Family Affairs

by Pamela G Hobbs

  The stone walls on either side were lichen-covered and bushes of wild fuchsia were scattered around. The gateway to the lodge came into view around a bend in the lane and Frankie slowed even more as she crawled over the cattle grid at the open wrought-iron gates by tall granite pillars. The house was about a hundred and fifty years old, originally a hunting lodge for some fancy Lord so-and-so in Galway fifty miles away. It sat on about three acres and the back garden swept down to the rocky coastline and tiny man-made harbour.

  In many ways it was like a miniature replica of the Fitzgerald house in Dalkey and, indeed, maybe that was why they bought it. Of course it was a lot smaller but it, too, had a certain quality about it that felt very homely and welcoming. A two-storey dwelling, with steps leading up to the front door on the first floor and the ground or basement about halfway below ground level, it had bay windows both front and back. French doors from the back drawing room opened onto wide steps leading down to a patio and enviable views towards the Atlantic Ocean.

  From the front windows the Bens rose majestically in the background and were a great weather indicator, according to the professor. If you could see them clearly, he said, it was going to rain, and if you couldn’t, it was already raining! The first time Frankie heard this, aged about ten and a half, she fell about with a fit of the giggles and thought it was the cleverest thing she’d ever heard. Over the years the truth of this statement was verified a million times, but when the west of Ireland got a “real” summer’s day it was so truly spectacular, with air so clear and fresh it was like living in Alpine conditions without the snow or the altitude.

  Frankie parked the car and, grabbing a couple of her bags, walked around the side of the house to the kitchen entrance, which was down a few steps. The key was always in the same place, underneath a terracotta pot of geraniums, next to the door, and sure enough, there it was. Frankie let herself into the large country kitchen complete with scrubbed refectory table, huge cooking range and walk-in pantry.

  The house was always well aired as the central heating, a relatively new addition, worked on a timer even when the house was vacant. Peggy Boyle, from the town, was kept on retainer to make sure all was shipshape as regards cleaning and dusting, and all the usual chores. Jo always insisted it was worth the money as it kept the damp from becoming a resident guest.

  Frankie had to make several trips back and forth between the kitchen and the car before she’d unloaded everything. Considering she was expecting to be in situ at least a month, she didn’t think she was doing too badly.

  When the fresh goods were put away in the cupboards and fridge, which had been bare except for what appeared to be some out-of-date yoghurt and several bottles of local craft beer, she began to transport her bags upstairs. All the rooms, except the master bedroom, had at least one double bed and either a set of bunks, or a single and a foldaway. There used to be such bickering over who got which bed when they were teenagers. Frankie remembered choosing her favourite, a bright, airy corner room with two windows – one overlooking the sea and the other, if you hung out as far as you dared, gave a glimpse of the mountains. She dropped her bags and went straight over to fling open the shutters and throw up the sash windows as high as she could.

  The early evening light streamed in, picking out the dust speckles as they danced in the weak sunrays. She flopped down on the unmade bed and closed her eyes. She knew that when she opened them and turned her head, just slightly, she’d see the faded rose-patterned wallpaper and the old cherry wood dressing table. It was here that she, Molly, Alice and sometimes Caro, if she wasn’t feeling too grown-up, used to try on make-up in front of the mottled glass. God, the hours they used to spend in here, whiling away grey days and long evenings with young girl dreams and wishes. A lifetime away.

  Frankie roused herself and ultra-organised creature that she was, began unpacking, folding and hanging as she went. She picked up her toiletries and headed out into the hall towards the large bathroom. Only the master bedroom had an en suite in this house, but there was a separate toilet downstairs with another new addition of a shower unit. The upstairs bathroom had a huge claw-foot bath on a wooden floor covered with rag rugs and a shower was attached to the wall above the bath. A patterned fabric shower curtain, with a plastic insert, was pulled back by a rope tie and it used to be a favourite with the girls to close the curtain around themselves for privacy while soaking in the tub.

  The sun-yellow walls and white painted wood trim gave the room a fresh, bright look and even though there’d been half-hearted debates to change the colour scheme, sun yellow always won out. Half burnt-out candles were dotted around on every surface and a large cupboard with louvre doors housed a multitude of towels.

  She selected a few for herself and then headed to the huge hope chest on the landing. All the bed linen was washed, dried and stored here before leaving from a visit so no one would ever arrive to face laundry duty at the dead of night or have to sleep on a bare mattress with only a blanket for cover. The duvets for the bedrooms were slung over each iron or wooden bed end in the vain hope that they’d get an airing between occupants.

  Armed with soft cotton sheets and covers, Frankie returned to the rose room, as she always called it, and began making the bed. Normally these chores were done for her in her New York or LA apartments by her staff, so she got a kick out of doing this simple task in her own time. There was no deadline, no telephone calls to be returned and no appointments to disrupt her evening.

  And no emails to read.

  Bliss! she thought to herself. I’ll just text Jo to let her know I’m safe and sound, and then I’m turning that baby off! Not bothering to change from her comfy jeans and cream cotton sweater, she practically skipped downstairs to re-explore the lovely old house and gardens.

  Putting the kettle on the minute one arrived at the lodge was a time-honoured tradition that Frankie decided to forgo this once. Remembering the beer in the fridge, she snatched one, popped the top and headed out of the back door and up onto the patio, where the sun was still shining. Moving swiftly, she walked over the patchwork of slabs, up the few steps to a gravel path that meandered through the lawns and eventually to the back gate that protected them as children from the rocky coastline beyond. Taking a cool drink from the long-necked brown bottle, Frankie sighed in pure and utter contentment. She let her eyes swivel along the coastline and drank in the view. The tide was out and the shoreline showed off the rich seaweed and rocks and . . .

  What the hell? Eyes narrowed, she made out the unmistakable form of a person draped across one of the larger rocks very close to the water. Trespassers! Without stopping to think, Frankie began moving as quietly as possible over the slippery surfaces towards the body with the intention of giving him a piece of her mind. You can take the girl from New York but you can’t take New York from the girl, she fumed. Unafraid and bracing for a fight, Frankie edged forwards.

  Devlin Fitzgerald allowed himself a congratulatory grunt as he lowered the camera. Elbowing up from the rock, he groaned at the stiffness in his limbs and the stinging of the scrapes along his belly where his shirt had ridden up when he’d wriggled for a better position. Below him on the waterline the object of his previously rapt attention now dived gracefully into the water and disappeared from sight.

  “Thank you, my darlin’ – you’re a real beauty,” he called after her, turning to gather his gear stacked in waterproof bags beside him.

  And he yelped in fright.

  “Jesus! You scared the living shit out of me!” Clutching his chest, he raised his other hand over his eyes to block out the low evening sun and decipher the silhouette standing on a rock, hands on hips, before him. “Who the hell are you?” Without allowing the person to respond, he took a threatening step forwards. “You’re trespassing on private property and if . . .”

  He broke off as his heart, having slowed from the initial fright, kicked up a gear and began racing again as he realised who was glaring down at him.

&n
bsp; “Mother of God! Would you look what the cat dragged in! What the fuck are you doing here and,” he drawled, his tone deliberately sarcastic, “has the same cat that dragged you in got your tongue?”

  Dumbstruck, Frankie could only stare. Devlin, the person who, for years, was her closest confidant, for years after that her biggest fan and who for the last couple of years she’d barely seen, was standing before her in all his glory. The person who’d practically run from her not two weeks ago and hadn’t even bothered to call since, the brat. She was so calling him on that one!

  A shade under six feet in his bare feet, he was compact in build. Skinny as a youngster, he’d developed muscle over the last decade but not an ounce of fat. His hair, the trademark Fitzgerald chestnut brown, fell untidily in waves about his head. Too long, really, for a grown man, but lustrous and shiny for all that. The sparking blue eyes were crinkled against the sun and the grin that split his face now that the shock had left showed a flash of even white teeth.

  “Dev! You bastard! You frightened the daylights out of me! What are you doing here? Your mom said you were off on an assignment somewhere foreign. When did you get back?”

  Gathering his wits about him, Dev hauled himself up on the rock beside Frankie and enveloped her in a big hug. He needed to do this. To get it over with. To make up for his unbelievably pathetic behaviour before when he’d been at shock seeing her. Briefly, eyes closed, he held her tightly and then, releasing her, jumped back down to collect his gear. Swinging the bag over his shoulder, he tucked the tripod under his arm and gestured her to move back towards the house.

  “I am on assignment. Down here; although since when Mum thought the west was foreign land is a new one on me. I’ve been here for several weeks and am trying to think when I actually last spoke to the aged Ps. Hmm . . .” He paused. “Could be a while, actually. I’ve been back and forth to the islands on different shoots and keep forgetting to charge my bloody laptop and so forget to check the emails.” His grin was sheepish. “Yeah. I have heard of mobiles,” he said as she waggled hers in front of him, “but I forget to charge that, too. Anyway, the whole point of being here is so that I avoid all contact with, well, everybody.”

  “But what if your mom or dad needed you, Dev? Don’t you think it’s pretty irresponsible of you to be so incommunicado?”

  “Christ! you’re as bossy and controlling as ever, Jones. Lighten up, will you? If I’m needed they only have to phone the post office and Mikey would be over to me like a shot and if that fails, Flynn would get one of his buds here on the force to swing by. Although I have to say, if I saw Seamus Goran peddle up to my door looking all official, I’d probably make myself pretty damn scarce!”

  He pushed open the garden gate with his hip and allowed her to pass before him into the secluded garden. Kicking it closed again with his heel, he reached over and snatched the beer from her hand.

  “If you’re going to scare me half to death you can at least share my beer with me.”

  Putting the bottle to his lips, he took a deep, thirsty swallow. Narrowing her eyes against the glare of the lowering sun, Frankie stood, arms folded, watching him.

  “You do realise that’s all you had in the fridge, don’t you? There was no food at all when I arrived. What have you been doing to keep yourself fed? And where’s your jeep?”

  He handed back the almost empty bottle, his hand steadier now than it had been, his heart finally slowing to a regular beat. “Why, Mummy, I’ve been fed by all the local ladies in turn! Everyone knows I’m here, so the invitations just keep arriving on my doorstep and sure, what’s a poor, helpless boy like myself to do? I can’t possibly disappoint them.” He smiled cheekily at her. “And my jeep’s in town ’cause I had one too many last night and walked back.”

  They arrived at the big back patio and Dev dropped his stuff down next to the old wooden table and then dropped into the Adirondack-style chair next to it.

  “Be a darling and grab a couple more of those beers from the kitchen, would you? I’m beat. Been up and at it since sunrise and think I forgot to eat lunch.”

  Frankie opened the back door and did as she was bid. Taking a moment to herself while she located some napkins and peanuts, she wondered what on earth was going to happen next. She and Dev had always got on but mostly in a slag-the-pants-off-each-other kind of way. He’d teased and taunted her when young but stood up for her too, even against his siblings. He’d been merciless to her in her teenage years, always taking the piss about her looks and ambitions. However, it was he who sent a small bouquet of wild daises to her dressing room before every opening night, or to her hotel before a premiere, no matter where her show was and no matter where in the world he was. Always a bunch of daisies. Never a note, but she knew they were from him.

  Years earlier, after her very first show in college in Dublin, before she’d transferred to New York, she’d sat beside him outside in the dark at their Dalkey home overcome by the “smell of the grease paint, the roar of the crowd” and a little overawed by it all. She was clutching a bundle of very exotic flowers that had been delivered from various admirers after the last curtain call. She’d put her nose to them and sniffed deeply.

  “These are really lovely. But you know, Dev, I’d have been just as happy with a bunch of daisies. The simplicity of them would say well done and thank you just as much as all this. I’m not in it for the fame.” He’d snorted at that. “It’s just what I need to do. You know? Like you with that damn camera of yours.”

  And he did know. He did get it. Because he’d followed his dream, too. He needed to look down a camera lens and capture things in a very particular way. A unique way.

  And so the daisies had appeared, before curtain up at every first night. Or the premiere of each of her films. They never spoke of it, but she always felt as if they were a good luck charm.

  Frankie paused at the open door and, looking up the few steps to the patio, watched as Dev tilted his head, eyes closed, towards the evening rays in the pinkening sky, his jean-clad long legs propped up on the table, one scruffy-booted foot atop the other. She was about to call to him, when a horrible prickling sensation skittered down her back.

  With horrid clarity she recalled that on that opening night, the night Stephen was killed, there’d been a distinct absence of daisies. Had she remembered that at the time? Had it struck her as odd? Had she wondered about them, why they weren’t delivered? No, no and no. Why couldn’t she remember her thoughts from that night? What the hell was wrong with her and if that didn’t prove her theory of their luck, what did?

  With the beers clutched tightly in her hands, she rested her brow against the doorpost. Her breathing had quickened, her heart rate rapid. Oh shit. Not now. Another bloody panic attack. Breathe. Breathe, goddamn it!

  Sensing something, an odd sound perhaps, Dev swivelled from his prone position to yell for Frankie to hurry. Instead, within seconds he was by her side, grabbing the beers with one hand and dragging her over to the lawn chair with the other. The bottles dumped unceremoniously aside, he sat her down and shoved her head between her knees, all the time speaking calmly, slowly, evenly.

  “There you go, nice and easy now. Long, slow breaths, in and out, nice and slow, gently does it, that’s the way. Nice and easy, long and slow.” Without realising, he was breathing with her, making her mark time with him, and when she raised her head, her face drained of colour, he simply focused on her eyes and continued to talk her through it.

  “There you go, baby, everything’s okay now. You’re fine. Keep breathing. Look at me. Watch me. Nice and slow. Good girl.” He eased her gently back into the chair and whether it was correct procedure or not, he handed her the cold beer and nudged it to her lips.

  “Here, get a shot of this into you and just chill for me, okay? I’ll be right back.” At her look of panic, he rested a hand briefly on her shoulder. “I promise. I’ll just be a minute.”

  Dev strode into the kitchen, down the hall and into the den. Closing the
door behind him, he leaned against it and did some deep breathing of his own. Jesus. Christ Jesus. He grabbed the phone from the desk and punched in his parents’ number before realising he’d unplugged it several weeks before. Now hunting for the line, he cursed his own bloody-mindedness in his search for solitude.

  Crawling under the desk, he found the end and, cracking his head on the way up, let out another string of curses. He connected the phone and dialled again. Jo Fitzgerald answered with her questioning “Hello?” on the third ring.

  “Mum, what the hell’s the matter with her? She looks like shite and practically fainted in the kitchen doorway a few moments ago. Is she sick or what? Tell me!”

  “Hello, Devlin, lovely to hear from you, too. Yes, I’m well, thank you, as is your father.”

  “Mum!”

  “Okay, love. Sorry. I know you’re shocked. I was going to try contacting you a bit later anyway to alert you to Frankie coming down, but I gather from her text earlier that she’s already there. No, Dev. She’s not sick, at least not medically. She’s been getting panic attacks, I believe they’re called, and just needs time, space and calm. You know what she’s been through, or a bit of it, anyway. Take some time with her and see if you can bring some life back into her, there’s a pet.”

  “A heads-up would’ve been nice. And I really don’t think I’m the one to be cheering her up, Mum. I’m not exactly a laugh a minute myself, as you know. I’m dealing with my own shit here.”

  “Devlin!”

  “Okay, sorry. Sorry. She just freaked me out, pale as a ghost and kind of gaspy. Look, I’ve got to get back to her – I’ll call you later.” Dev replaced the receiver with a bang and, grabbing a blanket from the seat of an armchair, hurried back outside.

  Frankie wrapped herself in the soft, old plaid throw and sipped the brandy Dev had unearthed from God knows where. She watched him as he swirled his own in the short glass, the thick lashes from his downcast eyes casting a deep shadow on his cheekbones. He looked exhausted, now that she really studied him, weary in a battle-shocked kind of way. Hmm, that was interesting enough to get her mind off herself and focus on something else.