by Tara Hyland
With that in mind, she bought some dowdy old clothes, reading glasses and a wig of mud-brown hair – nothing that would draw attention to her. On her final day at the Savoy in London, she brought her disguise down to breakfast, and then halfway through her meal, she disappeared off to the ladies room and changed. She altered the way she walked, from her usual graceful glide to a brisk stride, more commonplace in a prim middle-aged spinster. As she left the hotel, and got into the cab that the porter hailed for her, no one gave her a second glance. On her way to Victoria station, where she would catch the train to the seaside town, she felt exhilarated. It was like playing a spy in a movie.
The Grand Hotel in Brighton was sufficiently discreet to ensure no one paid any attention to the schoolmarmish woman checking in that afternoon. At the beginning, Franny had planned to book the best suite, but then she’d realised that was a bad idea – she didn’t want to draw too much attention to herself. So instead she’d settled for one of the deluxe family rooms: two adjoining bedrooms with a shared bathroom.
Her first impression of the Grand was favourable. Built in the Victorian era, originally for upper-class visitors, the formidable white building looked gracious and dignified. Situated on the seafront, it had pretty views and would be convenient for all the amenities.
The rooms were lovely, exactly what she’d been hoping for. The bedrooms had high, corniced ceilings, huge French windows and a view out to the grey English Channel. It might not be as welcoming as the azure-blue Californian ocean, but the bellhop had told her that on a clear day they would be able to see straight across to France. The bathroom was huge, if somewhat draughty. But they could always dry themselves by the fire.
Her mother and Cara weren’t due to arrive until five, which was another three hours away. Already impatient to see them, Franny needed to keep busy. She hung up all her clothes, and then ordered some tea and sandwiches, and sat by the huge window to eat them, thinking of all the fun things she would do with her daughter this week. After that, she took a nap.
A tentative knock woke her an hour later. She knew immediately who was there.
‘Coming!’ she called, quickly checking her appearance in the mirror. She had discarded the disguise, wanting to show off how well she was doing to her daughter, to make her proud.
Hurrying over to the door, she threw it open. There, standing in front of her, was an elderly woman holding the hand of a dark-haired little girl. Franny stared at her daughter, aware suddenly of the changes that the two years had brought. Cara had grown at least two inches taller, and she seemed thinner, too: she was all arms and legs. Her wide green eyes seemed to take up most of her face and her sooty hair was like a mop, sticking out in different directions. She looked like a little urchin. Franny stood in shock for a moment. Her daughter had grown up, and she’d missed all of these changes.
With tears gathering in her eyes, she crouched down so she was face to face with Cara.
‘Darling! It’s so wonderful to see you,’ she said with feeling.
Then she held out her arms and waited for her daughter to rush into them.
Cara made no move. Staring at the glamorous woman in front of her, she felt an overwhelming shyness. This wasn’t her mother. This was a beautiful stranger, too perfect to touch. Her hands were soft and perfectly manicured, and Cara was suddenly ashamed of her own callused skin and dirty, bitten nails. Her grandmother had insisted that she dressed in her Sunday best for the occasion, but still she looked crumpled and messy compared to this elegant lady. What if she got the woman’s pretty blue dress dirty? What if she messed up the lady’s carefully curled hair? She hung back, feeling uncertain.
The red-haired woman frowned a little. ‘Well? Don’t you have a hug for your old mum?’
It was said with gentle teasing, but even nine-year-old Cara could hear the disappointment in the lady’s voice. But that still didn’t make her want to hug the woman. This couldn’t be her mother: the hair was too red and perfectly styled, the nose smaller than she remembered. She even sounded different.
Theresa gave her a little shove. ‘Come on, girl. Do what yer mam says.’
Dutifully, Cara stepped forward into the woman’s arms.
‘Oh, sweetheart,’ her mother murmured, ‘I’ve missed you so much.’
And Cara wanted to ask: ‘Then why didn’t you come back for me?’
Franny couldn’t understand what was happening. She’d looked forward to seeing her daughter so much, remembering how well they used to get on back when they’d lived at Annie’s house. But instead of being pleased to see her again, Cara seemed so shy around her; it was as though they had never met before. Franny had spent time shopping before she came over to England, and had brought several sets of new clothes for the little girl – but they all turned out to be too small. It made her painfully aware that she was a stranger to her daughter.
Late the first night, after Cara had gone to bed, she drank a little too much brandy and confided her fears that they had grown apart to Theresa. The older woman smiled knowingly.
‘Course she’s acting different round you. She was only a nipper when you went away. Two and a half years is a long time at that age.’ She gave her daughter a sidelong look. ‘What did you expect – for nothing to have changed? You’re not that naïve, are you, love?’
In fact, that was exactly what Franny had expected. But when her mother put it that way, it did sound silly. ‘No,’ she lied. Sighing, she took another drink. ‘I suppose you’re right, this is only to be expected. I just hope it gets easier.’
Theresa made no comment.
After a good night’s sleep, Franny woke feeling more positive. Like her mother had said, it was bound to be a little strange for Cara at first. But they would be reacquainted in no time.
So that she would have to wear her disguise as little as possible, Franny had breakfast sent up to their room.
‘Isn’t this a feast!’ she declared, as they sat down to bacon, eggs and sausages.
But Cara didn’t seem interested, and settled for just nibbling at a piece of toast and jam. It took all of Franny’s willpower not to show how upset she was. Instead, she said, ‘I hope you’re looking forward to today. I’ve got lots of fun things planned for us to do.’
And if her tone was a little forced, a little over-bright, Franny tried not to think about it.
An hour later, they were dressed and ready to go out for the day. Cara looked at the strange clothes and wig that her mother had put on.
‘Why are you wearing those?’
Franny giggled. ‘Oh, these? It’s like a game, darling. Well, don’t look so blue. It’s meant to be fun!’
Cara couldn’t bring herself to smile back. She wasn’t fooled for a moment. She knew what was really behind the disguise: this woman didn’t want anyone to know that she was her daughter. Cara was her dirty secret.
Franny was determined to pack as much fun as possible into the day. On her request, Theresa agreed to stay behind at the hotel, leaving her to spend some time alone with her child. She wanted to win Cara over, to get back to the way they used to be together, when they were as close as a mother and daughter could be. She hated this distance that had come between them, and knew that it was her fault – and that it was up to her to put it right.
Franny crammed the morning full of activities. It was too cold to swim, but they took their shoes and socks off and paddled in the shallows. After that, they played mini-golf, ate a fish and chip lunch, and then they walked along the promenade. Franny insisted on buying Cara sticks of candy-striped rock and toffee apples.
‘How about some candy-floss?’ she said, pointing over at the stand.
‘No, thanks. I don’t feel very well.’
Franny looked at her daughter’s unhappy face and felt a surge of disappointment. The day wasn’t going as she’d have liked. She had hoped the activities might thaw her daughter a little, but still she didn’t seem able to connect with Cara. It was horribly frustrating, and she
had no idea how to put things right.
They walked in silence along the Pier. The silence was unbearable to Franny, so when she spotted a dodgem-car track, she felt a surge of relief.
‘Let’s go on a ride!’ she cried, grabbing Cara’s hand and pulling her over.
‘My tummy hurts,’ the little girl said.
But Franny was already buying the tickets and didn’t hear her.
Franny wanted them to go in separate cars, but her daughter didn’t seem keen, so they shared the same one.
‘Do you want to drive?’ Franny offered.
Cara shook her head.
As it was mid-winter, they were the only ones on the ride. Franny tried to make it fun, bumping into the sides and the stationary cars, but the little girl didn’t smile or laugh like she was hoping.
When they finally got off, Cara was promptly sick.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ Franny snapped. Some of the vomit had got on her dress.
Hearing the irritation in her mother’s voice, Cara burst into tears. Franny was immediately contrite.
‘Oh, darling, I didn’t mean it.’ She knelt down to hug her daughter, to show her that it didn’t matter really, but Cara wriggled out of her grip.
‘I want Granny!’ she sobbed.
Staring down at her daughter, Franny felt a wave of sadness wash over her. The time apart had created a distance between her and Cara, and she had no idea how – or if – she was ever going to be able to bridge it.
‘There you go.’
An hour later, Theresa tucked her granddaughter into bed. It had been left to her to clean Cara up, help her into a clean nightdress and settle her down with a cup of tea. The child seemed a little better now, and the colour had returned to her cheeks, but she still looked unhappy.
‘Do you need anything else?’ Theresa asked.
Cara shook her head.
‘Then I’ll leave you to sleep.’
The old woman was about to get up, but Cara grabbed her arm. ‘Wait!’ she said, in a low, urgent voice.
Theresa turned back, and saw her granddaughter looking up at her with wide, worried eyes. ‘What is it?’ When Cara didn’t say anything, she said more impatiently, ‘Well? I don’t have all day. Spit it out, girl.’
‘Does Mum hate me?’ she asked in a small voice.
Theresa felt her heart contract. She could kill Franny for upsetting the child like that. Sitting back down on the bed, she said, ‘Of course she doesn’t hate you. Now why would you think such a silly thing?’
‘Because I ruined her day and she was cross.’
Silently cursing her daughter, Theresa shook her head. ‘She wasn’t cross. She was just upset because she was worried about you.’ She pulled the sheet up to her granddaughter’s chin. ‘Now go to sleep. You’ll feel better after you’ve rested, I promise.’
Feeling reassured, Cara closed her eyes, and Theresa left her to it. Out in the shared sitting room, Franny was standing by the window, smoking. Even now, she looked elegant and poised, her red curls falling around her shoulders. No wonder Cara found it hard to connect with her. Theresa knew that when her career had started to take off, Franny had worried about someone from Glen Vale or the East End recognising her in a movie. But she needn’t have fretted. These days she looked so different that even Theresa, her own mother, wouldn’t have seen the connection between the beautiful, elegant actress called Frances Fitzgerald and the wayward daughter she had raised. The realisation saddened Theresa a little.
‘How is she?’ Franny asked, oblivious to her mother’s thoughts.
‘Better. Her stomach’s settled.’
‘That’s good.’ Franny waited a beat, and then said, ‘Do you think I should go in and see her? Or should I let her sleep?’
Theresa had no idea what to say for the best. She remembered how well Franny and Cara had got on when they first came to her house in Connemara, and she could see the gulf that had emerged between them. She could appreciate both points of view – that Franny was trying her best to bond with her daughter, but that it was hard for a nine-year-old child to let the mother who abandoned her back in. She thought of telling Franny that Cara would rather see her than sleep; that right now, she was confused and upset, and that she needed to be reassured that she was still loved despite what had happened that day. But there seemed little point. Soon Franny would be gone. What was the point of encouraging Cara’s attachment to her mother, only to see her heartbroken again?
‘Probably best to let her rest for now,’ she said finally.
Franny looked disappointed. ‘Of course,’ she said, having decided it was best to accept her mother’s advice on this. ‘You’re probably right.’
She poured herself another drink, and tried not to feel bad that Theresa knew her daughter better than she did.
The rest of the holiday was much the same. When it got to the end of the week, Franny still felt no closer to Cara. Her train left first, on the Friday evening. She would then catch a plane back to LA first thing the next morning. Cara and Theresa’s passage was booked for the following day, so they would stay one more night in the hotel without her.
They came to see Franny off at the station. It was a sorry little farewell. It was already dark, and the platform was empty. The only other passengers were in the waiting room, the wooden structure providing a little shelter from the chill night. Huddled together on the platform, their breath turning to condensation in the cold, Franny, Theresa and Cara waited in silence. In the distance, the steam train chugged towards them, puffing out small white breaths of hot air from its chimney.
Franny crouched down in front of her daughter. ‘Be good for your grandmother, won’t you?’
Cara looked solemnly up at her mother. ‘I will.’
It seemed like such an inadequate end to a frustrating week. Franny couldn’t let them part without making some kind of last overture to her daughter, to show her that she cared. ‘I will come back for you,’ she said impetuously. ‘I’ll find some way for us to be together. Soon. I promise.’
Her daughter stared back at her impassively, and Franny could see that Cara didn’t believe her. And a large part of her didn’t blame the girl for feeling that way.
With that, Franny turned to leave. The train had come to a halt in the station a few moments earlier; passengers had already started to get on, slamming the wooden doors shut behind them.
It was as though in that moment Cara finally realised what was happening – that she wouldn’t see her mother again for a long time. Suddenly, she rushed at Franny, clinging to her arm. ‘Please, please don’t leave me. Please.’
She was sobbing now. The unexpected display of affection, which Franny had been longing for all week, brought tears to her eyes, too.
‘Oh, darling.’ For a long moment, she hugged Cara to her. Then, finally, Franny gently disentangled herself from her daughter. ‘I’m sorry, but I have to go.’
The train journey back to London was bleak for Franny. The reunion with her daughter had made her face up to some harsh realities. During these past two and a half years she’d missed out on so much of Cara’s life. She could never get that time back. The choice she’d made, to follow her dream of being famous, had been at the expense of her relationship with her daughter. It was a sobering realisation. As Franny looked out of the window, into the darkness of the English countryside, she felt a tear slip down her cheek.
Chapter Eighteen
In the weeks following her trip to Brighton, Franny felt very low. Her failure to reconnect with her daughter had left her feeling miserable and guilty. And she kept thinking back to her promise – made hastily on that ice-cold platform in Brighton – that they would be together soon. Knowing there was no chance of bringing Cara out to LA, she’d even begun to wonder if she should throw in her whole career, and go back to be with her daughter.
That feeling had become even more acute when, back in Hollywood, Franny had found that the media were still against her. Her former support
er, Dolores Kent, was the most vocal of these critics. The gossip columnist had taken the news of Franny and Duke’s break-up personally; she was enraged by what she saw as Franny flagrantly ignoring her well-meant advice. Since then she had continued to attack Franny. There was more from her that morning. Under the headline Frances and Her Men appeared a photograph of Frances out at Club Alabam, sprawled across Hunter’s lap, laughing delightedly while being fed an olive by up-and-coming leading man, Logan Wainwright. In case the picture wasn’t damning enough, Dolores’s accompanying text had left the reader in no doubt as to what she thought:
This certainly isn’t the first time that Frances Fitzgerald has flitted from one man to the next. Be careful, my dear! You’re rapidly becoming the girl that men have their fun with, but never marry.
Franny was shaken when she read that. She didn’t like the idea that people saw her that way. Growing up, she had always seen marriage and babies as a trap for a young woman. But now, already twenty-seven, and having had nothing close to a serious relationship since Sean Gallagher over a decade earlier, she suddenly felt less like a fun-loving party girl and more like an old maid.
Faced with her failings as a mother, a stalling career and fears of impending spinsterhood, it was fair to say that by early 1957, Franny was feeling more vulnerable than she had in a long time. It was perhaps for this reason that she proved so susceptible to the advances of Maximilian Stanhope.
Like most of the studios in Hollywood at that time, Juniper was struggling to stay profitable. With the growth in television, cinema audiences had decreased. Revenues had also been hit hard by the Competition Commission’s decision that studios were no longer allowed to own movie theatres. With profits dwindling, shareholders had begun to grow restless, and Woodrow Milton, Juniper’s long-standing Studio Chief, had been removed the previous spring. Head of Casting, Lloyd Cramer, had been appointed in his place.
