continued to poke fun at his family as he recounted recent events while softly massaging her taut neck muscles. He told her their brother, Dev, was off on assignment somewhere doing his “arty” thing as Flynn, the elder, way more mature brother liked to call it. She took that piece of information in, acknowledging the missing of him, the gap felt in this lunatic household without Devlin – the gap felt in her.
Huh.
He’d been missing in her life for years now and she’d just assumed he’d be here so they could, she guessed, take up where they left off. Catch up. Reconnect. A faint niggle of a forgotten memory tugged at her . . . She brushed it aside, trying to focus on the “now”. Frankie’s breathing gradually returned to something resembling normality as she mentally leaned on the strong man beside her.
“Thanks, Flynn, please forgive me – I’m just not quite with it yet; it must be jet lag . . .”
“Shh, no explanations needed. This lunatic asylum will seem perfectly normal to you again within no time at all. Just relax and know we’re all here for you, if you need us. Okay?”
Frankie swallowed the sudden lump in her throat at his understanding and, nodding, sat down to a feast. Jo had outdone herself. Freshly poached salmon, new potatoes, green salad, feta with olives, tomato with dill, couscous, roasted red peppers and quiche filled the beautiful antique mahogany table. Fresh Italian bread, red and white wine, jugs of water and fancy containers of Flynn’s famous French dressing were dotted around, and the well-used folded blue-and-white cotton napkins at each setting made the set-up look just like it did in the old days.
Family Affairs Page 1
