The Family Gift Read online

  In an instant, he knocked me to the ground and threatened me with a knife.

  I knew he was on something – I could smell the foetid smell of despair, drugs and unwashed human, but my strength vanished. I felt as small as a child. Terrified. Cowering.

  He ripped my handbag off and ran, leaving me bruised and with a broken collarbone. It was all over in thirty seconds and yet it felt so much longer.

  Policemen turned up and a lovely female Garda kept saying I needed something sweet. Someone produced a non-diet soft drink from a machine to restore my blood sugar. Yet despite the kindness afterwards, the residual fear of it all has not gone away. Nobody was caught. Drugged-up muggers are part of society and the garage’s security cameras were on the blink. So nobody’s doing time for it.

  Except me.

  My inspiration for work has dried up. I’m nervy all the time. I’m taking tablets to help me sleep, and worse, the only person I have told about the tablets is Dan. And even then, I’ve implied that I’m getting over it because the family is dealing with so much worse.

  Because compared to what happened to my father last year, being mugged is nothing.

  In September last year, Dad – Lorcan Abalone, larger than life, that glorious mix of gentleman and bon viveur – was hit by a stroke. We knew about strokes – Dan’s father had had one and had recovered with a mild speech defect.

  But my dad – at this point, it appears as if a miracle will be required. His stroke was what the Professor called ‘bilateral infarcts into the caudate heads’, which resulted in a syndrome called Aboulia.

  I dutifully wrote this down when the Professor told us because I knew we’d never remember. We were all in shock, anyway, and these cold medical words were mystifying in our distress.

  ‘Aboulia,’ I’d thought blankly. Sounded like a North African dish. Something with pomegranate and harissa. Not a catastrophic event.

  A percentage of people with this can recover to varying degrees, the Professor explained, but over the months, it became clear that my father was not among them. The neurological damage means that while he is still alive, the man who was Dad has gone. His eyes, silver grey with a ring of blue around the irises like mine and Scarlett’s, stare unseeing at us and at the world. Mum insists he recognises us. I disagree.

  He can no longer happily tell people how he’s grown heritage tomatoes for years; how his elderberry wine is exquisitely palatable; how his surname, Abalone, comes from Spanish ancestors who traded in iridescent abalone shells; how we and Granddad Eddie were the only Abalones in the phone book: ‘unless Con gets himself a wife,’ Dad would say, with a naughty grin at Con, who was – inevitably – between girlfriends.

  Now he mutters, but not in any language we understand. He is not paralysed, but he does not walk or move.

  He is with us and yet, gone.

  The loss is so huge that none of us can get our heads around it.

  And the grief is endless. It’s hard to have any so-called ‘closure’ on continual pain.

  After Dad had spent two months in hospital, and three more in a specialized rehabitilation centre, my mother brought him home, having used much of their savings to have parts of the downstairs of the house converted for a disabled person. Despite all sorts of dire warnings from the nursing home staff about how she would not be able to care for someone so utterly disabled, she is caring for him, with us providing both practical back-up and limited financial help.

  ‘He is coming home with me,’ she said fiercely, ‘where he will be loved. He needs to be at home. So his brain can mend.’

  Dan’s and my fingers found each other as she told the assembled family this. Brains can mend. I now know more about brain plasticity than I ever thought I’d know but there is tragically no sign of any improvement in Dad’s condition.

  Therefore, I cannot talk to my mother about my anxiety/fear/trauma following the attack.

  Imagine the conversation: Your darling husband lies in bed or sits in a wheelchair, cannot feed himself, has no control over any part of his body and does not appear to recognise you – and I want to moan about having been mugged.

  See? No contest.

  So only Dan knows about my insomnia and sleeping tablets; but I cannot let him know how shaken I really am because he will want to wrap me in cotton wool until I get better. I cannot take time off for this to happen. I have too much to do. Besides, I believe in fixing myself. I will fill in my gratitude diaries and attract happiness from the universe, that’s what I’ll do. Can’t do any harm?

  It takes five minutes to find shoes for myself and Teddy, some clothes for her, and my purse.

  We are now within three minutes of a fabulous Italian coffee shop, not to mention a deli, a pub called McQueen’s, a butcher’s, a SuperSpar, a fruit and vegetable shop so narrow that it looks as if only one person can fit in it at once, and a hairdresser’s called Sharleen’s Coiffeurs. We did a serious recce before buying and, coupled with the fact that we were actually only moving ten streets away from our old house, the presence of all these adorable shops plus a village green swung it for us.

  Well, that and the wall and the seven-foot gate.

  Bellavista sounds like a town perched on an Italian sea clifftop, boasting hordes of tourists, tiny but wildly expensive hotels where a coffee on the admittedly breathtaking terrace will cost you a day’s salary, and where fast foreign cars complete with elegant tanned people litter the place.

  In reality, it’s a small part of the city with a village-y look to it because once upon a time, it was a village. That was in the horse and cart era.

  Nowadays, it’s three miles to the centre of Dublin via a traffic-riddled artery into the city.

  Here, it’s blissfully lovely to stroll out of our house and a few yards down the road to the little village proper and the scent of real coffee. The coffee shop is called Giorgio and Patrick’s, so clearly I’m not the only one to feel the Italian vibe.

  Teddy is still discussing what sort of bun she can have – chocolate, chocolate or chocolate – when we arrive at the same time as a very elderly, thin and yet not at all fragile lady with a small fluffy dog on a lead.

  I open the door for her but instead of going in, she smiles a lovely smile up at me and says, ‘You must be Freya.’

  She smiles at my startled glance. ‘You can’t breathe around here with everyone knowing, so we all knew your family had bought Clare’s old house. Then we saw the moving vans yesterday. Who is this little angel? Are you going for cakes? They have lovely ones.’

  Teddy gazes up at the woman thoughtfully.

  ‘I like chocolate buns,’ she confides, bustling past us both.

  And then we are in, dog too, which is a no-no in the catering world, into a lovely, truly Italian-style café where both the scent of the coffee and the pastries make me swoon.

  ‘I’m Miss Primrose,’ says the elderly lady, ‘and this,’ she looks behind her to where her dog should be waiting diligently at the door, ‘is Whisper.’

  ‘Lovely to meet you, Miss Primrose,’ I say and look around for Teddy, who has pulled Whisper with her into the café.

  ‘This is Teddy,’ I say, and realise my daughter has clambered up and inserted her top half into the only bit of the pastry cabinet accessible from the customer side. Her new partner in crime is watching expectantly.

  ‘Teddy, get down and bring the doggy back,’ I mutter, waiting for an owner to emerge and have a spasm at this canine intrusion.

  Teddy does, but only when she has a pastry in her hand. I whisk a plate out of a stack and hiss: ‘put it on the plate.’

  Teddy ignores me.

  A tall, tanned man smiles at us all over the steam. He must be unable to see Whisper, I think.

  ‘Giorgio,’ says Miss Primrose, doing introductions. ‘This is Freya and Teddy.’

  ‘Buongiorno,’ he says.
/>   ‘Oh, you’re Italian,’ I say, delightedly. The Italian people are such wonderful cooks. Love children, even pastry-stealing ones. Possibly used to small dogs in cafés; but probably teacup varieties ensconsed in expensive handbags . . .

  Giorgio eyes me for a moment, working out who I am and the smile falters.

  He hates my show, I think instantly. Took umbrage at my Irish version of ragu? Thinks women who weren’t born in Napoli should stay away from fiddling with pizza in cooking shows? Mildred leaps into action and hits me with one of my biggest fears: You’re a fraud, Freya. No more cooking shows for you.

  And then Giorgio smiles shyly.

  ‘George, really,’ he whispers, in a voice so low it could be whispering the Official Secrets Act at me.

  Miss Primrose beams.

  ‘He only tells people he really likes,’ she confides. ‘George has a sixth sense about people.’

  I could tell her that people tell me all sorts of mad things because I have that sort of face, but I don’t.

  George slips out of his Italian accent: ‘I was born in Coolock but Italian coffee shops have the edge, don’t you think? Giorgio and Patrick’s sounds better than George and Patrick’s.’

  I pat George’s tanned hand and his giant, rose gold watch jingles. ‘You look Italian and you talk Italian, Giorgio,’ I say. ‘That’s good enough for me. I thought you were going to tell me I was a useless chef . . .’

  ‘We adore you!’ he breathes. ‘I made your stuffed loin of pork for our third date. Patrick loves it.’

  ‘You’d never believe how many people tell me I’m useless when they meet me,’ I confess.

  ‘Patrick does martial arts,’ says Giorgio, angry on my behalf. ‘We’ll have them all given a karate punch or whatever you call it for the sheer rudeness.’

  ‘I only did four karate classes and it clashed with body pump night,’ interrupts a beautifully groomed man with hair so black he already has a five o’clock shadow. ‘I wouldn’t say I’m an expert.’

  Giorgio, Miss Primrose and I laugh and after that, we are bosom friends.

  All except Teddy, who has been surreptitiously feeding the pastry filled with crème anglaise to Miss Primrose’s small dog, who will probably be sick later, and now wants more pastry just for herself.

  ‘Chocolate?’ she says sweetly, as if nobody has noticed the creaminess/crumbs on her rosebud mouth and all down her top.

  Finally, full of coffee and pastry, we are all kindred spirits, as it’s leaving time.

  ‘Whisper usually waits outside,’ says Miss Primrose with a definite smile, staring down at her dog.

  I smile back. ‘Teddy loves dogs and she may have led Whisper astray,’ I say, and I shuffle us all out the door before someone reports the café for health code violations.

  Myself and a hyped-up Teddy head for home with a take-out latte for Dan.

  He greets me in the kitchen, still woolly-headed from sleep, and delighted to see coffee for himself.

  This morning, he has an uncomfortable look on his face.

  ‘My mother was thinking of coming with house-warming presents on Monday or Tuesday afternoon when the children are home from school, if you’re not working. I can be here.’

  ‘Gwanny,’ says Teddy, scenting presents for herself. She has her eye on a Sylvanian family mansion that will make ours look small.

  ‘Yes, Gwanny and she asks if she can bring Mrs Markham,’ Dan says at speed.

  Break bad news hastily.

  I’m glad I have some quality caffeine inside me to soften the blow.

  Why now?

  Mrs Markham is Elisa’s mother, a steely woman who runs an interior design firm where ordinary side-table lamps cost thousands and curtains could set you back the price of a small car. We see her once a year at Christmas at a neutral venue, once or twice with Elisa when the international modelling world (snort) can let her go. Elisa has a nose like a 747. Have I mentioned this?

  ‘Why does Adele want to see us now?’ I say to Dan, managing not to snap. ‘It’s not Christmas.’

  ‘They wouldn’t stay long,’ he says, not answering my question.

  ‘But why does she want to come here?’

  ‘She told my mother she wants to see Lexi. It doesn’t have to be here.’

  ‘Well, she can’t,’ I say, fear and anger battling for supremacy in my mind.

  I do not want any part of Elisa’s family involved with my daughter apart from at specifically designated times. How dare Elisa’s mother think she can waltz in here now and see her and us.

  ‘She has a gift for Lexi. An aunt died, there’s a piece of jewellery for each of the grandchildren . . .’

  Dan’s voice trails off when he sees my face.

  ‘The grandchildren?’ I hiss. ‘Where was the worry for the grandchildren when Lexi was little?’

  Roughly translated, this means: where was Adele Markham when it came to installing moral values or basic common sense into her daughter so she would not leave her child behind in restaurants.

  I burn on Lexi’s behalf about this. Elisa handed her over and drifted off to Spain, child forgotten. How could she?

  I know Dan also feels huge guilt over how he never realised how hopeless a mother Elisa was, but he doesn’t care in the same long-range way I do. He says he tries very hard to like Elisa – ‘for Lexi’s sake’, he always points out, lest I go into one of my ‘you’re sticking up for her!’ rants.

  ‘Point taken,’ he says easily. ‘Mum can come alone. I thought I’d mention it.’

  ‘It’s mentioned,’ I say, but I feel scared. And angry. Why now? Lexi knows who gave birth to her but as Elisa married some rich Spanish guy and now bakes herself the colour and texture of unpolished mahoghany in a ritzy Mediterranean spot, she is gloriously out of reach.

  Why does her mother want to come now, away from our strictly agreed Christmas schedule?

  Not that I believe in novenas, but I immediately plan to get Granny Bridget saying one of her ‘for hopeless cases’ ones on the grounds that I need all the spiritual help I can get to keep the Markhams out of our lives.

  I might stick a few rowan tree branches in a vase too, as well as finding my ancient smudging stick – Maura got it somewhere and gave it to me. It is supposed to protect your home, although when you burn it, it does smell like a music festival circa 1980 in a marijuana-ish way.

  Mind you, who knows where it is. If I can barely find knickers, what odds are there of finding spiritual smudging things to ward off the evil of Adele Markham?

  You need to dejunk or your elderly corpse will be found in a mound of old clothes, magazines and wine bottles, Mildred reminds me primly.

  ‘Latte, no sugar,’ I say, handing the coffee to Dan, who looks no more pleased than I am. ‘The Barista Baby is broken.’

  3

  It never gets easier: you just learn how to be stronger

  At ten o’clock on Saturday night, I am comatose with exhaustion from unpacking boxes and everyone else is finally in bed. Except me.

  I feel unsettled in our new house, partly because not all the windows have curtains. Outside, our slightly wild garden has transformed into a murky, dark place, full of unidentifiable shapes. But still, I reassure myself, we have a wall and a big gate. Right?

  I’m sitting with a cup of valerian tea – I do try everything to sleep, nobody can say I don’t – in front of the TV in the tiny den off the kitchen, a room which does have curtains. Dan, who is techy but tetchy after a long time trying to fix his coffee machine, had connected the TV early in the day, mainly because Liam had actually thrown a mini tantrum at the thought of not being able to play Xbox.

  ‘But, but you said I could, you said, you said that, that I’d be able to and that it would be OK and . . .’

  For the most easy-going child in the world, these words were the e
quivalent of a screaming-on-the-floor tantrum.

  Afterwards, during which time Liam had said ‘sorry’ several times, he sat in front of it for his allotted hour before smiling and beaming.

  He is such a good child. Lexi is less biddable. The Wi-Fi is only working periodically and discussions about how it was supposed to have been installed by the previous day and how the Wi-Fi Gods are to be called out on Monday, are having no effect. She is on a slow simmer.

  But still, she’d unpacked and made her bedroom as pretty as was humanly possible, with my help and some unasked-for assistance from Teddy, who felt that at least ten of her cuddly animals lined up on the bed would make anyone happy.

  ‘They are on their holidays,’ she said to her big sister with an adoring face. Teddy is Lexi’s little handmaiden and secretly, though she doesn’t really know it yet, wants to be like Lexi when she is older.

  ‘They are yours and I don’t want them in my room,’ said Lexi, crossly, reaching out an arm and pushing a few of the cuddly unicorns and baby seals off the bed.

  Like I said, Wi-Fi failure can make the best of us miserable.

  ‘Lexi,’ I said, ‘don’t be mean to your little sister. She was only trying to help. Say sorry.’

  Teddy, however, is made of stern stuff. No crying for her.

  ‘Gimme my unicorn seal,’ she hissed, grabbing a purple sparkly thing with a twirling horn. ‘You are horrible!’

  Grabbing up her offerings, and managing to kick over a few of Lexi’s books on the way out, she made a damn good attempt at slamming the door.

  I’d covered up a very big grin because Teddy would make anyone laugh.

  From the look on Lexi’s face it was clear she didn’t feel like laughing.

  ‘She idolises you,’ I told Lexi.

  ‘I wish she wouldn’t keep coming into my bedroom,’ said Lexi crossly. ‘It’s private.’

  ‘I know, darling.’