Francesca's Party (11 page)

His father was having an affair. He had to be. Why else would his mother have kicked him out? Owen felt sick to his stomach. How could his dad do that
to
his mam? Poor, poor Francesca, he thought, full of pity for his mother. By God, when he met his father, he’d let him have it. He really would, Owen thought grimly as the train trundled out of the station towards the southside suburbs.

TWO TRAINS PASSED
through the station and there was no sign of his son. Mark wondered whether he had changed his mind. He was tempted to phone Owen on his mobile but decided against it until one more train had pulled in. The longer he waited the more agitated he got. He saw the barriers go down and heard the dull clickety-clack of an incoming train. He sat, tense and apprehensive, watching a dribble of passengers come through the exit gate, and then experienced a thud of recognition as he saw the familiar gangly lope of his youngest son. Owen looked uncharacteristically serious as he scanned the street looking for the car.

Mark tooted the horn and waved as Owen looked over in his direction. His son did not wave back. Mark took a deep breath. It was ridiculous but he felt like he had when he was six years old and Gerald was berating him for some childish misdemeanour.

‘Hello, son.’ He kept his tone even as Owen opened the car door and sat in beside him.

Owen did not return the greeting. ‘What’s going on, Dad?’ It was clear that he was very angry.

Mark ignored the question and switched on the ignition. ‘Let’s drive to the car park overlooking the sea. I’m on double yellows here.’

‘Fuck the double yellows. No-one’s going to do you at this hour of the night. You’re seeing another woman, aren’t you?’ Owen accused belligerently.

‘Is that what your mother said?’ Mark said flatly.

‘Mam said nothing, Dad. Nothing! You’re seeing someone else, aren’t you? Some silly blonde bimbo with big tits and her skirts up to her arse who flatters you and makes you feel good and lets you spend a fortune on her ’cos you’re a fucking vain idiot who’s lost the run of himself.’ Owen spat out his accusations with a ferocity that took Mark aback.

‘It’s not like that, Owen,’ he protested. ‘Nikki is not a bimbo. And it’s not what I wanted to happen.’

‘You’re pathetic, Dad,’ Owen shouted, his face twisted with contempt. ‘You’re just a middle-aged git trying to get his leg over some bit of stuff until she dumps you for some other sad idiot.’

‘Owen, don’t judge someone until you’ve stood in their shoes.’ Mark tried to keep his temper in check. ‘You don’t know any of the circumstances.’

‘It’s enough to know that you’ve treated Mam like shit and to know that I’m ashamed to call you my father.’ Owen jumped out of the car and slammed the door behind him. He ran across the road and disappeared into the Dart station.

Mark sat immobile as his son’s shaming, accusatory words replayed in his brain. A pathetic, middle-aged, sad git. You couldn’t fall much lower than that, he
thought
dispiritedly. Each cruel slur hurt in a way that he hadn’t thought possible. He felt wounded. Owen hadn’t even wanted to listen to any explanation he might have given. He’d simply taken Francesca’s side and jumped to her defence. That was painful. Much more painful and guilt-provoking than he’d been prepared for.

Nikki had been right about Owen’s anger, he thought wearily. It might be a long, long time before he and his son could salvage what had been a very loving relationship. Mark heard a northbound train come in and the barriers went down once more. Minutes later the train moved out of the station and, very clearly, for a moment he saw his son sitting gazing into space with a look of immense sadness on his face.

It was Mark’s undoing. Memories of his birth, his first tooth, his first steps, childhood milestones, passed through his mind and he buried his head and cried as he had never cried before.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry
, he called silently as the train slowly disappeared from view and the red and white barriers lifted and strangers in their cars gave him peculiar looks as they flashed by.

Owen was trembling as he sat on the northbound train. What a bollocks his father was. He despised him beyond belief. The memory of his mother’s drawn, tired face made him clench his hands into fists and he was suddenly sorry that he hadn’t clocked his father one. It would have given him immense satisfaction.

Thinking of him with another woman was revolting. Owen gave a shudder. It was bad enough to
think
of your parents having sex anyway without thinking of them having sex with strangers. What was that woman like? That Nikki. Didn’t she know that his father was married? Had she no morals? he thought indignantly, forgetting completely about the time he’d had the hots for a mate’s sexy mother and for months had thought of nothing else but doing it with her. Another thought struck him. He was supposed to be going to America for Christmas. He’d been saving like mad from his part-time job in a local printer’s and he’d been looking forward to it mightily. He just couldn’t go off and leave his mother on her own at Christmas. She’d need all the support she could get, he thought glumly. His life had just turned upside down and it looked like one disaster after another was heading his way, he reflected as the train sped towards home.

‘Under no circumstances are you cancelling your trip to see Jonathan,’ said Francesca firmly when Owen told her of his plans to stay at home. He’d come in, pale and exhausted-looking, and declared that he was not going away for Christmas.

‘I’m not leaving you here on your own. What sort of a son do you think I am?’ he demanded indignantly.

‘I think you’re a wonderful son, my love,’ she said gently. ‘I couldn’t wish for better. But I’d feel far happier knowing that you and Jonathan were together supporting each other, especially as he’s so far away from home. When he finds out what’s happened he’s going to need a bit of support too.’

‘But what about you? What will you do?’ He brightened. ‘Why don’t you come too?’

‘No, Owen. I know that you’ve planned to go skiing and it’s only a couple of months since I was in the States. And anyway …’ She paused, unsure. ‘I suppose I’ll have to start cutting down a bit until things are sorted.’

‘But what will you do? You can’t stay here on your own for Christmas.’ Owen was aghast.

‘Of course I’m not staying here on my own for Christmas,’ she said briskly. ‘I’ve arranged to go to Millie and you know how I love being with the girls, so that will be nice for me.’

‘It’s going to be a bummer of a Christmas,’ Owen blurted out.

‘Owen, it will be what we make it and my life will be much better and happier if I know that you’re having a good time with your brother.’

‘He’s a bollocks, Ma! Da’s a bollocks.’ The tears came to Owen’s eyes and he cried like a baby, great gulping sobs that broke her heart as she wrapped her arms around him. The youthful, musky scent of him brought the tears to her own eyes.

‘Don’t say that, Owen. He’s your father,’ she whispered.

‘Well, I wish he wasn’t after what he’s done to you,’ he said brokenly.

She couldn’t answer and they held each other for a long time, crying out their grief for what would never be again.

SHE COULD HONESTLY
say it was the worst Christmas of her life, Francesca reflected as she ironed Owen’s shirt and added it to the growing pile under the ironing board. Owen was packing for his trip to America and his bedroom was in a state of absolute chaos. She didn’t have the heart to nag him about it. He had enough to contend with, she thought guiltily.

The phone rang. She was loath to answer it. She didn’t want to talk to people. The answering machine clicked in. She heard her oldest son’s deep voice begin a message. Hastily she snatched up the receiver of the kitchen extension.

‘Hi, Jonathan. I’m here. Hold on until I switch off the machine.’ She hurried into the hall, switched off the answering machine and picked up the receiver. ‘Hi.’

‘Hi, Mam. How are you feeling?’ Jonathan asked awkwardly. He’d been totally shocked when his father had phoned him to say that he and Francesca had separated and that he was with someone else.
He’d
phoned Francesca immediately and offered to come home, but, touched as she was by his concern, she wouldn’t hear of it.

‘I’m OK, Jon, I’m just ironing your brother’s shirts. If he was left to his own devices he’d come over to you looking like a ragamuffin,’ she said lightly.

‘Are you sure that you won’t come with him? Or are you sure that you wouldn’t like me to come home?’

‘No, love, to tell you the truth I’m looking forward to a bit of time on my own to think things out and see where I go from here. I’m really glad that Owen’s going out to you. It’s been very tough on him here. It will do him good,’ Francesca said firmly.

‘Well, if you’re sure. We’ll ring you at Millie’s on Christmas Day,’ Jonathan assured her.

Francesca smiled. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’ They chatted briefly and she put the phone down reluctantly, wanting to maintain the contact.

It had all been extremely difficult, especially when she’d had to explain to her parents why Mark and the boys would not be visiting on Christmas Day. Francesca groaned as she ironed a particularly stubborn crease on a pair of jeans remembering her mother and father’s shock when she’d initially told them that she and Mark had separated.

‘But why? We all go through difficult times. We have to get over them. That’s what marriage is all about. We can’t just turn and run when the going gets tough,’ Maura Johnson said bossily. ‘Your father and I had to tough things out. This divorce thing has made life far too easy for people. You can’t run away from problems, Francesca.’

Francesca gritted her teeth. ‘I’m not running away, Mother.’

‘Well then, tell Mark to come home and stop this nonsense and sort it out. You have two children to think of, after all. Poor things. What about them?’ Her mother was clearly not at all impressed and certainly felt no sympathy for her.

Francesca held her tongue. She couldn’t bear to tell her mother that Mark was with someone else. Her mother was dreadful for interfering, and she still treated the boys as if they were five years old.

Several phone calls later, with Maura demanding to know if Mark was back home and had they sorted themselves out for Christmas, Francesca flipped.

‘Mother, I’ve told you, we’ve separated. There isn’t going to be a family Christmas this year. Owen’s gone to spend Christmas with Jonathan. Mark’s with another woman, so for God’s sake will you leave me alone!’

‘He’s with another woman?’ Maura’s voice went into orbit. A brief silence followed as she digested the news. Then: ‘Why is he with another woman? Were you refusing him his … his marital rights?’ she demanded.

Francesca thought she was going to explode. ‘No, Mother, I was not refusing to have sex with him. You’ll have to ask him why he’s seeing someone else. Goodbye.’ She slammed down the phone in a temper. Her mother was still so old-fashioned about marriage and sex. She’d led a very sheltered life as a young girl and had grown up with the notion that sex was a duty, not a pleasure. No wonder Francesca had been terrified of sleeping with Mark before their
marriage,
she thought resentfully, remembering his complaints about having to get married to have decent sex.

‘Well now, Francesca, you hardly expected any different? Poor Ma,’ Millie laughed a few days later when Francesca conveyed this latest nugget. ‘You know you’ve disgraced the family by separating. What on earth is she going to tell “the Relations”? You don’t think Mother’s going to change at this stage in her life, now do you?’ Millie added quizzically.

‘As if I haven’t enough on my plate.’ Francesca scowled. ‘Thanks for having me stay with you over Christmas. I’d go loony otherwise.’

‘Well, what would you be rattling around the house for on your own now that Owen’s gone?’ Millie declared.

Owen had left for New York the previous day, still protesting that he wanted to be with Francesca for Christmas. She’d made a supreme effort and put on such a façade that she was coping and looking forward to a flop time with her sister that he’d half believed her, but his eyes studied her intently as he prepared to go airside.

‘Are you sure, Mam?’

‘Honest, I’m positive.’ She grinned. ‘Now have a ball, Owen, and for God’s sake don’t break your neck on the ski slopes.’

‘I won’t, Ma, don’t worry. Are you
sure
you don’t want me to stay?’

‘Scoot.’ She gave him a playful shove. ‘And give Jonathan a huge big hug and a kiss for me.’

‘I will,’ he promised. And she knew it would be a
relief
for him to get away and be normal and not have to consider her feelings and state of mind. Sometimes she felt the trauma of the break-up was hardest on him. She could see him watching her carefully as if he were afraid that she would crack up; sometimes she found it difficult to keep a show of normality going for his sake when all she wanted to do was to stay in bed all day and cry and feel sorry for herself.

Nevertheless, it was the loneliest moment of her life as she watched him disappear from view amidst all the festive glitter of the airport.

Mark had returned home several times before Owen went away. He’d always phoned her first to make sure that she’d be there. He’d had to collect bits and pieces and Francesca wished that he’d come home some day and take everything that belonged to him so that he would no longer have an excuse for dropping by.

Owen had always remained in his room until he had gone, ignoring requests to talk or go for a drink. It gave Francesca some satisfaction to see that Mark didn’t appear too happy himself. He looked grey and strained and uncomfortable and their conversations were clipped and polite.

Gerald had not phoned again and Francesca was agog with curiosity to know what Mark had told him, but her pride wouldn’t allow her to ask. She was still using their joint account; money was not a problem. Mark, whatever his faults, was not mean, but Francesca knew that she would feel much better when their financial situation was ironed out.