by Lj McEvoy
Gemini
Rain
By
Lj McEvoy
For Noel, Sarah & Kieran
First published in Ireland by Lj McEvoy
Copyright Lj McEvoy, 2012
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
All rights reserved.
The right of Lj McEvoy to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Berne Convention.
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Prologue
Gabrielle sat her plump frame down in one of the matching chairs placed each side of the stone-clad fireplace. With her chubby hands tightly clasped together, her small eyes darted around the kitchen as she began muttering, ‘what else can I do? Normally I have plenty to do why not today of all days. Shall I bake a tart for later?’
When first meeting Gabrielle, you just know to close your eyes and she’s your typical grandmother figure, a woman who loves family around her like a wonderful hobby, keeping her as busy as she was in her younger years. Easy-going and sociable, her average height and generous frame oozes every hint of her go along get along character, harmony and impartiality were two of Gabrielle’s top preferences in her life. But at the moment her short dark hair mish-meshed with silvery grey is an exact match for her mixed temperament of today.
Disappointingly for Gabrielle her own family is not here today - in Aix-en-Espérance, their small home village just outside of Marseille. Her three sons and their respective partners like most adults in today’s world are working. The grandchildren are up in Paris with their parents but of course just like any child in school Gabrielle possessed the impatient habit of counting the remaining days until the summer holidays, ticking off each day on the calendar her two grandchildren made for her last Christmas.
‘What’s happening, why has he not telephoned us yet?’ her normally laid back character was now losing its patience along with control over her other emotions as she patted her forehead with the ends of her apron.
‘Hush now, everything will be fine, just wait and see.’
‘Huh,’ her eyes squinting in annoyance as they turned towards the voice.
Jean-Pierre chuckled as he made some more coffee for his wife, her fourth this morning. Why does she always get her herself so uptight on occasions like this, daily she lets the normal grindings of life flow past her accepting everything with a smile and a bounce. But when this sort of thing happens she’s as taut as a string holding a kite on a windy day, just when you hope she’ll be the calming centre of the family. ‘We could go for a walk if you wish,’ he suggested.
Her head snapped up, small eyes suddenly becoming saucers, ‘What! And if he phones?’
‘We have a cell phone.’
‘Oh yes, well…’ looking down to her twiddling thumbs, ‘maybe after our coffee.’
Sighing as he handed the cup to her, she forced a sarcastic grin towards him as he eased himself into the in the chair opposite. Silence. The clinking of cup returning to saucer was the only disturbance. Five minutes passed seemingly forced by as Gabrielle constantly checked the clock on the kitchen dresser - willing it to move faster. Jean-Pierre chortled as he lit his pipe, making his wife’s head bend sideways toward him, requesting an explanation.
‘Do you remember the time she threw him out because he got too detailed when telling her some of his accomplishments for his biography?’
Gabrielle giggled, ‘well she did want details on his acting achievements not those with the opposite sex. And do you remember the time she threw him out for not clearing up after dinner?’
‘It’s not a man’s place to wash up the dishes!’ Jean-Pierre retorted.
‘All he had to do was place them in the dishwasher,’ Gabrielle replied softly, ‘by the way I’m finished my coffee,’ offering the cup and saucer to him which he automatically took, walked to the kitchen sink and washed them. Wiping his hands he turned to her, his mouth open as if to say something but realisation dawned on him as he noticed a mischievous grin on his wife’s face, her eyebrows were arched in a knowing look. He laughed rubbing his chin, ‘well maybe sometimes we oblige you women.’
‘Ohh, why won’t they call!’ She glared at the door leading to the hallway where house telephone was based using all her thoughts towards that phone, begging it to ring. Jean-Pierre leaned slightly over the kitchen sink to look out the window just as the phone sounded, it was like an alarm bell, louder than usual. He turned sharply, Gabrielle jumped in fright and they both looked at each other, who was going to answer?
‘You answer it,’ Gabrielle said but then as soon as she said the words she changed her mind. They both dashed towards the hallway but Jean-Pierre got to the phone first.
‘Hallo,’ he tried to sound steady, ‘Ah, David,’ he had his back to her, straight, confident, ‘Oh, Mon Dieu!’ he sounded shocked.
‘Oh, Mon Dieu!’ she repeated after him, her hands clasping tightly together….
Chapter I
In Dublin 18 June 1972 a rare crisp summer morning lifted 30 year old Gerard Maguire’s spirits even higher as he drove towards Holles Street National Maternity hospital. After the complications of the last pregnancy with the loss of one of their twins this time the couple opted to have a hospital birth.
Speeding his car across the river Liffey which runs through the centre of Dublin city, the smell of its seawater was beginning to rise with the temperature of the day, the sun glistening on its green surface gave the quays that picture postcard effect. Gerard glanced out to Dublin Bay and could see rain clouds beginning to form, a typical Irish summer’s day – sunshine, moderate temperatures with sprinkles of rain here and there.
‘It’s a girl, I just know its going to be a girl,’ he stated excitingly to his wife Patricia; she was in the middle of another contraction, her normally soft olive-skinned face flushed and creased with pain, both hands grasping the dashboard. A loving concern rushed through him as he watch her, even after five years of marriage he still needed to shake himself into believing that this beautiful dark haired woman sitting beside him is his wife, his wife. He remembered as if it was yesterday the night his mates first met Patricia, all night they stared at him gobsmacked unable to comprehend how freckle-faced, chubby Gerard could get such a catch.
With Gerard being an optimist nothing ever got him down, with a sharp look and gruff comment he quickly dismissed the constant rumours and whispers that she was after his money and business. Everybody automatically assumed Gerard was rich since he started working in his father’s logistics business, all his father’s brothers had their own businesses (it was like an internal family competition – which sibling had the most successful company) but only those in similar circumstances were familiar with the hard living, stress and long hours of keeping your own company afloat, of supporting the wage of other families, the risk of losing everything running around the back of your head.
His loyalty and love for Patricia was unbending, feeling they were a perfect match as he chose to ignore the snubs of his relatives who thought he married below their high expectations – this was a family on the move, connections everywhere and networking was the name of the game when it came to successful business. With their obvious differences – Gerard’s enthusiasm and sometimes fickleness and of course his life-long experience of his father’s transport trade and Patricia’s serious planning and endurance, their blend meant they benefited a lot from each other both as husband and wife and in the business they both worked and thrived to succeed.
‘Christ, I hope it is Ger, ‘cause I’m not going
through this again. Three is enough, if it’s another boy you can forget about trying again,’ Patricia edged out those words in her old soft Carlow accent oblivious that her well-practised marbled Dublin tone had slipped, then just as suddenly as it started the contraction eased into memory preparing itself for the next onslaught. On hearing a relieved sigh from his wife he released one in sympathy wishing he could take some of the pain for her.
Quickly side-glancing each other they burst out laughing remembering the promise they made when they first agreed to get married - their business plans, their hopes and dreams for the future and much to Patricia’s relief, that a small family was perfect for them.
Of course, friends and family considered them odd because they put the small distribution and transport business first and Patricia as the wife got the blame in the whispers for being unable to conceive - nobody in those days considered it may be the fault of the man. But Gerard and Patricia stuck to their guns waiting at least two years before considering the idea of starting what Patricia often stated to her close friends was, ‘the ordeal of having babies.’ She never noticed or maybe chose to ignore their winces or forced I’m in agreement with you smiles, behind her back they would pitifully shake their heads in agreement with each other, ‘tisn’t she putting on a brave front.’
In the Ireland of the seventies and way before freely available contraception, the young and hopeful got married, then nine or ten months later the first child usually arrived or sometimes earlier, premature was the usual excuse for what the whispers would refer to was that little slip. And with contraception being a voodoo word forbidden by law and church, it wasn’t unusual for the pitter-patter of more than two tiny feet to quickly follow in the footsteps of the first pair and then another pair and another.
But Gerard and Patricia were different and their ideas never waned, no large family for them they wanted nothing but the best for them and independence for their children.
‘A successful life and business leads to happiness within the family,’ Patricia loved to repeat that phrase to anybody who would listen. Although a small woman, her self-centred and intense persona often gave her height when dealing with troublesome employees and even some clients often left a meeting with her feeling ice-cold slithers across the back of their neck and shoulders.
Immensely proud with how she dealt with her personnel Patricia was demanding of others, but in a vain attempt to gain their confidence she often informed them that she would never ask employees to do something she wouldn’t do herself. Gerard laughingly asked her one time what would she do if one of the drivers turned around handed her the keys and said, ‘okay Mrs go on ahead then,’ her meek response that she couldn’t drive a truck only made him laugh more.
Originally the idea was to just have two children but when the twin girl died in the second pregnancy, Gerard persistently tried to persuade Patricia to try once more.
‘A baby girl, now wouldn’t that be perfect,’ he would often softly repeat to her after they made love, he wanted so much to have a little girl to spoil rotten. At family gatherings he would look on enviously at his younger brother’s three little girls dressed up in their pretty dresses with matching bows in their long golden hair, Patricia would often nudge him laughing with him at his foolishness. But then he would stop laughing and look forlornly at his three little nieces - it was just a small bit of emptiness in what was his perfect world.
At first Patricia was hesitant, extremely stubborn (to put it mildly) about the idea of having another child until he offered to get a full-time nanny so she could be free to work in the office on a full-time basis, Gerard occasionally knew ways of getting round his wife. Jumping at the chance she couldn’t stand only working part-time and what she considered, being stuck in the house with the two boys under her feet.
‘She’s a rare wan indeed,’ Gerard’s father would often reiterate when she complained of her inability to work full-time.
Seven hours later, a 71/2lb baby girl was born. ‘Lauren, that’s what we’ll call her she’s perfect, like a beautiful flower,’ Gerard stated as he looked at the little red faced bundle in the nurse’s arms, proud of the fact he was allowed to choose the name if it was a girl. A satisfying grin was fixed on his pale, freckled face he couldn’t wait to get to The Greyhound pub to tell his father and friends.
‘Did you know Lauren originally comes from the Latin for Laurel,’ he looked up unable to drop the smile from his face, ‘a symbol of victory.’ Almost forgetting to ask about Patricia the simple question dawned on him so he shouted back to the bemused nurse as he dashed towards the door, ‘How’s my woman?’
‘She’s grand! Having a cup of tea, will ye be back later to see her?’ she enquired.
‘But of course,’ responding as he swung open the door.
‘Good, I’ll tell her to expect a big bunch of flowers this evening,’ the nurse knew exactly where he was rushing to. Men, she thought, the wife goes through all the pain of delivering a child to the world and the husband rushes off to the pub to recover from the waiting - Victory indeed.
As Gerard was walking through the maternity hospital’s reception he noticed an old school friend and childhood neighbour. ‘Paul? Paul Morris!’ Gerard couldn’t withhold his earlier excitement and called the name out loud.
Paul was aiding his wife into a wheelchair and looked up towards the excited voice, ‘Good Lord, Gerard what are you doing here?’ he smiled, ‘It’s not visiting hours just yet.’
‘Number three,’ Gerard stated proudly, ‘and it’s a girl at last.’
‘Ah Congrats, number two,’ Paul pointed towards his young wife.
‘And we hope a Paul junior,’ added his wife.
The three laughed together and caught up on a few old memories as the porter waited patiently tapping the handles of the wheelchair.
‘Meet you in The Greyhound later perhaps?’ Gerard enquired.
‘I’ll most certainly try but,’ Paul turned to his wife, ‘but I think that depends on Paul Junior, don’t you dear?’
‘We’ll see.’ Mrs Morris struggled with the reply as she felt another contraction beginning, ‘I hope you have an umbrella Gerard, it’s teeming rain out there. Ohh Dear I think we better move on.’
‘Missus, we’ll be having de baby down here if we don’t get you up to de labour ward,’ the porter started to move the wheelchair forward, ‘and den de midwife will have me hung, drawn and quartered.’
The old friends quickly shook hands and promised to keep in touch, a promise they would not keep until many years later.
**********
In Aix-en-Espérance, a small village just outside of Marseille and on the same day Jean-Pierre Corvasieur sat at his large dining room table smoking his pipe. On hearing another cry from the bedroom, it was louder and longer than the previous ones, he became slightly uncomfortable and pondered about taking his only son at the time, Joel, for a small walk in the forest close by. It’s a beautiful blustery day with only a slight drizzle releasing the soft smell of the Mediterranean Sea, with the wind sweeping the rich aroma up to the small mountain village, just perfect for a gentle walk and a bit of summer rain never hurt anyone he felt.
With the warmth of early summer sunshine fighting from behind the rain clouds lighting up the room he began thinking about an extension to the small farmhouse, maybe paying a visit to Monsieur Rigagneau the local builder to discuss the matter later this evening or tomorrow. Of course I could do much of the work myself, he thinks proudly, but Monsieur Rigagneau would give him a good price for the materials, a deal could be settled over some bread, cheese and perhaps a drop of wine. ‘My family is growing if I can afford it I’ll build two extra rooms’, always a careful planner he could always achieve results with the minimum of effort and expense.
Originally the farmhouse started as a split-level four-roomed house Gabrielle’s parents built. And now after four years of marriage Jean-Pierre felt the need to extend - developing more on the house and the cheese f
arm, a lot of serious consideration needs to go into joining the new growth of fruitieres who were forming co-operatives throughout the country.
‘But my Gabrielle deserves more’, it was wrong that the purse strings needed to be tightened sometimes. Individually producing his own cheese as a Fermeir and just supplying the local markets was proving to be an unstable source of income for Jean-Pierre’s growing family. Feeling his thick dark eyebrows arch into a frown he quickly dismissed the thought, the time for serious contemplation was not now this is the time for family, number one in his life. His thoughts return to Gabrielle, how he wished that he could be there with her, to help her through this pain but Jean-Pierre knew it wasn’t acceptable and settled to take care of his son Joel.
He sat back in his chair, thinking about how he loved his own and his wife’s similarities, having a natural tendency to enjoy the same things even though they have different ideas on how they like them. Gabrielle is so beautiful, he smiled with that thought, with her soft Mediterranean skin and colouring, lightheartedly enchanting while he was dark and serious and of temperamental Spanish parentage.
‘You’re mood is beginning to form a permanent frown on your face,’ Gabrielle would joke with him tossing his thick wavy hair. And he was always certain of the knowledge that although Gabrielle thrives on the companionship of others he was the one she always returned to, sharing her life and bed with him.
‘You are my life, my soul-mate and my security and that is why I cherish and love you,’ it’s something she often whispered to him softly he smiled with that memory.
Watching three year old Joel, he chuckled at the anxious, shocked expression on the poor child’s face, it’s something Jean-Pierre now expected and probably exhibited the same face when he first heard those cries from Gabrielle when she gave birth to Joel.
