tried to block the date of his release from her mind but now it was impossible. The image of his face and the derisory tone of his voice haunted her sober hours – hours that were becoming fewer and fewer.
The week before his arrival Ruth triumphantly produced a packet containing a brown hair rinse.
‘That red beehive has to go. If you want to do your hair like that when you are with your friends I can’t stop you, but while you live here you are going to leave the house looking decent,’ she told her daughter firmly.
Antoinette knew better than to protest. Having her mother furious with her a few days before her father was due home was not, she knew, a good idea. Sighing, she took the rinse, brushed her hair until it was straight and then applied the dye. One hour later, when she had given her hair its final rinse, then towel-dried it vigorously in front of the fire, she looked in the mirror and was faced with the reflection of a drab Antoinette. Of Toni, who, with all her mistakes, had courage, there was no sign. In her place was a frightened teenager that looked like the victim she had once been.
Her mother had won – she had destroyed the confidence that Antoinette had managed to build up since her father had vanished from their lives. And now, as his return loomed, she felt more than ever that she was being sent back to the place she had started out from.
Her mother looked at the new hair colour. ‘Very nice, dear,’ was her only comment, said without warmth. It was not meant as a compliment.
The night before her father was due to arrive an uneasy silence hung between Antoinette and her mother. Antoinette just wanted to escape to her room and block the thoughts of her father and his arrival from her mind, while Ruth was determined that the charade of a happy family would be played out in full.
When her mother was silent, Antoinette knew that it was only the prelude of worse to come and as the evening wore on, her nervousness increased.
‘Well, I think I’ll go to bed now,’ she said eventually. ‘I’m feeling very tired tonight.’
It was then, knowing she had won and that her daughter’s short-lived rebellion was firmly under control, that Ruth delivered her coup de grâce.
She looked up at her daughter and said, ‘Tomorrow, dear, I want you to meet Daddy and bring him home. I have to work in the morning and I know you are on the evening shift so you have the day free.’ Opening her purse, she drew out a ten-shilling note and thrust it into her daughter’s hand, giving a smile that showed more steely determination than sincerity. Then, as though she had planned a special treat, she said, ‘Here’s some money so you can buy him afternoon tea at that coffee shop you like so much.’
Stunned into obedience, she said, ‘All right, Mummy.’
As she spoke, Antoinette felt her mother’s power over her slip back into place and saw the gleam of satisfaction in Ruth’s eyes as she smelt victory. As she had done every night before her brief rebellion, Antoinette kissed her mother quickly on the cheek and went to bed.
She knew in her heart that she had been successfully sucked through the looking glass into her mother’s fantasy. She understood somehow that her mother needed to believe that she, Ruth, was a good wife and mother and that Joe was the handsome Irish husband who adored her. Between them, they had a daughter who was nothing but trouble and Ruth suffered because of it. She had been the victim of her husband’s disgrace, but as long as Antoinette behaved herself and did not annoy her father when he came home, everything would be all right.
In Ruth’s universe, Antoinette was the difficult daughter who had caused all the problems. Although she tried to fight it, it would not be long before Antoinette began to believe that perhaps her mother was right.
The coffee shop where Ruth had arranged for Antoinette to meet her father was one of the many that were rapidly springing up in the centre of Belfast. These forerunners of wine bars sold cappuccino coffee to the youth of Belfast and this one was Antoinette’s favourite. It was there that she and her friends met before going to the dance halls, where they would sip their frothy drinks as they made plans for the evening ahead.
That afternoon, on the day of her father’s release, she felt no pleasure in the familiar surroundings; the darkness of the interior looked gloomy to her while the large silver and black coffee machine, usually alive with a friendly hissing and gurgling, stood silently on the bar.
It was too early in the day for the hordes of people who frequented it in the evening to be present, while the lunchtime crowd, a mixture of smartly dressed businessmen and sophisticated women, had returned to their offices.
Her father’s imminent return had sunk Antoinette into a depression. It was like a black hole that she had sunk into, where she could not even think about tomorrow. Even the simplest task seemed impossible and anything was liable to make her panic. All her responses shut down and she became the robot she had once been, secure only when obeying orders.
And then there were her other worries. What could she say if she met one of her friends? How could she explain him away? Why had her mother arranged for them to meet on what Antoinette saw as her territory? It was as though any independence that she had gained, any life that she had forged out for herself, had been taken away from her.
All those thoughts were running through her head as she walked to one of the wooden tables and took a seat. His bus was due to arrive at 3 p.m. She was grateful for this as she knew that the chances of bumping into anyone at that time of day were slim.
Which father was going to greet her, she wondered. Would it be the ‘nice’ one, who eleven years ago had met his wife and daughter at the Belfast docks; the father who had made Ruth glow with happiness as he hugged her and made his daughter giggle with pleasure when he swung her five-year-old body in the air, and then kissed her soundly on both cheeks? That father, the jovial man who had chucked her under the chin as he presented his wife with presents of boxes of chocolates after one of their many rows, was now only a dim memory. Or would it be the other father, the one with the bloodshot eyes and the mouth that quivered with rage at the very sight of her? Her childhood fear of the man she remembered most vividly, the one she had tried to force out of her mind, came back to her.
Antoinette arrived early. She was dressed as her old self: her newly washed hair now hung to the collar of her navy jacket and a grey skirt and pale-blue twin set had replaced the teenage uniform of jeans and shirt. Her mother had come into her room early that morning. She had made preparations to see her husband again and was dressed in a grey jacket with a fur collar that framed her face, softening it. Her hair was freshly permed with a copper rinse to hide the grey that had appeared in recent years and once again fell in soft waves about her face. Her mouth was painted a bright red, a colour she had always favoured, while rings sparkled against the hands tipped with scarlet-lacquered nails. She had opened the wardrobe and selected the clothes she wanted Antoinette to wear.
‘That looks so nice on you, dear,’ she had said. ‘Wear that today.’
‘I don’t like it,’ Antoinette had muttered. ‘It’s old-fashioned.’
‘Oh no, dear, it makes you look very pretty. It’s your colour blue. Wear it to please me, won’t you?’
And she had.
Antoinette wanted to arrive before her father so that she had the advantage of being seated at a table with a clear view of the door. She wanted to see him before he saw her.
Hanging lamps cast soft pools of warm light on the wooden tables. A cup of coffee had been brought to her and she needed both hands to hold it to her mouth because her palms were damp and slippery with the moisture that fear brings. Her stomach fluttered with nervous tremors and her head felt light from a sleepless night.
She felt his presence a split second before she saw him. Looking up at the door, she could only make out a male form. With his back to the sun, he was a faceless shadow but she knew it was