Between The Sheets (19 page)

I soon realized that life was a lot better in the O'Carroll household when my father was working. While he was writing, he kept to his study for most of the day, even eating at his desk — when he remembered to eat. Mother prepared his meals as usual but wouldn't dare disturb him. If he came looking, the food was there waiting. A fact, I realized, he took completely for granted.

When he occasionally took a break, he went for long solitary walks along the seafront. Sometimes, if he needed distraction, he would venture into town for lunch or a drink at one of the better hotels. He always made a point of taking a book or newspaper to discourage anyone from joining him. My father was not there for the company.

Paradoxically, he was a pious and religious man, who made a point of never working on Sundays. He was happy, however, for my mother to cook breakfast. Then we would
dress in our best clothes, attend twelve-thirty Mass and go on into town for lunch.

In this environment, he was in his element. He would talk loudly, regaling us with stories of his childhood or comment — always negatively — on the TV programmes my mother watched, or the books my brother read. I was oblivious in the early days to the tension at these lunches, but I never enjoyed them either.

When Father was in one of his moods, though, Sunday lunches were miserable, fraught occasions. These were the days when my mother and brother were on the receiving end of his attentions. Little things would irritate him. Ed slouching in his chair. Mother coughing delicately into her lace handkerchief. Even I would receive a glare of disapproval for trimming every ounce of fat from my roast beef.

He was an attractive man, in an austere sort of way. But when he was angry, his face would flush, a blue vein would throb in his temple, and he looked ugly and menacing. I was terrified of him on these occasions, yet he had never so much as raised a hand to me. Ed wasn't always so lucky. The atmosphere on the drive home would be charged, and we rarely made it to the house without my father exploding over something.

My mother tried her best to protect us when he was like this and would send us to play in the garden, or up to our rooms to do our homework. When I was smaller and didn't know any better I sometimes protested. But as I reached my teens, I realized what my mother was doing and silently obeyed.

Sometimes it worked. She would go to the kitchen and bake; Father would retire to his study to sleep off his brandy; Ed and I would play battleships or chess in my room.

Other times we weren't so lucky. Father would prowl the house like a caged animal waiting to strike. It would be something small that would set him off. Ed playing his radio too loud, or Mother forgetting to switch off the immersion heater.

'Do you think I'm made of money?' he'd roar.

Money was a constant theme, now I come to think of it. You would think we were poverty-stricken the way he went on about turning off lights and pulling out plugs. He even complained once that Ed was using too much toothpaste. Yet I realized from looking at how my friends lived that we were relatively rich. None of the other kids were ever brought to a hotel for lunch or dinner — let alone every week. They went to the Wimpy bar in Wexford for beans and chips — Ed and I were green with envy.

Once my father got started on one of his rants, he lost all control. Not with me, of course. The worst he ever did with his little princess was to roar, 'Get up to your room!'

But my poor brother took the full brunt of our father's anger. He would demand to see Ed's homework and systematically denigrate it. The handwriting was spidery, the maths weak, the spelling atrocious — 'You're an embarrassment,' he would say in disgust.

I remember him firing questions at my brother about history and geography. Then he'd switch from English to Irish, until Ed was so nervous and confused that his stammer would render him almost incoherent. If Ed was lucky, my mother would intervene at this stage, and send Ed to bed. If he wasn't, my father would take off his belt and order Ed into his study. Mother and I would hold each other as we heard his cries, but we knew better than to interfere.

If Mother managed to distract Father, Ed and I would be sent up to bed. Then he would start on her. Ed and I would perch on the top stair, him biting his nails and me silently sobbing. Father would taunt and belittle her and it was usually about Ed. It was her fault that Ed was such a useless specimen. She had mollycoddled him, made him too soft and taught him no discipline. Thank God, Dana, at least, took after his side of the family. Already showing a creative flair, she was pretty too; it was an excellent combination in a young woman. But Ed, my father would sigh dramatically, was good for nothing. I would slip my hand into my brother's as we listened. I could see he was upset but he would fight back the tears and just mutter, 'I'll show him.'

Mother would try a number of different tactics to calm him. Sometimes she'd agree with Father and apologize, telling him she'd try to do better. The first time I overheard this, I was incensed. But Ed just smiled and squeezed my hand. 'It's okay, Dana. Mother doesn't mean it. She's ju — ju -just saying it to shu — shu — shut him up.'

Other times, Mother would open a bottle of wine and pour a glass for them both. Daddy would continue to rant for a while, but by the second glass his voice would quieten and he would finally sit down. He was always at his most dangerous when he was on the move. So once he was ensconced in his armchair, we knew the worst was over. These sessions usually culminated in my parents going to bed early. I used to worry about the noises coming from their room, afraid that maybe my father was hurting Mother in some way. But Ed would grin knowingly and tell me that's how grown-ups made up. I was a naive little thing, and though I didn't understand, neither did I question.

On reflection, I didn't question many things in those days. I was becoming a typical teenager: engrossed in my own world and oblivious to anything or anyone outside it. I spent my days fantasizing about Liam O'Herlihy, with his dreamy eyes and long curly hair. When my parents thought I was doing my homework, I was usually doodling 'Dana O'Herlihy' or 'Liam loves Dana' in the margins of my text books. I progressed to love poems — I was, after all, a poet's daughter, and knew that I had some talent. The nuns fawned over me and my natural ability when it came to writing essays or poems, but they wouldn't have approved of the stuff that went into my diary each night.

I was fourteen when Ed left. It was a beautiful Saturday morning in July. I was lying on the grass in the back garden, reading Jane Austen and working on my tan.
Maybe Liam would finally notice me and ask me to dance at the disco that evening.

When the shouting first started, I ignored it. Father was always shouting about something these days, and once I wasn't in the firing line I tended to keep my head down until it was all over. And then I realized that it wasn't Father's voice but Ed's that was raised, and it was terrifying in its anger.

My mother's scream had me on my feet and running for the back door.

I will never, to my dying day, forget the sight that greeted me when I burst through the kitchen door. My brother had my father pinned to the wall, a carving knife to his throat. Mother was begging Ed to stop but he didn't seem to be even aware of her. He was staring into my father's face; his own was twisted with hate and anger.

My father smiled at him. 'Don't worry, Rosemary,' he told my mother. 'He's not going to hurt me; he doesn't have the balls.'

I couldn't believe the way he was taunting my brother. Even then, face to face with his own mortality. There wasn't a trace of fear, hurt or even shock in his expression. It was almost as if he were enjoying the little drama. He broke eye contact with Ed and looked past him to me. 'I'm sorry if we disturbed your study, princess,' he said politely. 'Edmund's just having a little tantrum. Why don't you and your mother go into the garden while I take care of this?'

I stared at him, not knowing whether I should be impressed by his bravery or dumbfounded at his blasé attitude.

My mother pushed me towards the door. 'Go and get help,' she urged.

'No!' Ed and Father bellowed in unison.

'Well, at least we agree on one thing,' my father said drily.

'Why do you want to save him, Mother?' Ed asked, incredulously. 'Why would you want to save a man who has made our lives mi — mi — miserable for years?'

My mother gave a nervous laugh. 'Don't be silly, Edmund.'

Ed turned to stare at her, and in that instant of in-attention my father moved like lightning. He twisted Ed's arm around behind his back and shoved his face into the wall. The knife fell with a clatter on to the slate tiles.

'Well, big man, what are you going to do now?' Father hissed in his ear. 'Call for your mammy to save you?'

'Leave it now, Conall,' my mother said, edging closer.

'Stay where you are,' he barked. 'You too, Dana,' he added, when he saw me staring at the knife at his feet. 'My God, it's a sad day when a man can't get respect in his own home.' His lips were against Ed's ear, his voice low. 'After all I've done for you this is the thanks I get.'

'All you've ever do — do-done for me, is make me wi — wi — wish I'd nev — nev — never been bo-bo-born!'

'Edmund!' My mother gasped and put a hand to her mouth in horror.

'And tha — tha — that's what you wish too,' Ed said, turning his eyes on his father.

My father was silent for a moment. Then he shrugged slightly, releasing his hold on Ed and bending to pick up the knife. 'And who could blame me? What man would want a son like you?'

'Conall!'

'Daddy!'

Mother and I both stared at him. It seemed impossible that he could be this cruel.

Father ignored us both. He carefully replaced the knife in the drawer and walked to the door.

'I'm lea — lea — leaving,' Ed flung after him. 'I'm leaving and you can't ma-ma-make me stay.'

Father calmly took his sports jacket from the hook in the hall and put it on. He checked his image in the mirror by the door, and smoothed down his thinning hair. He looked back at the three of us, his expression remote and dispassionate. T wouldn't want to.'

For the next hour, Mother and I beseeched Ed not to go, but to no avail. Tears streamed down his face as he loaded up an old suitcase with clothes and books, and when he could fit no more in he went into the garage in search of a sack.

'But where will you go?' my mother asked, wringing her hands together in anguish.

'I have friends,' he said vaguely.

'What will you do?' I asked.

'I don't know but anything is better than this.'

'Your exam results will be out in August,' Mother reminded him. 'You'll have to come back then, or at least let me know where you are so I can send them on.'

'I'll be in touch,' he promised. He pulled Mother into his arms and held her tightly. Then, turning to me, he smiled and patted my cheek. 'Cheer up, princess. It will be much easier for you and Mum this way.'

'Don't call me that,' I said in disgust and threw myself into his arms. 'Please don't go.'

'I have to.' Gently, but firmly, he pushed me away, picked up his bags and went to the door. 'If I don't it's only a matter of time before I ki — ki — kill him or he ki — ki — kills me. This is for the best.'

'Wait.' Mother rushed into the kitchen, returning moments later with her sewing box. Opening it, she pulled out a roll of fifty-pound notes from a pocket secreted at the back behind her bobbins and buttons. 'Here.'

His eyes widened. 'Where did you get this?' He flicked through the notes. Even I could see that there were at least twenty.

She smiled though tears rolled down her cheeks. 'It's my rainy-day fund. And today looks like it might get pretty wet.'

He hugged her tightly and then it was she who pushed him away. 'Go on now, before he gets back, or there'll only be more trouble.'

'I love you, Mummy,' he said, walking backwards down the drive.

The childish endearment unleashed a fresh flood of tears. 'I love you too, son.'

I was not so easy to shake off. All the way down to the gate, I begged and pleaded with him not to go, or, at least, to come back after a couple of weeks. 'Father will have calmed down by then and everything will be okay.'

He stopped at the gate and looked at me, his expression a mixture of pity and bewilderment. 'It can never be okay, Dana. Even you must realize that. Now, promise me you'll look after Mother. You're nearly fi -fi — fifteen and well able to st — st — stand up to him. Better than I ever could. Don't let him bully her any more.'

'But what can I do?' I felt tears fill my eyes. He was asking too much. I was just a kid, despite my posturing in front of the bedroom mirror and dreams of romance.

'He lo — lo — loves you, Dana. He'll do anything for you.'

'I hate him,' I said with all the fierceness of youth.

'Maybe, maybe not,' he said mildly. 'But ju — ju -just remember you — you — you're the only one that he cares about. That ma-ma-makes you very powerful.'

Then he was gone.