Page 42 of Calling Frank O'Hare

Her brow wrinkled as she studied him. 'You're quite honourable aren't you? I think you may be the most decent person I know. Let’s get some more wine.’

They went into the wine cellar which was actually a room behind the kitchen. Ellen picked out two dusty bottles from the shelves. ‘Would you take these into the kitchen?’

Frank opened a bottle and set it down on the kitchen worktop. The sound of an almighty crash sent him running back into the cellar. Lying on the floor in front of Ellen was the shelf unit they’d just selected from. The floor was already staining red from the wine spilling out of the forty or so broken bottles scattered across it. ‘What happened?’ he said.

She smiled at him as if nothing was wrong. ‘Just sending a message.’

27

Rare flashes of insight

Just sending a message. Frank should have seen the writing on the wall there and then. Instead of concentrating on Gavin’s prediction about the marriage proposal, he should have paid more heed to his other warning and got out while he could. But that moment of reckless vandalism had only made him love Ellen more. She was fighting his corner, telling her parents not to shit on her man. Or so he thought at the time. As with everything related to Ellen, the reality was more complicated than that. But at that moment, he’d adored her. He’d even helped her smash more bottles. It had felt good too. Vengeful and liberating. In those early days, being with Ellen was very liberating. If he ignored the money.

Oh the perils of having a rich wife. It never sat well with Frank. His parents weren’t poor. They weren’t well off either, but his dad had had a good job and he made money on the side with his decorating. None of that had prepared Frank for the kind of wealth and status of the Montagues. Not that it was thrown in his face. Old money like theirs didn’t do that sort of thing. With old money, everything was implied. It was all about taste and connections. Both of which were alien to Frank. In spite of that, the money didn’t get in the way, because he and Ellen compromised. She kept her wealth mostly to herself, and Frank mostly pretended it wasn’t there.

If it ever did threaten to come between them, Frank remembered something Adrian had said to him after that Christmas in 1981. ‘The money’s not her, mate.’ Simple but effective. That was Ade’s speciality. That, and loyalty. Frank had lied when he told Finn no one else had gone to Ellen’s funeral. Adrian had been with them. Adrian, who despite his deadpan piss-taking persona, came to say goodbye to one of his oldest and dearest friends, and cried like a baby as he did so.

Now, Frank edged himself up a little to test his back and concluded it was still fucked, although possibly not quite as much as it had been when he first collapsed into an unsightly heap, however many hours ago that was. Was it hours ago? He wasn’t entirely sure. It certainly seemed like it, but time was an altogether different beast when you were wrapped in a damp fog, halfway up a mountain. In some ways it drifted along slowly and in others, it whizzed through decades, which was unfortunate because he didn’t want to be back there in the past. The present was his comfort zone.

He wondered what Netta was doing now and if he’d ever see her again. Perhaps he’d die on this mountain, stuck between the woman he loved now, and the woman he loved then. Ellen would have found that hilarious, and then she would have told him what a sad old man he’d become. ‘Well fuck you, Ellen. You’re dead and I’m still here. How’s that worked out for the both of us?’

Naturally, Ellen didn’t answer, but in the distance he could hear someone calling his name. ‘Over here. I’m over here,’ he yelled.

‘Keep shouting, so’s I can find you.’ It was Martin, and he was getting nearer.

‘Here. I’m here. You’re close.’

‘I’m coming, Frank. I’m… What are you doing down there?’ Martin appeared through the fog. First the top of him, like a disembodied head, then his entire self. His brother was here. His stupid, ridiculous, wonderful brother.

‘I slipped. My back’s gone.’

‘Well aren’t you the eejit? The fog’s beginning to lift. We’ll try and move you then.’ Martin sat down next to him. ‘Don’t you be worrying, FB. We’ll get you back. Even if I have to carry you.’

‘I am an eejit, you’re right. I shouldn’t have stormed off like that. I’m sorry.’

One side of Martin’s mouth slid into a half-grin ‘Fucking hell, you apologising. That’s a first.’

‘Yeah well, don’t let it go to your head. It won’t happen again.’

‘I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have gone off at you like that. I’m a bit touchy when it comes to Bronagh. We’ve had our moments but I really love her, you know. I will try to make it up with her. I just need some space to clear my head. Just give me this week, will you, Frank?’

‘Okay.’

‘So what do you think of the new Finn?’

Frank blew air out of his lips. ‘He’s a changed man. Was that his lady’s doing?’

‘Orna? I don’t think so, but he’s definitely upped the ante since she died. In my opinion he’s gone a bit over the top with it now. Have you seen all those Buddhas in his house? That’s fucking creepy.’

‘He’s grieving. Better meditation than drinking his liver to shit.’

Martin shrugged. ‘I guess so. You’d know more about how that works. I hear you’ve a new woman in your life now. What’s she like?’

‘She’s nice.’

‘Nice? Is that the best you can do? Jesus, bro, where’s the passion?’

‘Hey, I can do passion. I’m a very passionate person.’

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