It Could Never Happen Here, page 23
..................
Nuala Patterson hadn’t spoken a word to Connie Whitehead for more than eight months and now she’d had to phone her twice in as many weeks. As soon as Nuala explained why she was calling, Connie was overcome with concern.
‘Are you sure it was Woody? I don’t think I’ve ever heard him utter that word. The teacher’s jumper? No, his jacket. When did this happen? And you’re sure it was him?’
They made an appointment for Connie to come and see her on Monday and then Nuala hung up. She was tired. She had spoken to Leo for the first time in weeks last night. He’d finally agreed to take her call, and he had been worse than she feared: bitter and angry and completely incapable of counting his blessings. Three times, he’d reminded her he was in a wheelchair, as if it excused everything else. If she was any sort of mother, she’d drive to Dublin and give Leo a good talking-to, remind him how other people’s lives had ended up – or just ended. But she wasn’t a good mother. She was a coward. And he knew that, which only made his anger towards her worse.
The last bell rang, and the students left the building. She powered off her laptop and gathered up several files to tackle over the weekend, though in her heart-of-hearts she knew she’d be returning on Monday with the same folders unopened.
She was just lacing up her runners when there was a knock on her door.
‘Oh, Cian, hello.’
‘Do you have a moment?’ asked the doctor, who was carrying a couple of sheets of paper in one hand and his black box in the other.
‘Of course, come in,’ she said, hurriedly looping a knot and standing. ‘Oh, shoot. I was meant to come and fix up with you, wasn’t I? I completely forgot. I have your payment here.’ She rustled through the loose pages on her desk until she found the envelope Mairead had labelled ‘Dr O’Sullivan’. ‘Thank you so much, again, for doing this. We’re very appreciative. How was your second session? Fruitful?’ She leaned forward and removed a couple of the pages that had spilled from her desk on to the chair on the far side. ‘Do you want to sit?’
‘I’m fine,’ he said, placing the box on the seat instead.
‘Did that work?’ asked Nuala. ‘Did they tell you all their secrets?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, good.’
‘That’s why I’m here.’
She frowned.
‘This afternoon I spoke to the class about the dangers of putting images online or sending them to someone else. Not explicitly about sexting but generally about privacy and how they might think they’re sending a photo to one person, but they can never be sure of that. The focus is really on feeling comfortable and keeping themselves safe and happy.’
‘Okay …’
‘I asked if they had ever shared material that they wouldn’t like to get out into the wider world. Nobody put their hand up. That’s pretty common among pre-pubescent and pubescent children, particularly in a mixed class.’
Nuala nodded. She had no idea where this was going, but she knew she wouldn’t like it.
‘So, I invited them to use the box. It worked well yesterday for any questions they had. I asked them to write down whatever they would like to tell me on this subject and to put it in the box. I’d marked the corners of the slips of paper, so I knew who they were coming from. I didn’t get to look at the slips until the class was over. And now I’m thinking I should do a third session.’
‘Oh, well, I’m not sure we have the funds, but I can check … Why, though? What did they say?’
‘Maeve wasn’t the only girl who sent Woody a nude photograph.’
Nuala blew air out through her lips. She’d had enough of Woody Whitehead for one day. For one lifetime.
‘Let me guess … Ciara Murphy?’
He looked down at his sheets of paper. ‘Yes.’
Nuala nodded. This was all she needed. ‘Thanks for letting me know. I’ll call her parents.’
‘Any other guesses, or shall I just tell you?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Several girls said they sent him naked photos of themselves.’
Nuala frowned. ‘How many is several?’
The doctor looked at the piece of paper again, which she now saw was a list.
‘Three? Four? I refuse to guess more than four …’
‘Seven.’
‘Seven?’
‘And three others received photos of him but didn’t send any in return.’
‘Ten students! He sent nudes to ten female students? Jesus Christ. That must be some sort of record. There can’t be more than fifteen girls in the whole class.’
‘Fourteen.’
‘Fuck. Fuck! Sorry, Cian.’
The man shook his head. ‘It is worrying behaviour.’
That was a lot of parents to phone. And as soon as she did, they’d be ramming on her door, be that at school or at home. Could she put that off to Monday morning? She could certainly do her best.
Ten, though. Ten. Was there something wrong with the boy? A chill ran through Nuala. When the Lakers found out about this, there would be war. There was no way Beverley Franklin would let it go now.
Woody Whitehead. Of all the students. Would she never be free of that family?
‘Are you sure they were all from Woody?’
The doctor nodded. ‘Every single one.’
30
••••••
ABERSTOWN GARDA STATION
Joey had finally finished typing up the entire day’s statements and was reading back over them. He kept hoping the pathology office would call with their initial findings and, in the sergeant’s absence, it would be up to him to handle it. But the phone hadn’t rung since Whelan headed off to see the wife.
He finished one transcript and began reading over the next. Halfway down the page, he noticed something. He flicked back a few files and saw the same thing again. Different witnesses referring to different instances, but they were both making the same point. He allowed himself a dramatic gasp, then jumped to his feet. He hiked his trousers up so far that he gave himself a mild wedgy. Ignoring the pain, he lunged across the table for the phone.
‘What is it?’ barked Whelan, answering on the squad car’s Bluetooth system after the first ring.
‘Sorry to disturb you, sir, but I’m just after noticing something and I think it could be important.’
‘Spit it out, Delaney. I’m about to go into the house.’
‘A couple of our witnesses mentioned there being animosity between our man and another Glass Lake employee. Seems there was a bit of bad blood, though I’m not sure why.’
Down the line, Joey heard the muffled sound of wind and the low beep of the squad car being locked from the outside.
‘Is that worth investigating?’
‘How the bloody hell would I know?’
‘Sir?’
‘Call them in, Delaney!’
‘So, I have permission to conduct supplementary questioning?’
‘Yes, you have … Jesus wept. Just get to the bottom of it and leave me alone!’
The line went dead but Joey felt only triumph. Finally, he had a lead.
..................
Christine Maguire, parent
If you’d told me a few days ago that I’d be in here speaking to you about something terrible happening to someone from Glass Lake, I’d have put money on Woody Whitehead. Isn’t that awful? He’s only a child. But try telling that to the Lakers. I presume you heard what happened at the school on Monday? Absolute anarchy. You’d have a real whodunnit on your hands if Woody was the subject of your investigation, because the suspect list would be long, and the Lakers would be top of it.
Lorna Farrell, parent
It’s a blessing he doesn’t have children. I’m not saying being a parent always makes you a better person, but let’s be honest: it would make his death more tragic. I saw him earlier in the day, talking to Nuala Patterson down by Cooney Pier. It looked like they were arguing, which I thought was strange. I gave the horn a little toot to say, ‘hello’, and I saw Nuala see me, but she didn’t so much as wave. That’s the only bit that wasn’t suspicious. The woman has always been doggedly rude.
Nuala Patterson, principal
We were discussing school business, all entirely mundane. So mundane, in fact, that I can barely remember a word of it. Lorna Farrell told you that, didn’t she? She still hasn’t forgiven me for what happened at Glass Lake on Monday.
31
••••••
THREE DAYS EARLIER
‘Lights, a stór! Lights!’ Frances cried from the passenger seat. Beverley Franklin brought the Range Rover to a sudden stop, causing her body to strain against the seatbelt and the burning sensation to return to her chest.
The traffic control had never flashed orange. It had gone from green to red with absolutely no warning. She could have sworn it.
Frances exhaled just as her suitcase rolled on to its side on the back seat and tumbled down on to the floor.
‘Good thing I put my vagina in the boot,’ she said cheerfully.
The students of her three-day tantric workshop had been so invigorated by Frances’ teachings (‘Invigorated’ was her mother’s word) that they’d clubbed together and bought her a large glass sculpture shaped like a vagina. Frances said it was abstract, but there was nothing abstract about the raw flesh tones or the wide, open slit. It was hand blown, which surprisingly was not more innuendo but an actual term for how the glass was moulded. Frances offered to leave it with her daughter as a thank-you for her hospitality – ‘You could put it on the hall table, throw your keys into it’ – but Beverley had packed it up this morning and left it by the front door with the rest of her mother’s things.
‘I must get Bill Farrell to check these traffic lights,’ she muttered. If there was something wrong with the colour filter, it would need to be fixed. Cooney did not want another traffic accident.
The lights went green and she started the engine again. ‘Isn’t it amazing, how one family, or really one boy, can wreak so much havoc and cause so much destruction in one town?’
‘Oh, now. You’re not talking about Arlo Whitehead again, are you?’
‘It’s Monday. That means it’s three days since Ella stepped foot out of her bedroom.’
‘It’s not quite that bad. She has used the toilet, and she came down to say goodbye to me this morning …’
‘She’s miserable. And it’s all that gigolo’s fault. Fiona Murphy’s the same age as his mother, for Christ’s sake!’
‘It’s hard to stand by when your daughter’s in pain, I know. And it’s hard to offer help and have it rejected at every turn. But at least Ella knows she’s hurting, and that is the first step to healing. Now you said you were going to leave it alone.’
Beverley had said no such thing. She had no choice but to leave Ella alone. Her daughter had locked herself away after Friday’s accidental revelation about her cheating boyfriend.
Boyfriend! The word wailed in her head. How could Ella have a boyfriend and Beverley not know? They used to tell each other everything. She was hurt and bewildered by her daughter keeping the relationship secret, and maybe a little disappointed – a Whitehead! Of all people! – but she wasn’t angry at her. That was reserved entirely for the gangly lothario.
‘Lights, Beverley!’ Frances screamed, as the car came to another sudden stop, the suitcase bouncing about in the back. ‘Sweet heavens above!’
‘I’m going around to his house after I drop you to the station,’ she said, as her mother groaned.
‘Beverley, no. He probably won’t be there.’
‘Well then, I’ll talk to his mother. When we’re done discussing Arlo, we’ll move on to her other depraved son. So many daughters to exploit; so little time.’ She brought her right hand to her chest. ‘You don’t have any Rennie on you, do you?’
‘You know I only use home remedies, crumpet.’
‘Well, have you any hocus-pocus potions for heartburn?’
‘Afraid not.’
Beverley straightened her back. Righting her posture helped. ‘I’ll drop you at the station, swing by Regan’s Chemist, and then it’s on to the Whiteheads for a little tête à tête.’
‘Ella won’t thank you for it.’
Beverley lived in constant fear of losing her daughters, of one day waking up to find they no longer wanted to have anything to do with her. It wasn’t just a fear, it was an expectation. This was why she’d wanted to have several children – to increase her chances of being loved. Malachy had dismissed the idea entirely. Franklins had two children, no more no less. He said large families were trashy, which meant Beverley was trashy, although she’d known that already.
‘I can’t get my head around her stubbornness sometimes,’ she said, turning on to Station Road. ‘Amelia is so much easier; she’s a lot more like me.’
Frances laughed and Beverley, who felt exposed enough already, threw her a look.
‘I’m sorry, a stór. I’m not laughing at you; it’s just the idea that you’re more like Amelia than Ella.’
‘I am. Ella’s so headstrong, it’s impossible to tell her anything.’
‘I agree,’ said Frances, the smile audible. ‘I haven’t met a teenager as single-minded since you turned thirteen.’
The train station came into view. Her mother would take a commuter train into the city, and then on to Dublin. Beverley had bought her a first-class ticket, only for her mother to remind her she had the travel pass.
‘I was listening to an item on the radio the other day,’ said Frances. ‘They had this doctor on and she was very interesting.’
‘A real doctor?’
‘Yes.’
‘A medical one?’
‘Yes, of course a medical one. I’m not about to give you a report on tribal cures from the depths of the Amazon rain forest.’
Beverley shrugged as she turned her head from side to side, looking for a parking space. ‘I never know with you.’
‘Anyway, she was talking about eating disorders in older people, particularly women. You won’t fit in there.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘This doctor was saying how there’s been a huge increase in diagnoses among over thirty-fives in the past decade. While teenage rates are pretty constant, older demographics have seen a surge. They can’t be sure if these women are developing eating disorders for the first time, or if they’re flaring up again after years of being dormant, or if maybe they were active all along but the women are finally seeking help.’ She felt her mother’s eyes on her. She kept her own trained on the parking lot. ‘Traumatic life events can trigger them. You know, divorces, or deaths, or even a marital infidelity.’
She stalled the car again, closer to the station. It would be a bit of a squeeze, but she’d manage it. She started to reverse slightly.
‘Crumpet, you might get the car in, but you won’t get me out. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I need a bit of wiggle room.’
Beverley drove on.
‘What really surprised me was that eating disorders are more dangerous when you’re older. Did you know that? You don’t have the reserve of nutrients and the bone density you have in your youth, and your heart finds it more difficult to cope with the weight loss.’
‘I haven’t lost any weight, Mother,’ said Beverley. ‘I’ve been exactly the same weight for the past eight years.’ Nine stone, two pounds. It was annoying that she had stalled so close to a nice round number, but it refused to go any lower. It would happily climb, of course, not that she’d let it.
‘I didn’t say you had,’ replied her mother. The breezy innocence made her want to throw Frances and her collection of ornamental reproductive parts out of the car. ‘And actually, weight loss isn’t a huge symptom in older people. The metabolism starts to stall.’
Finally. Two empty spaces side by side. Beverley pulled in.
‘Things like bad teeth, acne, indigestion, even heartburn’ – Frances allowed the word to linger – ‘they are all far more common.’
Beverley turned off the engine. She wanted to round on her mother and tell her that, actually, she had it wrong; Beverley had slipped, yes, but she was past it. She hadn’t made herself sick since she’d frightened herself in the Glass Lake bathrooms. And she would have been telling the truth, if they’d had this exchange a few hours ago. But she’d slept so badly last night – she couldn’t stop thinking about Ella, no doubt lying face down in her pillow, sobbing over that useless creature – that she’d been exhausted this morning and couldn’t stop eating. She’d had Bran Flakes, then toast, then yoghurt, then more toast. Malachy, who’d begrudgingly skipped his morning run to wave off Frances, had wanted to know why Ella hadn’t been at dinner the night before and why she wasn’t appearing for breakfast. Beverley didn’t know what to say. If she told Malachy, it would be her fault. She was at home every day – how had she not noticed a highly undesirable suitor breaking in and stealing their daughter’s heart? Instead, she ran upstairs to get her car keys for the school drop-off. Only they were already in her bag. She locked herself in their en suite. She was anxious and twitchy and uncomfortably full; she barely had to do more than lean forward.
She searched her handbag now for the printout of the train ticket. Her phone was aglow. Forty-two new WhatsApp messages, which was some feat given she’d checked her mobile before they left the house. Something must have happened. ‘Here you go,’ she said.
Her mother didn’t take the ticket. She reached past it and covered Beverley’s hands, the pudgy skin instantly making hers clammy.
Beverley’s father had made her see her mother through his eyes and she hated him for that. What was harder to admit was that she also resented her mother. If she’d lost the weight, everything would have been better. If she’d got thinner, he would have stopped. Why couldn’t she have just done that? Hadn’t she cared about them enough?
‘If you need me, a stór, you just call, and I’ll come running.’
Nuala Patterson hadn’t spoken a word to Connie Whitehead for more than eight months and now she’d had to phone her twice in as many weeks. As soon as Nuala explained why she was calling, Connie was overcome with concern.
‘Are you sure it was Woody? I don’t think I’ve ever heard him utter that word. The teacher’s jumper? No, his jacket. When did this happen? And you’re sure it was him?’
They made an appointment for Connie to come and see her on Monday and then Nuala hung up. She was tired. She had spoken to Leo for the first time in weeks last night. He’d finally agreed to take her call, and he had been worse than she feared: bitter and angry and completely incapable of counting his blessings. Three times, he’d reminded her he was in a wheelchair, as if it excused everything else. If she was any sort of mother, she’d drive to Dublin and give Leo a good talking-to, remind him how other people’s lives had ended up – or just ended. But she wasn’t a good mother. She was a coward. And he knew that, which only made his anger towards her worse.
The last bell rang, and the students left the building. She powered off her laptop and gathered up several files to tackle over the weekend, though in her heart-of-hearts she knew she’d be returning on Monday with the same folders unopened.
She was just lacing up her runners when there was a knock on her door.
‘Oh, Cian, hello.’
‘Do you have a moment?’ asked the doctor, who was carrying a couple of sheets of paper in one hand and his black box in the other.
‘Of course, come in,’ she said, hurriedly looping a knot and standing. ‘Oh, shoot. I was meant to come and fix up with you, wasn’t I? I completely forgot. I have your payment here.’ She rustled through the loose pages on her desk until she found the envelope Mairead had labelled ‘Dr O’Sullivan’. ‘Thank you so much, again, for doing this. We’re very appreciative. How was your second session? Fruitful?’ She leaned forward and removed a couple of the pages that had spilled from her desk on to the chair on the far side. ‘Do you want to sit?’
‘I’m fine,’ he said, placing the box on the seat instead.
‘Did that work?’ asked Nuala. ‘Did they tell you all their secrets?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, good.’
‘That’s why I’m here.’
She frowned.
‘This afternoon I spoke to the class about the dangers of putting images online or sending them to someone else. Not explicitly about sexting but generally about privacy and how they might think they’re sending a photo to one person, but they can never be sure of that. The focus is really on feeling comfortable and keeping themselves safe and happy.’
‘Okay …’
‘I asked if they had ever shared material that they wouldn’t like to get out into the wider world. Nobody put their hand up. That’s pretty common among pre-pubescent and pubescent children, particularly in a mixed class.’
Nuala nodded. She had no idea where this was going, but she knew she wouldn’t like it.
‘So, I invited them to use the box. It worked well yesterday for any questions they had. I asked them to write down whatever they would like to tell me on this subject and to put it in the box. I’d marked the corners of the slips of paper, so I knew who they were coming from. I didn’t get to look at the slips until the class was over. And now I’m thinking I should do a third session.’
‘Oh, well, I’m not sure we have the funds, but I can check … Why, though? What did they say?’
‘Maeve wasn’t the only girl who sent Woody a nude photograph.’
Nuala blew air out through her lips. She’d had enough of Woody Whitehead for one day. For one lifetime.
‘Let me guess … Ciara Murphy?’
He looked down at his sheets of paper. ‘Yes.’
Nuala nodded. This was all she needed. ‘Thanks for letting me know. I’ll call her parents.’
‘Any other guesses, or shall I just tell you?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Several girls said they sent him naked photos of themselves.’
Nuala frowned. ‘How many is several?’
The doctor looked at the piece of paper again, which she now saw was a list.
‘Three? Four? I refuse to guess more than four …’
‘Seven.’
‘Seven?’
‘And three others received photos of him but didn’t send any in return.’
‘Ten students! He sent nudes to ten female students? Jesus Christ. That must be some sort of record. There can’t be more than fifteen girls in the whole class.’
‘Fourteen.’
‘Fuck. Fuck! Sorry, Cian.’
The man shook his head. ‘It is worrying behaviour.’
That was a lot of parents to phone. And as soon as she did, they’d be ramming on her door, be that at school or at home. Could she put that off to Monday morning? She could certainly do her best.
Ten, though. Ten. Was there something wrong with the boy? A chill ran through Nuala. When the Lakers found out about this, there would be war. There was no way Beverley Franklin would let it go now.
Woody Whitehead. Of all the students. Would she never be free of that family?
‘Are you sure they were all from Woody?’
The doctor nodded. ‘Every single one.’
30
••••••
ABERSTOWN GARDA STATION
Joey had finally finished typing up the entire day’s statements and was reading back over them. He kept hoping the pathology office would call with their initial findings and, in the sergeant’s absence, it would be up to him to handle it. But the phone hadn’t rung since Whelan headed off to see the wife.
He finished one transcript and began reading over the next. Halfway down the page, he noticed something. He flicked back a few files and saw the same thing again. Different witnesses referring to different instances, but they were both making the same point. He allowed himself a dramatic gasp, then jumped to his feet. He hiked his trousers up so far that he gave himself a mild wedgy. Ignoring the pain, he lunged across the table for the phone.
‘What is it?’ barked Whelan, answering on the squad car’s Bluetooth system after the first ring.
‘Sorry to disturb you, sir, but I’m just after noticing something and I think it could be important.’
‘Spit it out, Delaney. I’m about to go into the house.’
‘A couple of our witnesses mentioned there being animosity between our man and another Glass Lake employee. Seems there was a bit of bad blood, though I’m not sure why.’
Down the line, Joey heard the muffled sound of wind and the low beep of the squad car being locked from the outside.
‘Is that worth investigating?’
‘How the bloody hell would I know?’
‘Sir?’
‘Call them in, Delaney!’
‘So, I have permission to conduct supplementary questioning?’
‘Yes, you have … Jesus wept. Just get to the bottom of it and leave me alone!’
The line went dead but Joey felt only triumph. Finally, he had a lead.
..................
Christine Maguire, parent
If you’d told me a few days ago that I’d be in here speaking to you about something terrible happening to someone from Glass Lake, I’d have put money on Woody Whitehead. Isn’t that awful? He’s only a child. But try telling that to the Lakers. I presume you heard what happened at the school on Monday? Absolute anarchy. You’d have a real whodunnit on your hands if Woody was the subject of your investigation, because the suspect list would be long, and the Lakers would be top of it.
Lorna Farrell, parent
It’s a blessing he doesn’t have children. I’m not saying being a parent always makes you a better person, but let’s be honest: it would make his death more tragic. I saw him earlier in the day, talking to Nuala Patterson down by Cooney Pier. It looked like they were arguing, which I thought was strange. I gave the horn a little toot to say, ‘hello’, and I saw Nuala see me, but she didn’t so much as wave. That’s the only bit that wasn’t suspicious. The woman has always been doggedly rude.
Nuala Patterson, principal
We were discussing school business, all entirely mundane. So mundane, in fact, that I can barely remember a word of it. Lorna Farrell told you that, didn’t she? She still hasn’t forgiven me for what happened at Glass Lake on Monday.
31
••••••
THREE DAYS EARLIER
‘Lights, a stór! Lights!’ Frances cried from the passenger seat. Beverley Franklin brought the Range Rover to a sudden stop, causing her body to strain against the seatbelt and the burning sensation to return to her chest.
The traffic control had never flashed orange. It had gone from green to red with absolutely no warning. She could have sworn it.
Frances exhaled just as her suitcase rolled on to its side on the back seat and tumbled down on to the floor.
‘Good thing I put my vagina in the boot,’ she said cheerfully.
The students of her three-day tantric workshop had been so invigorated by Frances’ teachings (‘Invigorated’ was her mother’s word) that they’d clubbed together and bought her a large glass sculpture shaped like a vagina. Frances said it was abstract, but there was nothing abstract about the raw flesh tones or the wide, open slit. It was hand blown, which surprisingly was not more innuendo but an actual term for how the glass was moulded. Frances offered to leave it with her daughter as a thank-you for her hospitality – ‘You could put it on the hall table, throw your keys into it’ – but Beverley had packed it up this morning and left it by the front door with the rest of her mother’s things.
‘I must get Bill Farrell to check these traffic lights,’ she muttered. If there was something wrong with the colour filter, it would need to be fixed. Cooney did not want another traffic accident.
The lights went green and she started the engine again. ‘Isn’t it amazing, how one family, or really one boy, can wreak so much havoc and cause so much destruction in one town?’
‘Oh, now. You’re not talking about Arlo Whitehead again, are you?’
‘It’s Monday. That means it’s three days since Ella stepped foot out of her bedroom.’
‘It’s not quite that bad. She has used the toilet, and she came down to say goodbye to me this morning …’
‘She’s miserable. And it’s all that gigolo’s fault. Fiona Murphy’s the same age as his mother, for Christ’s sake!’
‘It’s hard to stand by when your daughter’s in pain, I know. And it’s hard to offer help and have it rejected at every turn. But at least Ella knows she’s hurting, and that is the first step to healing. Now you said you were going to leave it alone.’
Beverley had said no such thing. She had no choice but to leave Ella alone. Her daughter had locked herself away after Friday’s accidental revelation about her cheating boyfriend.
Boyfriend! The word wailed in her head. How could Ella have a boyfriend and Beverley not know? They used to tell each other everything. She was hurt and bewildered by her daughter keeping the relationship secret, and maybe a little disappointed – a Whitehead! Of all people! – but she wasn’t angry at her. That was reserved entirely for the gangly lothario.
‘Lights, Beverley!’ Frances screamed, as the car came to another sudden stop, the suitcase bouncing about in the back. ‘Sweet heavens above!’
‘I’m going around to his house after I drop you to the station,’ she said, as her mother groaned.
‘Beverley, no. He probably won’t be there.’
‘Well then, I’ll talk to his mother. When we’re done discussing Arlo, we’ll move on to her other depraved son. So many daughters to exploit; so little time.’ She brought her right hand to her chest. ‘You don’t have any Rennie on you, do you?’
‘You know I only use home remedies, crumpet.’
‘Well, have you any hocus-pocus potions for heartburn?’
‘Afraid not.’
Beverley straightened her back. Righting her posture helped. ‘I’ll drop you at the station, swing by Regan’s Chemist, and then it’s on to the Whiteheads for a little tête à tête.’
‘Ella won’t thank you for it.’
Beverley lived in constant fear of losing her daughters, of one day waking up to find they no longer wanted to have anything to do with her. It wasn’t just a fear, it was an expectation. This was why she’d wanted to have several children – to increase her chances of being loved. Malachy had dismissed the idea entirely. Franklins had two children, no more no less. He said large families were trashy, which meant Beverley was trashy, although she’d known that already.
‘I can’t get my head around her stubbornness sometimes,’ she said, turning on to Station Road. ‘Amelia is so much easier; she’s a lot more like me.’
Frances laughed and Beverley, who felt exposed enough already, threw her a look.
‘I’m sorry, a stór. I’m not laughing at you; it’s just the idea that you’re more like Amelia than Ella.’
‘I am. Ella’s so headstrong, it’s impossible to tell her anything.’
‘I agree,’ said Frances, the smile audible. ‘I haven’t met a teenager as single-minded since you turned thirteen.’
The train station came into view. Her mother would take a commuter train into the city, and then on to Dublin. Beverley had bought her a first-class ticket, only for her mother to remind her she had the travel pass.
‘I was listening to an item on the radio the other day,’ said Frances. ‘They had this doctor on and she was very interesting.’
‘A real doctor?’
‘Yes.’
‘A medical one?’
‘Yes, of course a medical one. I’m not about to give you a report on tribal cures from the depths of the Amazon rain forest.’
Beverley shrugged as she turned her head from side to side, looking for a parking space. ‘I never know with you.’
‘Anyway, she was talking about eating disorders in older people, particularly women. You won’t fit in there.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘This doctor was saying how there’s been a huge increase in diagnoses among over thirty-fives in the past decade. While teenage rates are pretty constant, older demographics have seen a surge. They can’t be sure if these women are developing eating disorders for the first time, or if they’re flaring up again after years of being dormant, or if maybe they were active all along but the women are finally seeking help.’ She felt her mother’s eyes on her. She kept her own trained on the parking lot. ‘Traumatic life events can trigger them. You know, divorces, or deaths, or even a marital infidelity.’
She stalled the car again, closer to the station. It would be a bit of a squeeze, but she’d manage it. She started to reverse slightly.
‘Crumpet, you might get the car in, but you won’t get me out. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I need a bit of wiggle room.’
Beverley drove on.
‘What really surprised me was that eating disorders are more dangerous when you’re older. Did you know that? You don’t have the reserve of nutrients and the bone density you have in your youth, and your heart finds it more difficult to cope with the weight loss.’
‘I haven’t lost any weight, Mother,’ said Beverley. ‘I’ve been exactly the same weight for the past eight years.’ Nine stone, two pounds. It was annoying that she had stalled so close to a nice round number, but it refused to go any lower. It would happily climb, of course, not that she’d let it.
‘I didn’t say you had,’ replied her mother. The breezy innocence made her want to throw Frances and her collection of ornamental reproductive parts out of the car. ‘And actually, weight loss isn’t a huge symptom in older people. The metabolism starts to stall.’
Finally. Two empty spaces side by side. Beverley pulled in.
‘Things like bad teeth, acne, indigestion, even heartburn’ – Frances allowed the word to linger – ‘they are all far more common.’
Beverley turned off the engine. She wanted to round on her mother and tell her that, actually, she had it wrong; Beverley had slipped, yes, but she was past it. She hadn’t made herself sick since she’d frightened herself in the Glass Lake bathrooms. And she would have been telling the truth, if they’d had this exchange a few hours ago. But she’d slept so badly last night – she couldn’t stop thinking about Ella, no doubt lying face down in her pillow, sobbing over that useless creature – that she’d been exhausted this morning and couldn’t stop eating. She’d had Bran Flakes, then toast, then yoghurt, then more toast. Malachy, who’d begrudgingly skipped his morning run to wave off Frances, had wanted to know why Ella hadn’t been at dinner the night before and why she wasn’t appearing for breakfast. Beverley didn’t know what to say. If she told Malachy, it would be her fault. She was at home every day – how had she not noticed a highly undesirable suitor breaking in and stealing their daughter’s heart? Instead, she ran upstairs to get her car keys for the school drop-off. Only they were already in her bag. She locked herself in their en suite. She was anxious and twitchy and uncomfortably full; she barely had to do more than lean forward.
She searched her handbag now for the printout of the train ticket. Her phone was aglow. Forty-two new WhatsApp messages, which was some feat given she’d checked her mobile before they left the house. Something must have happened. ‘Here you go,’ she said.
Her mother didn’t take the ticket. She reached past it and covered Beverley’s hands, the pudgy skin instantly making hers clammy.
Beverley’s father had made her see her mother through his eyes and she hated him for that. What was harder to admit was that she also resented her mother. If she’d lost the weight, everything would have been better. If she’d got thinner, he would have stopped. Why couldn’t she have just done that? Hadn’t she cared about them enough?
‘If you need me, a stór, you just call, and I’ll come running.’
