‘Nice T-shirt,’ he said.
‘Oh?’ Bronte barely glanced at it. ‘It’s my daughter’s.’
‘You’ve kids?’
‘Three. A daughter, eighteen. Two sons, sixteen and thirteen.’
‘What age are you, Bronte?’ Dennis asked. ‘Yourself, like.’
‘Dennis!’ Giles hissed. ‘You crass oaf! You should know better than to ask.’
‘It’s okay.’ Bronte shrugged. ‘I’m forty-three.’
‘How do you make ends meet, Bronte?’ Chalkie asked. ‘Feed your kids? Pay your rent?’
‘So … my husband … It’s his money.’
‘What way does he … earn a crust?’
‘He – well, we run a farm.’
‘He’s a farmer?’ Troubled eyes roamed over her. ‘You don’t look like any farmer’s wife I’ve ever seen.’
‘How would you know?’ Giles rounded on Chalkie. ‘Have you ever left the, quote, “impoverished inner city”？ You told us you wouldn’t sully your man-of-the-people lungs with the “oxygen of privilege”！’
‘Where’s your farm?’ Chalkie kept his eyes on Bronte.
‘County Meath.’
Dennis interjected. ‘How many acres?’ This was one of his areas of interest.
‘… Two thousand.’
‘Fuck!’ Chalkie almost levitated.
‘Is that a lot?’ Ella asked Dennis out of the side of her mouth.
‘’Tis fecken huge.’ Dennis leant towards Bronte. ‘That’s a fierce big amount of land ye have. Are ye dairy? Tillage? Mixed?’
‘… Most of it is leased. We breed horses.’
‘Horse-breeders?’ Chalkie was delighted. Here was a chance for real outrage. ‘Lady Bronte.’
‘Actually, I’m a viscountess –’
‘– you’re joking!’
‘Chalkie,’ I asked. ‘How relevant is any of this?’
‘If I was living in privilege,’ he spluttered, ‘because I’d stolen land from other people, the guilt would have me racing off to buy heroin. No wonder Lady fucking Bronte here –’
‘Lady fucking Kilsharvan,’ Bronte interrupted.
Dumbfounded by her arrogance, Chalkie swivelled to stare at her.
‘But there’s no need to use my title.’ Her tone was tart – but her smile was minxy.
29
‘Ella, you’re reading your life story,’ I said.
‘Sure!’ Perky as can be.
She’d been here a week now and, other than with Harlie, she was popular. In fairness, she put enough effort into making everyone love her. She was funny, kind and, even though one of her arms was still in a sling, she did her chores without much complaint.
A week of lectures, NA meetings and immersion with twenty other people who were at various stages in their recovery process meant that the erosion of her denial was already well under way. But writing and reading out her life story should move her on further.
Off she went. The youngest of three, her early years had been fine. Ella was a much-longed-for girl, so after having had two boys, her mother had doted on her. She’d liked school but not sports; there had been enough money but not loads; her dad was firm but fair; her brothers teased her but not too badly.
As with everyone, I’d asked Ella to relate happy and unhappy memories from her childhood. There were lots of happy stories – when she’d been snuggled up in bed, recovering from the chicken pox, being fed flat Seven-Up by her mum; a Christmas Eve when it snowed; the whole family going to London for her tenth birthday.
Yes, yes, lovely. I was impatient to hear the less happy stuff. Always far more telling. Finally we got there – the unhappiest time had been in her last year in primary school. ‘Over the summer, my periods had started and –’ She flicked a look at the men in the room and hesitated. ‘And my chest had got …’ She stopped and began again. ‘I’d started wearing a bra. My three friends wouldn’t hang out with me any more. They said I was showing off –’
‘That’s hard,’ I interrupted. ‘How did you cope?’
‘I, ah …’ Tears started to spill down her face. Shocked, she wiped them away. ‘God, I wasn’t expecting this … I just got through it. But I had to do everything on my own, get the bus by myself, eat my lunch … I never had a … an ally, I guess is the word. I never got used to it. It was a long year.’