When Daddy Comes Home Page 6

  I opened my window to smell the salty air and to hear the crash of the waves as they met the shore. This was the Ireland that I enjoyed, a country that without my past, I could have felt part of.

  We drove through tiny hamlets with their small, squat, single-storey houses lining the streets. Instead of the raggedy-dressed children with their red, wind-chapped legs showing above Wellington boots that I remembered from my youth, I saw ones dressed in mini teenage outfits, riding gleaming bicycles or cruising along on skateboards.

  Hanging baskets decorated the freshly painted pubs, proclaiming that they were no longer only a male domain.

  We arrived at our destination, a small seaside town that boasted not only window boxes and hanging baskets, but blackboards placed on pavements advertising ‘pub grub’. Northern Ireland had moved into the twenty-first century.

  We pulled up outside an old grey stone double-fronted Victorian house. Although its austere exterior had not been altered, it had been converted several decades earlier into a smart restaurant.

  We entered and stepped back into another time. With its dark wood interior and heavy furniture, it had hardly changed since I had first visited nearly thirty years ago. Then I had been escorted by a boyfriend who had hoped to impress me as he had ushered me in. Unused to such splendour, I had searched the menu looking for a familiar dish to order, then sat in an agony of indecision as I wondered which cutlery to pick up first. Then I’d ordered chicken Kiev and a bottle of Mateus rosé wine, which I’d thought then was the pinnacle of sophistication. Now I was used to expensive restaurants and menus no longer frightened me.

  I walked in with confidence and looked about. Regency-striped wallpaper, moss-green carpet and black-and-white clad waiters added to the old-fashioned ambience but those who knew the excellence of the innovative menu were not there in search of metal and glass interiors.

  We went up to the receptionist and asked for a table.

  ‘Certainly, ladies, this way please. I’ll take you to the restaurant,’ she said.

  ‘Actually,’ I said, ‘could you show us into the bar?’

  ‘Are you lunching with us?’ the receptionist asked frostily. ‘Would you not be more comfortable in the restaurant?’

  Ladies at these establishments I knew ordered drinks, preferably a sweet sherry, at their table as they perused the menu. That wasn’t for me.

  ‘I want champagne and oysters first,’ I declared. ‘We’ll have the meal later.’

  The receptionist hesitated for a moment over this breach of etiquette but then showed us the way to the bar where we could sit at a small table in the window and enjoy our treat. ‘Are you and your friend celebrating something?’ she asked with a slight sniff of disapproval; she might not have been overloaded with charm but she still had her curiosity.

  I could have told the truth and said, ‘Yes, I’m celebrating my father’s death.’ But, not wanting to shock her, I took pity and said, ‘We’re just enjoying our holiday. And this place was very highly recommended to us. We’re looking forward to sampling the menu – I’ve heard it’s excellent.’

  Her face softened. She obviously assumed that we were tourists from ‘across the water’ who knew no better, so she forgave our lack of decorum and showed us to a window seat.

  For once my diet was to be forgotten, indulgence was the name of the game. The barman brought over the ice bucket holding the champagne and poured out two glasses. I raised my glass in a toast to my father.

  ‘Thanks, Dad, for the first meal you’ve ever bought me!’

  ‘To good old Joe,’ murmured my friend and, grinning at each other, we clinked glasses conspiratorially. She knew the truth. It was why she had offered to come with me to Ireland and help me. An hour later the champagne bottle was empty, the oysters eaten and it was time to go to the restaurant. We had already ordered a Chateaubriand steak for two with all the accompaniments and a bottle of full-bodied red wine.

  ‘Will one bottle be enough?’ I asked my friend and saw with some amusement the look of consternation that crossed the waiter’s face. Another thing that ladies do not do is get drunk in smart Irish restaurants. He was not to know that we were no strangers to wine and champagne. I was not bothered. I had already decided that we would get a taxi back and leave the car for later.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied firmly but relented when I ordered the cheese board. Afterwards we both agreed that Irish coffees were a must.

  Three Irish coffees later, after we’d talked as old friends do when the hours seem like minutes, we suddenly noticed the day was fading and the restaurant was about to set up for the evening’s customers.

  ‘Time to pay the bill,’ I said, and signalled for the waiter.

  A look of relief crossed his face when he realized we were leaving and not ordering more drink. The bill was presented with discreet speed on a silver salver.

  The receptionist reappeared complete with her original look of disapproval.

  ‘Would that be your red car parked outside?’ she asked.

  I took the hint. ‘Yes. Would it be all right if we left it here till the morning? We’ve enjoyed our meal so much we might have overdone it a little.’ I could see that she heartily agreed. Still, my sensible caution, not to mention the generous tip, seemed to mollify her slightly and with a gracious nod she walked off to order a taxi.

  She held the door open for us as we were leaving. Before we could go, a group of men entered. I knew them – they were members of my father’s golf club.

  ‘So sorry for your recent loss,’ they murmured when they saw me. ‘A terrible thing to lose your father.’

  Behind me, I heard the shattering of illusions.

  I went back to my father’s house that evening. The funeral was the next day and the quicker the house was sorted out, the quicker I could leave town.

  Only then would the past recede and free me from the thoughts of Antoinette that were flooding my mind. The pictures of her came one by one and unwillingly I felt my adult self being pulled back through the years.

  Chapter Ten

  Antoinette tried to ignore him, but she was aware that her father’s eyes followed her every movement. Whatever she was doing – tidying her room, making the tea, watching television, going out to work – he was watching her.

  When she was in the house, Joe expected his daughter to wait on him like an obedient little servant. Outwardly compliant, Antoinette was continually counting the hours until she could leave the house.

  Meanwhile, her mother continued with the game of ‘Daddy’s been working away’. She acted as though he’d only been gone a week. The reality of what had led up to her husband’s absence was a closed book. Ruth was determined that not only would there be no mention of the truth, but that the past was completely rewritten and her part in it whitewashed out. She had never stood by, wilfully blind and silent, as her husband abused their daughter over a period of years. It simply hadn’t happened.

  For Antoinette it seemed that the last two and a half years had vanished. Once again she had become a girl with very limited control over her life. Now that her parents were reunited as a couple, they had become powerful again while she was locked outside their magic circle, floundering on her own and completely at their mercy.

  The lodge no longer felt like the home that Antoinette and her mother had created. Joe’s presence had invaded it: overflowing ashtrays were left by the side of the wing armchair for his daughter to empty; newspapers, open on the sport pages, were tossed to one side while his cup stained with the residue of his numerous cups of tea, made for him by either Antoinette or her mother, sat on the coffee table. There was now a shaving mug in the kitchen and a grubby towel that Antoinette could not bear to touch lay on the draining board.

  Just as two and a half years ago Ruth’s happiness had been dictated by her husband’s moods, so it was now. Her happy smile gradually faded, to be replaced by either frowns of discontent or the expression of the long-time sufferer that Ruth believed herself
to be. Antoinette hardly ever heard her humming the tunes of her favourite songs now. Why couldn’t her mother see it, she wondered. Had she forgotten the simple pleasures of the quiet, harmonious life that they had shared before he had come back? Why would she wish to be back in his control, the whole house governed by his moods and the aura of grim power that surrounded him? It seemed impossible to Antoinette that anyone would want to choose this existence over the one that they had enjoyed together before her father’s release.

  It wasn’t as though there had been any material gain, either. Although her husband got a job as a civilian mechanic working for the army, and was given hours of overtime, somehow his contribution to the housekeeping did not appear to make Ruth’s finances easier. In fact, with one more mouth to feed and the forty-cigarettes-a-day habit that Joe had, money seemed even scarcer.

  Four weeks after he returned home, he announced that he had to work at the weekend. ‘Leave early and back late,’ he had said with his jovial smile.

  ‘Oh Paddy,’ she had protested, using her nickname for him, ‘not on a Saturday. You know I’ve the weekend free.’

  The coffee shop where Ruth was the manageress catered to the professionals who worked a five-day week and without their custom the owner had decided to close after lunchtime on Saturdays, a decision popular with both Ruth and her daughter.

  Seeing the suspicious look that his wife was giving him, Joe’s good-humoured expression changed to one of irritation.

  ‘Well, we need the money, don’t we? Sure, and aren’t you the one who’s always saying you want to move into a larger house in Belfast?’

  Antoinette saw her mother’s face take on the resigned expression that had become familiar over the last few weeks as she replied, ‘Yes, dear.’

  ‘Well, then, what’re you complaining for? It’s time and a half at the weekend. Maybe if that big daughter of yours contributed more instead of spending it all on those clothes and that damn stuff she puts on her face, I wouldn’t need to work so hard.’

  Antoinette waited for her mother to contradict his accusation. She had contributed to the running of the house ever since she had been able to. But Ruth said nothing.

  Although she knew that Ruth had always yearned for a house similar to the one she had grown up in, a gracious Georgian three-storey building, it was the first time Antoinette had heard that plan voiced. It seemed to her that her father wanted to control everything, even where they lived.

  The gate house was comfortable enough for us before he turned up, she thought resentfully. Working overtime is just another excuse to keep his wife quiet.

  She mistrusted his story and, as she saw the triumphant look on his face as he won the short argument, she believed it even less. Knowing that her mother only pretended to accept his reasoning fuelled her resentment even more.

  ‘Going to the greyhound races more like it,’ she muttered under her breath.

  Seeing the expression which had crossed his daughter’s face and reading it correctly, Joe glared at her as he snapped, ‘What are you doing standing there? Help your mother while I’m out – make yourself useful for once.’

  With that parting shot, he left. The noise of the door slamming behind him vibrated in the now-silent room.

  Ruth and her daughter glanced at each other and Antoinette could see the unhappiness on her mother’s face. She hardened her heart to it, for she felt past trying to cheer her mother up. Just for once Ruth could have stood up for her daughter and pointed out that she contributed more than her fair share. She felt the injustice of his remarks and hurt by the usual lack of support from her mother. If she wouldn’t stand up for her, who would?

  Antoinette went to her room hoping that her father would win enough from the dog races to keep him away from the house until she had left for the evening. She knew that she had contributed as much to the housekeeping as he had. With her tips, she earned as much as he did – a fact that fuelled his simmering anger towards her.

  She thought of how he commandeered the television she had bought and sat watching the sports programmes that she detested; how her mother cooked his favourite food, never asking Antoinette what she wished for; how, when her daughter had offered to cook an evening meal, he had jeered at her efforts calling it ‘that dammed fancy muck of yours’. Since his return, except for that one unsuccessful attempt, she was reduced to doing the more menial task of washing up.

  Antoinette had no wish to meet her father when she was dressed for her night out. She knew he would mock her attempts to look nice and knock her fragile self-confidence even further. If he was in a bad mood, she would be his target, a mental punch bag for him to unleash his anger on, anger that now always seemed to simmer close to the surface. Nor did she want to see the sadness on Ruth’s face, though she could not help feeling that her mother had brought her misery upon herself. Antoinette could see no point in having someone in the house who created such a feeling of discord, and she could not understand why her mother had allowed him to return to his old ways in such a short space of time. She heard Joe’s evasions, saw his smugness and watched her mother pandering to his wishes. She felt an increasing contempt for her parents as she saw his dominance and Ruth’s acquiescence.

  When her father was out, her mother would seek her out, keen for company and an ear she could complain into, but this time Antoinette was determined she would not relent and give in to her. Instead she spent the afternoon in her room deciding on which outfit she was going to wear for her night out and finally made her selection. She neatly laid out on the bed a pale yellow dress with a low-cut neck and a straight skirt that had a small back pleat which enabled her to walk freely while emphasizing her slim legs. The broad belt that she had chosen was covered with a darker fabric, which would encircle her waist tightly and make it look slimmer.

  It’s ever so sophisticated, she thought, satisfied with her choice.

  She had bought it in one of the new boutiques that were opening everywhere, full of fashion for teenagers. This place was one of a chain brought over from England that had recently opened in the centre of Belfast. Middle-aged shop assistants had now been replaced with tall, slim model types who wore the fashions so beautifully that all the girls, whatever their size and shape, wanted to copy them.

  She knew the other girls in her group would also have treated themselves to new outfits, for tonight was going to be a special event. There was a new band with a lead clarinet player called Acker Bilk appearing for the first time in Belfast. All the girls had talked excitedly about them. The band’s first record had hit the charts and that alone had put them into a different league than the usual groups who had regularly performed in Northern Ireland.

  Antoinette had arranged to meet her friends at seven thirty in their usual haunt, the coffee shop where only a few weeks ago she had met her father, though she tried not to think about that. It was an occasion that made her grimace with distaste every time she remembered it.

  She was contentedly listening to the latest record by Elvis Presley, a new one she had bought. With a glass of vodka in one hand and a forbidden cigarette in the other, she squinted against the plume of smoke, she moved in time to the music. In her imagination she was already on the dance floor, receiving admiring looks as she put into practice the new steps she had learnt.

  Judy, knowing that Antoinette’s preparations were a prelude to leaving, eyed her dolefully from the nest she had made on the bed.

  Antoinette checked the mirror again to see if her carefully applied make-up needed any finishing touches.

  ‘Just some lipstick,’ she said to herself, and then decided to wait until her drink was finished and the last drag of the cigarette taken. She wanted to savour these few moments. She felt relaxed and almost happy, for it seemed her wish had been granted and her father was not going to return until after her departure.

  The volume of the music drowned out the sound of the front door slamming. Her short-lived peace was abruptly shattered by an angry roar and she k
new at once, with a feeling of dread, that her father’s afternoon drinking must have followed losses at the race track. He would only have come back early if he’d run out of money and the anger in Joe’s voice as it carried up the stairs and invaded her room proclaimed that the day had not gone his way. Somehow that would be someone else’s fault. It always was. Antoinette would, she knew, become the target of his unpredictable temper. Unable to ignore the fierce shout, she opened her bedroom door with trepidation.

  ‘Antoinette, get yourself down here and turn that blasted music off, do you hear me?’

  Reluctantly she shot back into her room, removed the record from the turntable and went downstairs. Her father stood at the bottom step, his face puce with alcohol-induced rage. Behind him she saw her mother, her face wearing its usual impassive expression, her mouth fixed in a small tight smile, as she sat in her chair watching her daughter and her husband.

  Antoinette understood that as usual, there would be no help from that quarter and stood silently waiting to hear what her father wanted. Marring her pleasure in going out with her friends would be top of his list, for if he had not enjoyed his day, the thought of her enjoying her evening would be insufferable.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going with all that muck on your face, my girl?’

  ‘Just to the local dance with my friends.’ She hid her agitation and replied in a calm voice, hoping to placate his ill temper.

  ‘Well, you look a sight. You’re not leaving my house looking like that.’

  He reached his arm out and pulled her roughly towards him. Gripping her chin and lifting her face, he studied it contemptuously.

  Antoinette recoiled at the smell of his breath, and he felt her flinch but knew she was too scared to protest. Joe sneered while his fingers dug in to the sensitive flesh of her cheeks even harder. ‘Go to the sink and wipe some of that damn make-up off,’ he instructed.