Page 41 of Calling Frank O'Hare

First sight of Mr Montague made Frank think of Eve’s dad. He had that same proprietorial look about him. Maybe that was why Ellen got so het up about being possessed.

In the vain hope of making a good impression, Frank stuck out his hand. ‘How do you do, sir.’

Mr Montague ignored the hand. ‘Your lot killed my nephew.’

Frank looked to Ellen whose face was completely blank.

‘Shall we go in to dinner?’ said Mrs Montague, oblivious to the fact that her husband had just accused her daughter’s boyfriend of being a murderer.

Frank gulped. He was a condemned man on the way to his last supper.

Dinner was of course, fucking awful. Not the food, that was the best he’d ever tasted. It was the company that made it so bad. Mrs Montague seemed to have decided it was best to pretend Frank didn’t exist, so all her attention was on her daughter and the food, both of which she picked holes in relentlessly. Her husband, on the other hand, spent the entire dinner explaining to Frank all that was wrong with Ireland, with particular emphasis on the north.

Frank listened out of politeness, and because he was afraid the Brigadier might aim a hunting rifle at him if he dared to contradict.

The end of dinner was signalled by the Montagues standing up. The Brigadier threw down his napkin. ‘Ellen. A word.’

For the first time that evening, Mrs Montague looked at Frank and added: ‘In private.’

Frank left through some doors that led to a terrace and followed its steps down to the endless rolling lawn. It was dark but the clear sky was full of stars. The full moon illuminated a lake in the near distance that was surrounded by rushes and ancient trees. He carried on walking towards it. The crisp air burned his throat and nostrils but he sucked it in, glad to be away from the stifling atmosphere inside. He thought he heard an owl hooting. It was idyllic, and he had no idea what he was doing here. He should have gone home for Christmas and made his parents happy. He shouldn’t have let Ellen trick him into coming here. Because she had tricked him. There was no doubt about it.

‘You must be Frank.’ A voice came from somewhere in the depths of a huge oak tree and made him jump. A guy who could have been Ellen’s twin emerged from underneath its dark branches.

‘Gavin?’

The guy took a bow. ‘I am he. I take it the folks have been giving you a hard time?’

Frank liked him already. ‘Correct. I appear to be on the wrong side. Although I don’t believe they know which side I’m on.’

‘It doesn’t matter which one you’re on. Both are wrong as far as they’re concerned. That’s why Ellen brought you here. You’re her ideal man, my friend. I’d be amazed if she didn’t propose to you before the end of the year.’ He laughed. ‘Get out while you can.’

The distant sound of a door closing made Frank look back at the house. Ellen was striding towards them.

When she reached them, she slipped her arm into Frank’s. ‘We’re leaving in the morning.’

‘That bad?’ said Gavin.

She rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t ask. We’re going to the flat. Frank, you don’t mind do you?’

‘Not at all.’ In fact, Frank couldn’t have been happier about it. ‘Where is the flat?’

‘London.’

The next morning Ray drove them to the station. Ellen went to the ticket office while Ray got the bags out. He held them out for Frank but didn’t let go immediately. ‘You’re out of your depth with that one, son. You know that, don’t you?’

‘Go fuck yourself, Ray.’ For a student of English, it wasn’t his most eloquent moment but Frank had had enough of being told how shit he was. He seized the bags and walked, before he broke golden rule number one.

Her parents’ flat was in Knightsbridge, and even that was bigger than his Belfast home. Frank wondered what Billy would make of it. Not that he was about to find out, because he was never going to tell him.

They spent the next two weeks living on takeaways and junk food, and making a dent in the Brigadier’s extensive wine stocks. And when they tore themselves away from their bed, they visited museums and saw more art than Frank could ever imagine. Ellen could talk endlessly about almost any painting they saw and Frank drank it in, full of admiration. Her degree was in art history. It was her passion. Even though he’d taken the sensible option with an English degree, art was Frank’s passion too. It might have been the only thing they had in common.

The night before they were due to return to Birmingham, she told him her grandmother had left her money to be held in trust until she was twenty-one. ‘I can do what I want then. No more living by Daddy’s rules. We could get married.’

Frank was speechless. It wasn’t that he didn’t love Ellen. Obviously, he did. It was just a shock. And the fact that Gavin had predicted it was even more of a shock.

She sat up and frowned. ‘Wouldn’t you like to have a rich wife?’

He found his voice at last: ‘Not particularly. I’d rather just have a wife who loved me.’

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