Her Revolution

by Gemma Jackson

  “What idiot ordered a king-size bed?” she yelled, punching the pillow. “What lunatic thought we needed a bed this big? We could host a party for six in this bed and still have room to spare!” She was on a roll now. To hell with it – who wanted to sleep when it was the first day of the rest of your life?

  She hurried into the en-suite shower. The weather people had promised another lovely day. She pulled a floral cotton-glaze long dress down her damp body. The dress was another item from her holiday wardrobe – she’d raided that wardrobe last night while under the influence of very many champagne cocktails. The elasticised top of the dress and wide straps would support her breasts. No need of constricting underwear in such hot weather. She shoved her feet into her espadrilles and left the bedroom.

  A quick rap on two tightly shut bedroom doors was all she was willing to do this morning. She refused to indulge in the usual round of shouts, threats and mayhem. She’d been tempted to put a computer program in place to frighten the life out of them this morning.

  A pot of lifesaving tea was called for – urgently. The bottle of Dom she’d finished off by herself last night had not settled as well as it had in the past. She felt lousy – but determined. She locked the screen in the kitchen down – when she’d agreed to have the latest computer system put into the house, she hadn’t realised how easy it would be for the men in her life to order her around. Well, not today!

  Ronan, her beautiful tall blond son was the first to show.

  “Mother, what in the name of God is going on? Why is there no coffee prepared? Do you know what time it is? How could you have failed to wake me? I’m going to be late.”

  Had he always sounded as pompous as his father? She remembered her little boy with heart-breaking fondness. She didn’t like this man in the making, speaking to her as if she were a slightly dull-witted secretary.

  Finn sat silently back and watched her son, all six feet two inches of him – no, they didn’t measure like that anymore, did they? She had been home-schooled by her father. He had taught her the modern methods but in their home they still used the old-fashioned terms. Wasn’t that typical of her life? She didn’t even know what her son measured in metres. There was a time when she’d celebrated every additional inch with him.

  He threw his elegant body into a kitchen chair and waited. Thank goodness she had put her foot down and chosen sturdy chairs for the kitchen. They would have been sitting on the floor now if they had gone ahead and picked the stylish set Patrick had so admired.

  “Does anyone in this house know what bloody time it is?” a highly irate voice barked from the top of the stairs. “I’m going to be late. How could you have allowed me to sleep in? I left a memo asking you to wake me, didn’t I?”

  Oisín was awake then. It strengthened her resolve that he hadn’t addressed any of his remarks to her personally. Even when talking to their old dog, her sons gave the animal a name – but not her – she was just the one who made sure their lives were without fuss or bother.

  Finn Brennan, housemother, chef, chauffeur, chambermaid and general bloody dogsbody. That’s who I have been in the past – but no more. Finn was determined to change.

  Sitting at the kitchen table sipping at the first lifegiving cup of tea of the morning, she had to physically force herself not to move. She was programmed to jump and provide at the first sign of the males in her life.

  “Mother?” Ronan stared across the empty expanse of kitchen table. The table was normally set and overflowing with good things to eat at this hour of the morning. Their father wasn’t home so she had no excuse for not providing the delicious treats she normally had waiting for them. “Mother, it’s getting late. Where is breakfast?”

  Ronan, my little alien, ninety-nine-point-nine per cent of the mothers in Ireland are called Ma or Mam or Mum. Nevertheless, her sons called her ‘Mother’. Little aliens – where had her blond cherubs gone?

  “What is going on now?” Oisín’s entrance into the kitchen was its usual noisy announcement of his supreme presence. His voice echoed a world-weary fatigue.

  Was she expected to bow down before him now?

  Finn studied these two prime examples of Irish manhood. Both over six feet tall, they were very handsome. They had for years found work as extras on the many television programmes being produced in Ireland. They wore their straight long blond hair to their shoulder blades. Ronan with his blue eyes and almost white-blond hair and Oisín with his strawberry-blond mane and green eyes – they were definitely eye candy. Their images were striking and much in demand on screen. She wasn’t the only one to think her sons gorgeous. Young girls and older women who should know better, in the neighbourhood and farther afield, had been throwing themselves at these two for years. At twenty and eighteen years of age they were wonderfully conscious of their importance in the Universe.

  “Where’s breakfast?” Oisín stared at the empty table in disbelief. “Do you realise that I’ll be late?”

  Of her two sons Oisín was the most impatient – but it was Ronan you had to watch. Ronan was like his father and oozed charm to get his way in life.

  “Mother, is something the matter?” Ronan said. “You know we have to be on set. We need to eat before we leave the house. How often have you told us that?”

  Oh, he was good. Ronan threw her own words back at her with a skill his father would envy.

  “Gentlemen,” Finn stood to refill her teacup, “allow me to introduce myself. My name is Finn. As of this morning I am resigning from my position as your mother and domestic slave.”

  “What?” they sang out in perfect unison, looking at her as if she’d grown an extra head.

  At least she had their attention. That was something.

  “Mother, I’m beginning to worry – what’s the matter with you?” Ronan was looking at the time displayed on the kitchen screen. “Should we call Father?” He looked at Oisín as if she were incapable of answering.

  “There is no need to disturb your father. I’m sure he and his latest secretary are still in bed in whatever hotel they landed in last night.” She refused to pretend she didn’t know what was going on any longer. “Or does this one have her own apartment?” She looked at her sons with a question in her eyes. They would know what Patrick was up to if anyone would. When had the three of them formed their gentlemen’s club?

  Oisín had the grace to appear uncomfortable – it didn’t turn a hair on Ronan’s perfectly groomed head. Ronan was his father’s son in every way that mattered. She had failed the women of Ireland. How could she have nurtured a son like this? That she should raise a young man with no idea of the value of the female of the species – shame on her!

  “Is it the menopause?” Oisín asked, blushing. “Is that what’s the matter with you?”

  Ah, he knew about the menopause. Perhaps she wasn’t as big a failure as she’d thought.

  “My God, Oisín, please! I haven’t even had a cup of coffee yet this morning.” Ronan looked uncomfortable now.

  “You are – both of you – considered adults by the law of the land. I think you are capable of getting your own breakfast. You had better put on a bit of speed. You will be taking public transport today. I have had enough of your complaints about folding your length into my little car. I’m sure you can figure out between you how to find the coffee pot and toaster.”

  She swept majestically from the kitchen out into the garden, carrying her cup of tea. She resisted, with admirable restraint, watching their reaction on the computer screen in the kitchen on her handheld unit. She’d allow them their privacy.

  Finn, the new woman, took a seat at the patio table and stared out into her garden. They said a picture painted a thousand words. She was still reeling from the dagger-stroke of that painting she’d received for her birthday. The beige figure in the painting had been her. She could not deny it even to herself. She had carried the painting into her home office and hung it where she could see it whenever she looked up from her desk.


  Before going to bed alone and lonely after a day that should have been one of celebration, she had stood examining the contents of her built-in wardrobe. When had she become the Queen of Beige, she’d wondered in despair? Her wardrobe appeared to consist entirely of brown and beige garments. How had that happened? When had she turned into a frumpy old biddy? Rip Van Winkle had only slept for twenty years – it would appear she had him beat by a year.

  A gentle breeze blew her unbound hair around her face. She looked at the strands for a moment – blonde hair? She’d been refusing to admit that the shade was more beige than blonde. When had she started to dye her natural red hair? Who had chosen this colour? How long had it taken for the constant gentle hints to work on her? “It’s so vulgar a colour, darling,” Patrick had said not long after the wedding. Had she complained? Never. She thought the man hung the moon. So, to surprise her darling she had dyed her hair blonde. He had been so enthusiastic, so complimentary.

  In a reflex action Finn started to put her hair into its usual sedate bun and stopped. It was tragic – even trying to be a new woman she automatically started to put her hair in a bun. Nope – not going to happen – not today. She might fall back into bad habits – but she could catch herself. She would improve – starting now.

  Sometime later Oisín, a bad-tempered scowl on his face, joined her on the patio, “Mother, we believe you owe us an explanation,” he stated in all seriousness.

  “An explanation? What a novel concept in this house!” Finn pretended to think about it.

  She got up and walked back into the kitchen, Oisín following in her wake.

  The formerly pristine area looked as if a gang of unruly children had been let loose in it.

  She began to make a fresh pot of tea. It gave her something to do and tea never went to waste with her around.

  “Yesterday, gentlemen,” she bit out, staring over her shoulder at her two sons, “I celebrated my fortieth birthday and my twenty-first wedding anniversary.” She didn’t even pause to see if they winced. “I spent the day and evening alone and completely unacknowledged.” She waited in vain for them to say something, anything. Even a mumbled apology would help her feel marginally less worthless.

  “We’ll be late.” Ronan stood abruptly.

  “Got to go.” Oisín joined his brother. “We can talk later.”

  The two young men she had loved and raised practically ran from the kitchen. Neither even tried to offer an excuse. They left the house with a loud bang of the front door.

  Finn sat down at the untidy table and fought back tears. She had cried an ocean last night. Enough tears had flowed to last most people a lifetime. She refused to cry today. It was a new dawn, she was a new woman. She was going to kickstart her life today. She would change or by God she would know the reason why.

  Chapter 4

  Finn stared into her wardrobe, trying to find an outfit she could wear into the village. She needed to get out of the house. She refused to wear the clothes of her old self. The clothes belonging to the woman Patrick had turned her into could rot as far as she was concerned. Miss Town and Country, perfect beige casuals with pearls no less – well, no more.

  She riffled through her make-up. Beige, no thanks. She couldn’t believe she’d been brought to this place in her life. Yesterday had been a kick in the teeth, a rude wake-up call, and not before time.

  Finn looked into her own eyes, feeling guilty. She could have dropped the boys off this morning. But she had wanted them to realise how seriously upset she was. How hurt. She had to start her new life somewhere. Twenty-one years of waiting hand and foot on other people had earned her exactly nothing. It was time to think about Finn. What did she want and need out of life? She had paid her dues, her boys were legally men. They could bloody well prove it.

  Finn reached over to turn the radio on then jerked her hand back when she realised what she’d been about to do. Who wanted to listen to Patrick Brennan crowing about family values in his early-morning radio programme? The man was a hypocrite.

  In the early days of their marriage Finn had faithfully listened to every word uttered in every programme Patrick hosted. He had wanted and needed her input into his professional life, he had told her. Sure he did: as a young housewife and mother she was his target audience. Naïve as she was, she had found her husband’s interest in her day-to-day life so loving.

  She cringed, remembering the women who hung around the school gates either dropping off or waiting for their children – they had sung the praises of Patrick Brennan and envied Finn her involved concerned husband. She had been his chief cheerleader in those days, singing her husband’s praises, boasting to the other women. How many times and in how many ways was she going to have to kick herself?

  She sighed. The worst part of all this soul-searching was the one glaring fact that had to be faced. She had no one to blame but herself. No one had given her blinders with orders to put them on. She had willingly put thick black, or maybe that should be beige-coloured, blinders on and then left her brain in idle for over twenty years.

  At the local bus stop Oisín and Ronan didn’t speak. They hunched into their lightweight jackets and waited. It was no big deal taking public transport. They lived in Rathmines – at a pinch they could walk into town. They boarded the bus when it came, still without exchanging a word, and made their way to the back seats. Two poor, abused, misunderstood young men.

  “You should never have allowed her to watch that bloody DVD – you know the one – Shirley Valentine, that was it,” Ronan muttered between clenched teeth. “This is your fault.”

  “Don’t be more of a prick then you can help, bro.” Oisín wanted to punch something. He hadn’t enjoyed this morning at all. “I was writing a paper on Willie Russell at the time. The man’s a genius. I wanted to watch his work on film. I couldn’t help it that Mother joined us on the sofa.”

  “I’m telling you, she hasn’t been the same since she watched that film. She cried when she was watching it, remember? It wasn’t normal crying – she howled like a banshee.” Ronan was satisfied that he’d discovered the cause of his mother’s unhappiness. It had nothing to do with him. It was all the fault of a bloody DVD and some kind of woman’s problem.

  “Did you remember it was her birthday and wedding anniversary yesterday?” Oisín felt bad about that. They could have bought her some flowers or something. She wasn’t a bad aul’ skin as mothers went.

  “Don’t be stupid. If I’d remembered, I’d have made a point to be home for dinner last night. She usually makes a fabulous meal for special occasions – hate to have missed that.”

  “Jaysus, you’re as self-centred as he is!” Oisín said in the tone of one who has just been granted a major revelation.

  The brothers bumped shoulders and said nothing further. Everything that needed to be said had been said. They felt satisfied that they had solved the problem. She’d be fine this evening. They’d grovel a little – send her a bunch of flowers – that should fix whatever was wrong with her. Ronan gave Oisín twenty pounds and told him to add to it and pick a gift. Problem solved.

  While her sons were congratulating themselves, Finn came to a decision. There were no clothes in her bedroom wardrobe that she was willing to go out in. She took a deep breath and decided to wear one of her light summer dresses. Patrick would hate to know she was appearing in public in less than a classic outfit. She tried not to care. She had made an appointment to have her hair cut and styled.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs Brennan.” The ultra-modern, stick-thin young stylist met her customer’s eyes in the mirror. “I can’t cut your hair in the style you asked for.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Finn wanted the beige strands shorn from her head.

  Eve played with the dried-out dyed strands. They could do with a good cut but she wasn’t willing to get into Patrick’s bad books. He liked his wife’s hair to look a certain way.

  “Your husband has mentioned on his programme how pleased he is with the service
we offer to his wife. It’s been good for our business.” She blushed with the lie she told. “I think you need to discuss such a drastic change with him. He does have an image to uphold, you know.” The last time she’d been with Patrick he’d bitched about this woman’s hair and a lot of other things. That was when she decided to give him the old heave-ho. “I have the dye you prefer on hand, all ready to mix.”

  “Thank you, Eve.” Finn removed the hairdressing cape from her shoulders. “I don’t think so.” She avoided looking at the other woman. She hadn’t known she was one of Patrick’s bedmates – not before today. “I’ll find someone who will do what I want.”

  “It’s my hair!”

  Finn pulled her phone out of her bag, intending to look up another hairdresser in the area and make an appointment. She had her mind set on it. It was the first step for the new her.

  But before she could do anything the phone in her hand signalled. She looked at the screen in surprise. The smart house was telling her that someone was in it. She stepped out of the crowd of hurrying people into a nearby laneway to watch her screen for a moment. Had her sons decided to return home? She watched the screen, surprised to see her husband Patrick step into the hallway. Why was he there at this time of day? Was he looking for her? Had the boys called him? He was followed into the house by a thickset man she didn’t recognise. A slender young girl, electronic notepad in hand, brought up the rear.

  “I’ll give you the royal tour.” Patrick’s voice came out of her telephone speaker. Finn looked around to see if anyone was nearby – spotting no one, she leaned against a nearby wall and prepared to watch and listen. He had engaged all screens again as he seemed to prefer. Why did he continue to do that? Surely the boys had shown him how to use the system properly?