‘I don’t believe in you!’ she shouted, distraught, looking up to heaven. ‘You have deserted me.’
FRANCESCA HEARD OWEN’S
banger chug up the drive. She’d been listening out for it for the past half-hour and her nerves were in shreds. She swallowed hard as she hurried to open the door before he got to it.
‘Hiya, Mam,’ he greeted her cheerfully as he barrelled into the hall in his usual effervescent way. ‘We won yesterday! It was a great night.’ He sniffed the air. ‘Dinner smells nice. What is it?’ He turned his bright blue gaze on her, his healthy handsome face still retaining an endearing smattering of freckles across his nose, his wiry chestnut hair still ungovernable.
‘Shepherd’s pie,’ she managed. The sight of him and his youthful exuberance was almost her undoing. She bit her lip as he threw his bag and duffel coat under the stairs.
‘My favourite. I’m starving,’ he announced. ‘I hope you made loads.’
‘It’s all for you. I had lunch out today so I’m not hungry.’
‘Oh, great.’ He loped into the kitchen and sat down. ‘Feed me, Mother of mine.’ He grinned.
In spite of her anguish she grinned back. Owen was such a breath of fresh air. Let him have his dinner and enjoy it before she said anything about Mark.
She dished out a generous helping of pie and heaped his plate with veg.
‘Thanks, Ma.’ He tucked in with gusto. She busied herself around the kitchen as he ate, responding to his chat about his day as normally as she could.
‘Aw, Mam, that was delicious,’ he declared twenty minutes later, as he scraped the remains out of the pie dish, having cleared his plate. ‘I really feel sorry for some of the lads in digs. They get poxy food.’
‘Just as well you live at home then,’ she said brightly. Too brightly. He looked at her.
‘Ma, are you OK? You look terrible. Like you were on the piss or something.’
‘Thanks very much.’ She made a face at him. ‘I can’t look ravishing all the time.’
‘I didn’t mean that, Ma. You just look a bit grey or something. Is it the unmentionables? Should I barricade myself in my room?’ he teased, referring to her occasional episodes of PMT when she was like a briar and best avoided.
Francesca felt her stomach lurch and her palms go sweaty. It would be better to get it over and done with. There was no point in postponing the ordeal.
‘Come on into the lounge with me, I need to talk to you,’ she said quietly.
‘Crikey, are you preggers?’ Owen asked in sympathetic horror.
In spite of herself, Francesca had to laugh. ‘No, I am
not
preggers,’ she expostulated.
‘Whew.’ He wiped imaginary sweat off his brow as he threw an affectionate arm across her shoulders and walked with her into the lounge. ‘Worse than that?’ He cocked an inquisitive eye at her and she could see the beginnings of fear lurking in their blue depths. ‘You’re not sick or anything?’
‘No, no, nothing like that,’ she hastened to assure him. She turned to face him and her mouth went dry. ‘Owen … I … Your … ahh … that is—’
‘Mam, please, just tell me,’ he pleaded, all youthful teasing replaced by concern and apprehension. ‘What’s up. Is Dad OK?’ He grabbed her arm. ‘Dad’s OK, isn’t he? You’d have told me straight away.’ He blew his cheeks out in relief. ‘It’s Granddad, isn’t it? Has he snuffed it?’
‘Owen!’ she reprimanded.
‘Sorry,’ he apologized insincerely. ‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘It’s not your granddad, Owen. It’s … well …’ She took a deep breath.
‘Your father and I have separated.’
‘
What!
’ He stared at her uncomprehendingly.
‘Your father and I have separated,’ she repeated quietly.
‘Since when? Why? I left home yesterday and everything was normal. What’s going on, Mam?’ Anger and confusion played across his boyish features.
‘Look, Owen, I’d like you to talk to your father and let him explain to you—’
‘No! You tell me,’ he demanded. ‘Why have you separated?’ His voice rose an octave. ‘What’s going on? Whose idea was it?’
‘It wasn’t mine,’ she said flatly, sitting down on the sofa.
‘Well, why does he want to leave? You’re happy together. What’s his problem?’
‘Owen, please. Phone him and arrange to meet him and let him explain it. To be honest with you it’s just as much of a shock to me,’ she said wearily.
‘When will he be home from Brussels?’ Owen was pale with shock.
‘He’s not in Brussels. He’s in Dublin,’ Francesca replied weakly.
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I’m going to ring him right now and get to the bottom of this. This is all wrong, Ma,’ he blustered. ‘This is all wrong.’ He lifted the phone on the side table and dialled.
Francesca, unwilling to listen to the conversation, slipped out of the room and closed the door. She heard Owen say brusquely, ‘Dad, what the fuck’s going on here? Mam says you’re separating. I want to know why. I want to meet you now, Dad.’
Francesca raced into the kitchen and closed the door and leaned against it. She actually felt faint. She heard Owen open the lounge door and braced herself.
‘I’m going to meet Dad off the Dart in Sydney Parade. Will you be all right until I come back? Jeepers, Mam, you should go and lie down or
something.
You look like you’re going to keel over. Will I bring you a cup of tea?’
‘No thanks, love. I might go up to bed. It’s been a very long day.’ A thought struck her. ‘Owen, I have to give you a new set of keys. I had the locks changed.’
‘God, Mam! He wasn’t hitting you, was he?’ Her son’s shock was palpable.
Fuck you, Mark, for doing this to him
, Francesca raged silently as she saw Owen’s obvious distress.
‘Nothing like that, no, no, I just overreacted a bit,’ she said hastily.
‘To what?’ he probed.
‘Owen, just go and meet your father and remember that whatever our differences are, we love you and your brother and nothing changes that.’
‘Aw, Mam, this is terrible.’ Owen hung his head but not before she could see the tears in his eyes. He looked so young and vulnerable with his hair hanging down into his eyes, it grieved her.
She put her arms around him and felt his tighten around her. ‘If Dad’s done anything to hurt you I’ll break his fucking neck,’ he muttered brokenly.
‘Ssshhh, don’t say that, and don’t curse, love,’ she chided. ‘I don’t want you taking sides. Remember he loves you as much as I do and he’s your father. The new keys are on the desk in the hall; drive carefully to the Dart station and I’ll see you when you get back. Oh, and get me a litre of milk, would you? I forgot to buy any today.’
‘OK, Mam,’ he muttered, subdued. She watched him leave and wondered if there was any other way that she could have handled it that would have made
it
easier on him. Maybe she and Mark should have told him together instead of making him travel halfway across the city in an appalling frame of mind. What kind of a mother was she to put her child through that misery, just to score a point with her husband?
Although it was only gone seven, she switched off the lights in the lounge and kitchen and went upstairs to bed, where she curled up in a ball and tried not to imagine the encounter between Owen and his father.
Mark sat at Nikki’s black marble kitchen counter top with his head in his hands and cursed his wife roundly. Nikki, wisely, refrained from comment.
‘She’s so fucking vindictive. She’s so spiteful. I can’t believe it. She just couldn’t wait to tell Owen that we’ve separated and she won’t tell him why. She’s leaving that to me. Bitch!’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘What the fuck am I going to say to him without looking like a right bastard? Oh, she’s playing a blinder all right. She’ll rub my goddamn nose in it as hard as she can. And she’ll come out smelling of roses.’
Nikki said nothing. She came and stood behind him and expertly massaged the back of his neck.
‘It’s so out of character for her. I’ve never seen her like this. I know this isn’t easy for her but there are limits.’ Francesca’s behaviour had shocked him to the core. ‘I’m not a total bastard, sure I’m not?’ He twisted around to look at Nikki.
‘Of course you’re not,’ she said vehemently. ‘You didn’t plan for this to happen and if Francesca hadn’t
found
out no-one would be any the wiser and no-one would have got hurt. Relationships change, pet.
People
change – as they get older. Not every marriage is cut out to last for ever. People who think that are living in fantasy land. OK, it’s tough on your son, I agree. But he’ll get over it in time and carry on with his own life and there’ll come a time when you’ll hardly feature in it at all – when he’s experiencing his own relationships. I know it’s very important to take kids’ feelings into consideration but you can’t not live your own life and make changes in it just to protect them from feeling hurt. That’s a recipe for disaster, Mark.’
‘You might feel different if you had kids of your own. It’s tough, Nikki. I’d rather lose that new French acquisition than go and face my son tonight,’ he said heavily.
‘Oh, Mark.’ Nikki shook her head, at a loss for words. If he felt that way, it was bad, he’d worked his butt off over that take-over. ‘Look, let him blow his top and say whatever he has to say and get it off his chest and don’t try even to defend yourself, because in his eyes at the moment there’s no defence for what you’ve done. Just take it on the chin and smile. You’ve got to tough this one out, love. He’ll calm down in time,’ Nikki advised.
‘Will he?’
‘Yes, he will. Darling, millions of people go through what you’re going through and they don’t all stay mad at one another. Things will work out.’
‘I suppose you’ve got a point.’ He turned to face her and put his arms around her. ‘Are you sorry that you got involved with me?’
She silenced him with a kiss. ‘What do you think?’ she asked demurely when it was over.
‘Witch!’ He laughed, and kissed her hard. ‘I’d better go and eat humble pie before my son,’ he sighed. ‘That crashing sound is me tumbling down off my pedestal,’ he added wryly.
‘Ah, Mark, don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re only human,’ Nikki urged as she stroked the back of his head.
‘That’s not what Francesca thinks at the moment. She thinks I’m the devil incarnate.’ He nuzzled her neck, inhaling the delicate perfume she wore.
‘She’ll get over it too, in time, Mark. Life moves on whether we like it or not. I’ve been through enough broken relationships to know that much.’
‘I didn’t want to hurt her. I didn’t do this on purpose but I can’t be totally responsible for her happiness or unhappiness. She has to take some responsibility for her own life too. I can’t carry her on my back all my life. Especially the way I feel right now. I don’t want to. Is that so awful? It is awful, isn’t it? Especially after twenty years of marriage.’ He groaned.
Nikki sighed and kissed the top of his head. ‘You’re not a saint. Stop trying to be one.’
‘You can say that again,’ Mark said as he stood up. ‘Better go. Say a prayer for me.’ He walked into the narrow hallway and took his coat off the hall stand. ‘Thanks for being here for me,’ he said gruffly.
‘You’re welcome.’ She closed the door gently behind him. Mark jammed his hands into his coat pockets and took the stairs instead of the elevator. He needed to calm himself. Owen had been so uptight on the phone. His heart contracted. His son
would
hate him. He wouldn’t remotely understand what his father was going through. The best thing to do was, as Nikki suggested, let him get it off his chest and not react.
Nikki was very good at seeing things from a detached point of view. And her advice was pretty spot on, he thought admiringly as he let himself out of the foyer and walked over to the car. It was a cold, clear night. Frost crinkled underfoot. A sprinkling of stars shone overhead. A crescent moon etched sharply against the inky blackness of the night sky. An ordinary winter’s night that would never be forgotten by him or his son as long as they lived.
He’d had a turning point in his relationship with Francesca, earlier in the day. Now he was going to have one with his son. Where would it lead? He’d have to talk to Jonathan too. Another ordeal to be faced. The price for trying to be true to himself was turning out to be extraordinarily high, he thought disconsolately as he turned left out of the apartment complex onto Mount Merrion Avenue and headed for Sydney Parade Dart Station. He’d chosen Sydney Parade because it was close to the car park on the Sandymount seafront. They could talk in private in the car. It was hardly appropriate to ask his son to go for a drink and try and discuss this most private of matters in the noisy environs of a bar. Mark felt the weight of dread on his chest. He could quite honestly say that this was the worst day of his life. It didn’t help to know that it was all his own doing.
Owen sat on the hot, stuffy, swaying commuter train, his hands clenched in his lap, his stomach tied up in
knots.
He felt like crying but it was so unmanly to cry. Imagine if he started bawling in front of all these strangers. He looked at some Spanish students jabbering away in their native tongue as they sat on the seat opposite him. Imagine the expression on their faces if he suddenly started blubbering.
What was up with his folks? Everything had seemed so normal when he’d left home the previous morning. Where had this bombshell come from? Why was his ma being so reticent? Why was she so insistent that he talk to his da? She’d said something about being as surprised as Owen was. It must be his da that had initiated things. But why? And why had she changed the locks? That meant she truly did not want to have his da in the house.
Owen gazed out at the cold tiled platform of Pearse Street Station as the train discharged dozens of passengers, including, to his relief, the youths opposite him. He hoped no-one else would sit there. He needed time to compose himself for the meeting with his father.
Only a couple more stops and then he’d know what it was all about. He saw a man and woman kissing on the platform, before she got on the train. The man was older than the woman. He picked up his briefcase and strode away. She looked sad as she sat down on the seat across the aisle from him. Maybe they were having an affair, he thought idly. He sat bolt upright in his seat as awareness dawned.