by Tara Hyland
‘What’s there to talk about?’
Franny felt her hackles rise. ‘Well, it might at least be nice to hear a little about my father.’
Theresa rounded on her. ‘Your father? You want to know about your father? It broke his heart, you leaving like that. It killed him, sure as if you’d put a bullet between his eyes.’ Franny drew in a sharp breath, but her mother wasn’t finished. ‘Eight years and not a word from you, then when you want a favour, you get in touch. You’ve always been the same, haven’t you? A selfish so-and-so.’
Tears stung Franny’s eyes. ‘And you haven’t changed either, Mam,’ she said bitterly. ‘You’re still having a go at every chance you get.’
‘Someone needs to get through that thick head of yours.’
Mother and daughter glared at each other, as they had many times over the years.
It was Franny who looked away first. She was wasting her breath, she realised, with a pang of disappointment. There would be no bridges built here tonight.
‘It’s late and I need to get some rest,’ she said. ‘I’ll be gone early tomorrow, before you’re awake no doubt.’
She’d added that last part to make her mother understand that this was the last time they’d see each other for a while, hoping to prompt her into some kind of reconciliation. But all her mother said was, ‘Fine. Just make sure that brat of yours knows to behave herself once you’re gone.’
Franny bristled on behalf of her daughter. ‘Cara’s a good girl. She’ll give you no trouble.’
Theresa gave a crooked smile. ‘Then she’s less like you than I feared.’
Chapter Ten
For the first time that she could remember, Cara woke alone in bed the next morning. At first, she didn’t know where she was. Usually she awoke to the sounds of the busy East End streets. Then she remembered everything about the day before – the long journey and meeting her horrible grandmother, who seemed to hate her. Looking round, she saw that her mother’s belongings had gone. The girl suddenly panicked. She couldn’t stay here alone. Maybe if she hurried, she could catch her mother before she left . . .
Pulling on her clothes, Cara darted from the bedroom and downstairs, where she could hear the sounds of breakfast being prepared. But when she got to the kitchen, she found her grandmother there alone, setting the table. Hearing her, Theresa looked up. The two stared at each other for a moment: the old woman and the girl. Cara was too scared to ask where her mother was. But the old woman must have sensed what she was looking for, because she said, ‘She’s gone already.’
It was the curt tone of her voice that set Cara off. She felt hope leave her. She was stuck here now, with this horrible person, far away from the two people she cared about most in the world: her mother and Danny. She wasn’t even aware that the tears had started, until her grandmother tsked.
‘Stop snivelling, child, and eat your breakfast. All this fuss over a few weeks . . .’
Mindful of not showing her mother up, Cara did her best to stop crying. Taking one last large sniff, she dug her nails into the soft palm of her hand, and then sat down at the kitchen table. The floor was uneven, and the table wobbled a little, but Cara didn’t dare complain. A bowl was dropped in front of her, and Theresa began to spoon hot porridge into it.
Cara looked down in dismay. The one thing she hated most in the world was porridge, with its grey colour and slimy consistency. ‘Can I have bread and jam instead?’
‘Why?’
‘Because I don’t like porridge,’ Cara said in a small voice.
‘You’ll eat what’s put in front of you, or not at all.’
Her grandmother sat down at the table and started shovelling her own porridge into her mouth, signalling the end of the discussion.
Cara had been considering not eating as a protest at the woman’s harsh treatment, but she was so hungry that she reluctantly picked up her spoon and, scooping up a small bit of porridge, tried a little. She’d been bracing herself for the usual watery sludge, but to her surprise it tasted different: creamier than she remembered. She took another mouthful, bigger this time.
‘It’s good,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t usually taste like this.’
Her grandmother didn’t look up. ‘You’ve probably had it with water. This is made with milk. There’re plenty of cows round here, and no shortage of milk and cheese.’
‘I like it,’ Cara declared.
She wasn’t sure if it was her imagination, but Cara thought she saw her grandmother smile. It might have been a mistake, though, because a split second later it was gone. Instead, the old lady shoved a pot of honey across the table.
‘Stir some of this in if you like. It sweetens the taste.’
Cara did as she was told, and found that her grandmother was right: it did taste sweeter. ‘Thank you. It’s really lovely.’
But this time her enthusiasm was met with a grunt. Whatever had caused the brief lull in the atmosphere was over, and the rest of the meal passed in silence.
After breakfast was finished, Theresa gave Cara a tour of the cottage and its surroundings, explaining how she liked things done and what chores she expected Cara to complete. In the light of day, Cara could see how close they were to the cliff’s edge. There was a big Irish community near them in the East End, and she had heard people speak of what they called ‘the Old Country’ as somewhere with green fields and lush countryside, but there was something desolate and abandoned about this place.
The cottage was largely self-sufficient, Theresa explained.
‘I rarely go into town. Everything I need’s right here.’ She pointed out the vegetable garden, where she grew potatoes, leeks and cabbages, and showed a fascinated Cara how to dig carrots from the ground.
There was a goat tethered at the side of the house, and a chicken coop where they could collect eggs. She let Cara pick one up, and the girl looked on wide-eyed as she felt the warmth of the freshly laid egg in her palm.
If Theresa’s plan had been to distract Cara from brooding about her mother, then it had worked perfectly. With all the new experiences, she hadn’t had time to think about being left behind. But once they were finished with the tour, Theresa announced that she was going into the village.
‘I only go in once a week, for flour and the like, and to catch up on what’s going on in the outside world. I also go to the post office. That’s where your mother’s letters will come, and if there’s any messages for me, that’s where they’ll be.’
As no one was to know of Cara’s whereabouts, she would remain behind at the cottage.
‘It’s a shame to leave you here alone, it being your first day and all. But it’s my day to go in, and they’ll send someone out here for me if I don’t make an appearance. But don’t you worry – I’ll leave you some chores to do while I’m gone, to keep you out of mischief.’
Half an hour later, just before nine in the morning, the old woman set off for the village, and Cara started on the housework. She was to wash up the breakfast dishes, make the beds and tidy away, and then she was meant to fetch vegetables for the evening meal.
Cara worked hard all morning. By midday, she was starving. It was lunchtime, but her grandmother still wasn’t home, and she didn’t dare risk taking any food without being invited. An hour later, with all the chores finished inside the house, she went outside and stared to dig up the carrots for their supper that night. She did it the way that the old woman had showed her, but it was harder than it looked.
By two, she was almost faint with hunger, her back hurt, her fingers were red and sore with cold, and her grandmother still wasn’t home. Thinking a glass of water might help, Cara went through to the kitchen. She sat at the table to have her drink. Five minutes later, feeling a bit better, she decided to head outside again. But as she got back up, blood rushed from her head, the dizziness causing the glass to slip from her hand and smash on the floor. Looking down at the mess, she knew she ought to clear it up. But she felt so ill and tired. Maybe if she could
just lie down for a moment.
Stumbling through to the small sitting room, she lay down on the two-seater sofa. The wool material was scratchy and uncomfortable, but Cara was too tired to care. A blanket lay across the back of the couch, no doubt placed there to cover up the shabby appearance of the furniture. Now, she pulled it down on top of her. Curling up into a ball, she slept.
A rough hand shook Cara awake. For the second time that day, she woke confused and dazed. It took a few seconds for her eyes to focus, and then, seeing the furious face of her grandmother, she was suddenly wide awake.
‘You wicked, wicked child!’ Theresa thundered. ‘How dare you sleep, when you’ve hardly dug any vegetables and left the kitchen in such a state?’ Cara wanted to explain, but the old lady gave her no chance. ‘I was right about you, wasn’t I? You’re a lazy, selfish girl, just like your mother.’
That was too much for Cara. She might have been able to accept the attack on her own abilities, but she wouldn’t let Theresa get away with that dig at her mam.
‘How dare you say I’m lazy?’ she burst out. ‘You’re working me like a slave. I’m going to write to my mother and tell her everything you’ve done, then she’ll come and take me away from here, because she’s worth a hundred of you!’
But her grandmother simply shrugged. ‘Do what you want. I’m not stopping you.’
She walked out of the room. Cara stared after her, feeling lonely and trapped. Surely her mother would never have left her here if she’d known how bad it would be?
The next few days passed much the same as that one had. Any slight thawing in the old lady that Cara had seen on the first morning had passed. Even though she tried to behave herself – doing all her chores, saying Grace at mealtimes and prayers before bed – her grandmother seemed to have already made up her mind that she was not to be trusted.
At the end of the week, Cara wrote her mother a letter telling her just how bad everything was at the cottage. With her limited spelling and writing skills, it was a rudimentary attempt. But it managed to convey how she felt.
Once the letter was finished, she read it back. Then she tore it up and threw it in the bin. If her mother read how unhappy she was, she would simply worry. And, however miserable Cara might be, she didn’t want to add to her mam’s troubles. So instead, she wrote another letter, telling her mother all about the new things she’d been doing and seeing. When she looked back through it, she decided it sounded more like she was having a good time. Worried then that it might sound like she was having too much fun, she added a comment telling her mother how much she was missing her. Write to let me know when you’re coming back, she said in closing. I hope it’s soon!
With that, she sealed the letter, putting one of the stamps her mother had given her on the front. Then she handed it to the old lady to post.
‘I didn’t write anything bad about you,’ she felt obliged to say.
Her grandmother snorted. ‘I couldn’t care if you said I was the devil himself.’
As the elderly woman set off for the village, Cara could only cross her fingers and hope that she would keep her promise to send the letter off.
Chapter Eleven
Guilt gnawed at Franny all the way back to England. She’d left early, before Cara woke up, fearing that she would break down and change her mind if they said goodbye in person. Standing on the bow of the boat, the icy Irish Sea spraying up into her face, she thought seriously about turning back. But deep down Franny knew that she couldn’t bring herself to give up on her Hollywood dream. However hard it was to be apart from her daughter, this was the opportunity that she’d always longed for, to be a movie star, and she couldn’t just walk away from that. And it wasn’t as if she was being entirely selfish, she quickly assured herself; if she was successful, then she would be rich, and that money would mean that she would be able to change their lives for ever, allowing her to give Cara everything she’d ever wanted.
Franny had just one day in England before leaving for America, but it was a lonely twenty-four hours for her. She had moved out of Annie’s house, telling her friend that she was off back to Ireland. Franny had hated lying, but she wanted to keep her good fortune secret. People could be jealous, and she didn’t want anyone from her past to start coming forward with tales of her life as an unwed mother. By the time a movie came out with her in it, no doubt she would be forgotten in the East End. She was banking on the fact that if people weren’t expecting to see her face, then they probably wouldn’t twig that it was her.
It had been hard to say goodbye to Annie and her kids. Franny would be forever grateful to the woman who had helped her when she was so desperately in trouble, and the Connollys had been like family to her and Cara these past years. But there was no point dwelling on what had once been. Both women had felt their bond loosening over the past few months, and it would never be the same. A man had come between them, and Annie had made her choice to be with Liam. He had moved in the day that Franny and Cara had left.
Franny spent her last night in London at a grubby little bed and breakfast near Euston train station. The following day, as she left for London Airport, with all her worldly possessions contained in one small brown case, she resolved to work as hard as possible to make it to the top.
Franny’s first taste of Hollywood was every bit as glamorous as she’d imagined. She was booked on Pan Am’s D6 Clipper Liberty Bell, and while the tourist-class flight might not offer the same standard of luxury as the company’s Stratocruiser aeroplane, she found the whole experience mesmerising: from the roar of the engines on take-off, to the beautifully coiffed air stewardesses strolling up and down the aisles in their powder-blue uniforms. At Los Angeles airport, the glass and chrome building seemed the height of modernity to her. Stepping outside, she felt the warmth of the evening on her skin, saw the palm trees that lined the side-walk, and knew that she was as far from Ireland and the East End as she could ever hope to get.
After that, though, things started to go downhill. She hung around for a while, feeling increasingly hot in her wool twinset, until she finally realised that the studio hadn’t sent a car for her, so she had to get a cab instead. The driver was overly friendly, and when he heard that she had come out to try her luck at being a star, had insisted on taking her past the Hollywood sign. He took great pleasure in telling her that it was where failed starlet Peg Entwhistle committed suicide back in 1932.
‘Jumped off the H, would you believe?’ He shook his head, as though the incident defied any explanation. ‘Now, don’t you go doing anything stupid like that, will ya, dollface?’ In his rearview mirror, he winked at Franny. ‘Things don’t work out, a fox like you can always find some schmuck to take care of her.’
After that, he dropped her at the Sunset Lodge. It was only when he tried to charge her a small fortune that Franny noticed he hadn’t been running the meter the whole trip. She gave him what she could, and he went off happy. Franny knew she was being ripped off, but she couldn’t be bothered to argue: she was just relieved to have reached the hotel. Except it wasn’t a hotel – it was a rundown motel. Franny’s room contained a single bed with a lumpy mattress and sheets that seemed dusty and were stained with what looked like blood. Even with the window closed, she could hear the traffic on the three-lane freeway, which ran past the front of the building. Out back, there was a pool that had been drained months ago, the bottom now lined with beer bottles and brown paper bags.
Even though she was exhausted, Franny had difficulty sleeping that night. Everything was so different from England. It was hot, for one thing, even at night. There was a small, noisy ceiling fan, but it didn’t help much, and she didn’t dare open the windows, because she was on the ground floor and there were people walking by all the time, chatting and laughing loudly, as though they’d been drinking. The people were different, too; they were curt, dismissive; they didn’t have time for her. And the food – well, that was strange as well, but in a good way. It was also cheap. For dinner, she
went next door to a diner, sat in a booth and was handed a plastic menu with a dazzling array of dishes, all accompanied by little pictures. She ordered deep-fried chicken with grits, and a strawberry milkshake. For dessert, she had a huge dish of apple cobbler and vanilla ice cream, along with another milkshake. After the shortages in England, it was like being in heaven. The first thing she’d do when Cara came out would be to take her for dinner, she decided.
The next morning, Franny took another cab over to Juniper’s vast studio. Juniper was located on Gower Street, just south of Sunset Boulevard, and a block down from Paramount. Passing through the gates, she thought of all the stars who had come this exact route before her, and felt her excitement about being in Tinseltown return. The sheer size of the place left her breathless. If Juniper’s studio in Elstree had been like a village, then the one in Hollywood was more like a city. Her first meeting was in the executive building – but she couldn’t just walk there, a driver had to take her through the backlots in a golf-buggy. As they drove by the sets, they moved from the pyramids of Ancient Egypt to the tenements of New York; the bistros of Paris to the saloons of the Wild West. Franny gazed in wonder at the changing scenery, although it was a little disappointing to see that the buildings were just empty shells, with walls missing and no furnishings. It spoiled some of the magic.
The executive building had been built in the 1920s, in the Art Deco style. It was tall and made of white marble, with perfectly curved turrets and long, narrow windows. Inside, it was smart in a traditional way: all mahogany furniture and fresh cut flowers. Intense men in spivvy suits rushed around importantly, followed closely by pretty girls in pencil skirts and tight sweaters, clutching clipboards to their ample bosoms. Everyone looked busy and important.
