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Clare, February 2016

‘So, how was the house, Mum?’ my son Matt asked, when I met up with him for our regular weekly coffee a few days after coming back from Ireland. Matt had graduated from university a couple of years ago, and now worked for an IT consultancy based in London, which meant we could easily meet up.

I sipped my Americano before answering, trying to decide how best to describe Clonamurty Farm. ‘Hmm. Dilapidated,’ was the word I picked in the end.

‘But with potential?’ Matt was studying me carefully. ‘Mum, there’s a twinkle in your eye. You can’t disguise it.’

I smiled. He probably knew me better than anyone, Paul included. ‘Yes, it certainly has potential.’

‘So?’

‘So what?’

‘So are you going to move there, do it up, get in touch with your Irish heritage and all that?’

‘Your dad doesn’t want to. He wants to sell it to a developer as soon as possible.’

Matt frowned. ‘It’s not his to sell though, is it? What do you want to do with it?’

I picked up a teaspoon and stirred my coffee, which didn’t need stirring, before answering. When I looked up Matt was still frowning slightly. I wanted to tell him to stop before the lines became permanent. I wanted to rub my thumb between his eyes to smooth them out. ‘Well. How do I answer that?’ I said, still playing for time.

‘Truthfully? Come on, Mum. You can tell me anything – you know that. I won’t tell Dad.’

‘OK. The truth is, I don’t really know what I want. Part of me says yes, your dad is right, we should sell it, take the money, invest it for the future, give some to you and Jon.’

‘And the other part?’

I took a deep breath. ‘Says I should move to Ireland, no matter what.’

‘With or without Dad?’

‘It’d probably be … without him, I think. He wouldn’t want to look for a new job in Ireland. Perhaps he’d come over at weekends, or …’

‘… or you’d use this as a chance to leave him?’

There they were. The words. Out there, in the wild. Matt had said it, not me, but I needed to answer. It felt like the point of no return. I took yet another deep breath, this one shuddering. ‘Ye-es. I suppose so.’

I don’t know what reaction I expected from him. But it wasn’t this. He leapt up, grinning, came round the table and leaned over me to hug me. ‘Oh, Mum. At last! You’re doing the right thing. You know you are. It’s time for you to have a life of your own, not dictated by Dad. He’s always putting you down and trying to stop you doing anything for yourself. I know you stayed together for me and Jon, which is lovely of you, but we’re grown-up now and if you two separate, we won’t mind at all. It won’t hurt us. Jon feels the same – I know because we’ve discussed it.’

I picked up a napkin and dabbed at my eyes, which had sprung a leak. It was a weird feeling, knowing our two sons had discussed their parents’ relationship and come to the conclusion I should leave my husband. Very weird. ‘We’ve been married twenty-five years, Matt. It’s a lot to throw away and I need to think it through carefully before doing anything.’

‘You’re not throwing anything away. You’re just moving on to a new phase in your life. It’s the perfect opportunity, Mum. You’ll have somewhere to live and money of your own, so you won’t be dependent on him or any divorce settlement. You’ll be far enough from Dad to stop him interfering. Because you know he’ll try to.’

I nodded. Yes, he would try to interfere. He’d try to stop me. ‘But I’d also be far from you and Jon.’

‘Ryanair fly to Dublin for about fifty quid return. We could come over to see you for weekends every couple of months. I’d love to see my great-grandparents’ farm.’ Matt sat down again opposite me, but kept hold of my hand across the table. I loved that my sons were so tactile and affectionate.

I felt a tear form in the corner of my eye. ‘Can’t help but wonder what your grandparents would have thought, if they’d still been here. Marriage is supposed to be for life.’

Matt smiled. ‘They’d feel the same way Jon and I do, I’m sure. They’d want what’s best for you, and it’s been obvious for ages that staying with Dad isn’t doing you any good. You know, Grandma used to pull me to one side and ask me on the quiet if I thought you were happy with Dad. I used to say yes of course you were, as I didn’t want to worry her, not when she was so ill at the end.’

‘Oh, sweetheart.’ I had to wipe away another tear at that. Mum had been in such pain in her final days as the cancer ate away at her. She’d been in a hospice, in a private room, with Dad at her bedside and the boys and me visiting as often as we could. I went every day at the end. Paul only came once, stayed five minutes then announced he had too much to do. I’d told myself it wasn’t his mum, and he was feeling uncomfortable not being part of her direct family. But the truth was he had never really wanted much to do with my parents. Dad had died only a year after Mum. But before he’d gone, he’d gifted me his car – a three-year-old Ford Mondeo that Paul had immediately appropriated as his own, trading in our elderly BMW. Until Uncle Pádraig’s legacy, the car was the only thing I owned outright, under my own name.

‘So, you going to do it, Mum?’ Matt said, dragging me back into the present.

‘I don’t know yet. I’m going to have a good long think about it.’

‘You do that.’ He was thoughtful for a moment, then looked at me with a smile. ‘Do you remember that poem Grandma used to quote? I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree. That’s what you should do.’

‘Go to Innisfree?’ I said.

‘Or whatever the farm in Ireland is called. Arise and go now. That’s my point.’ He pulled out his wallet to pay for our coffees. ‘This one’s on me. And don’t forget you can ring me any time if you want to discuss it more. Jon and I will do all we can to help you.’

‘Not if it puts your dad against you. I don’t want you to ruin your relationship with him on account of me.’

‘Mum, I don’t have much of a relationship with him anyway. Don’t think Jon does either. It was always you, when we were kids. You were the one who walked us to school, took us to swimming lessons, helped us with homework, played endless games of Monopoly with us on rainy days and all the rest of it. A proper parent. Dad was just a shadowy figure in the background.’

‘On holidays though, he played with you then?’

‘Did he? I don’t remember. When I think of family holidays, I picture you digging sandcastles or helping us fly kites. I suppose Dad was there, but he just doesn’t figure in my memories.’

Matt got up to pay our bill. Those last words had made me kind of sad and lost in my reminiscences again. I’d always thought that our family holidays were the best times, when Paul had been a proper dad for once.

We hadn’t been married long when I became pregnant with Matt. Paul was delighted when I showed him the blue line on the pregnancy test, and immediately took me out to a swanky restaurant for dinner. Bit wasted on me though, as I had developed an odd metallic taste in my mouth (which continued for the whole first trimester) and nothing tasted right. But I was happy that he was happy, and excited about the prospect of motherhood.

Paul insisted I gave up working in the shoe shop when I was six months gone. ‘You can’t be bending down over people’s feet with that huge bump,’ he’d reasoned.

‘But what about maternity pay?’ I’d said. ‘I need to work a bit longer to qualify.’

‘You won’t be going back to work after the baby’s born, Clare,’ he’d said. ‘You wouldn’t want someone else bringing up our child, would you? Anyway, a decent nanny would cost us more than you earn anyway.’

There’d been no arguing with him, and while I was sad to give up having my own little bit of income, he was right about the cost of childcare. I could always find something part-time later on, when our child or children reached school age.

It was an easy pregnancy. I spent the last three months getting a nursery ready for the baby, decorating the room in palest yellow with a stencilled frieze of farm animals around the walls, painting an old chest of drawers and adding more animals to it, making curtains and a matching floor cushion, and re-covering a fireside chair that would be my seat for night-time feeds. That was the first chair I re-covered, and I enjoyed it so much I vowed to learn how to do upholstery properly.

When Matt was born, Paul showered me with gifts. Flowers, chocolates, champagne, pretty white shawls to wrap the baby in, a gorgeous bracelet with a baby charm. No expense spared. I felt like a queen. I felt loved and cherished.

Paul proved to be a hands-off dad. I don’t think he changed a single nappy. I told myself he worked hard all day and deserved a break in the evenings and at weekends, and baby-minding was my job, but to tell the truth, I would have appreciated a bit of help now and again, and maybe a few lie-ins. It would have helped Paul bond with Matt.

I tried to encourage him to do more. But he’d just sigh and say some things were best left to women. I told myself that once we were out of the baby stage, he’d be more interested. When he could take Matt to the park, kick a football, ride bikes – that’s when Paul would come into his own as a father.

Little Jon came along when Matt was nearly three, and here, I thought, was the opportunity for Paul to do more with Matt, leaving me free to look after Jon. Matt was potty trained and a very biddable child, easy to handle. But there was no change. Paul kept a distance from both boys. He’d occasionally accompany us on a trip to the park or the swimming pool, to the boys’ delight. Family holidays were fun too, when Paul would act like a real dad for once, being relaxed and playful, the way I remember my own dad being all the time. I always put it down to Paul’s stressful job in telecom sales, and assumed he could only properly relax when he was away from it all on holiday. At least that’s how I remembered it, but Matt seemed to have different recollections.

It was probably the holidays and the way the boys worshipped him when he did spend time with them, that kept me with Paul all those years. Looking back, I’d probably fallen out of love with him by the time Jon was a year old. I just told myself everyone found the baby and toddler years hard. And he still bought me surprise gifts and treats every now and again. I knew he must love me. I was just being ungrateful and somehow dissatisfied with life. I had a husband who from the outside appeared to dote on me, two gorgeous little boys, a lovely house. What more did I want?

Now, as I left the café with Matt, I realised that after so many years I was at last beginning to work out what I wanted. A little bit of independence and the freedom to make my own decisions, such as whether I wanted cake with my cuppa or not.

I had a phone call that night from Jon. He rang at eight p.m. – the time when Paul goes out to his regular twice-a-week gym class. Whenever the boys ring at this time it’s because they know they can talk to me without their dad listening in.

‘Hey, Mum. I had a call from Matt. He told me what you and he were talking about today. Just wanted to let you know that if you decide to go for it, and leave Dad, that’s all right by me. Actually, more than all right. I think it’d be great for you.’

‘Aw, Jon.’ I felt tears well up again. Maybe it was the menopause coming on, or maybe just the stresses of making such a big decision, but I seemed to be constantly weepy.

‘Hope you don’t mind that he told me,’ Jon said, sounding a little unsure.

‘Of course not. I know you two are close and tell each other everything.’

‘Ahem, not quite everything. He doesn’t know about my dangerous liaison with the fire-eating circus acrobat who tied my legs in knots during a three-day tantric sex session …’

‘Jon!’

‘Joking! Course he knows about that!’

You never knew with Jon, when he was being serious and when not. But he never failed to lighten the mood and make me smile. My tears were gone already.

It took a few weeks more, and a lot of soul-searching, and some long chats with Matt and Jon, before I finally came to a decision. Yes, I would do it. I would leave Paul. I would arise and go now. Perhaps I should have done it years ago, but it would be easier now – less messy as I could simply move to Ireland and leave him the UK house. I just needed to wait for probate to be completed so that the inheritance was mine, and then I could go. Oh, and I needed to tell Paul, of course. How, I wasn’t sure. I decided to wait for the right moment. Whenever that would be.

Uncle Pádraig’s solicitor, Mr Greve, called me one day, while Paul was at work and I was in the middle of going through my wardrobe, throwing out clothes I knew I’d never wear again and wouldn’t want in Ireland. I was in the habit of doing this once a year anyway, so it wouldn’t rouse Paul’s suspicions.

‘Mrs Farrell? I have good news for you. Probate is almost complete. I need your bank account details to pay the money into.’

‘Money? I thought there was just the farm in Ireland.’

‘Ah no. There’s a fair amount of money in the estate as well. Not a huge fortune mind, but enough. So I need your bank name, account number and sort code. Do you have them to hand?’

I felt a wave of panic wash over me. The only bank account I had access to was a joint account. If the money was paid into that, Paul would be able to get at it. He’d notice it immediately – he got alerts on his phone whenever there was any activity on his account – and he’d quite possibly move it out and invest it somewhere else where I couldn’t touch it. He might be my husband of twenty-five years, but I couldn’t trust him with this. It was my money.

‘Er, no. Sorry, I don’t have them right here. Can I call you back later with them?’

‘Yes of course, but the sooner the better so we can get this all neatly tied up. You have my number, I think.’

‘I do, yes.’

‘Good. I’ll wait to hear.’ Mr Greve hung up. He’d sounded vaguely irritated that I wasn’t the sort of organised woman who had bank details to hand.

I grabbed a jacket and my handbag, and rushed out of the house. Paul had the car at work, but it was only a forty-minute walk into the town centre and if I hurried I could get there, see to my business and get home again in time to cook Paul’s tea. Yes, I was the type of housewife who always had her husband’s dinner on the table when he came home from work. A throwback to the 1950s. Sometimes I despised myself for it. Though not for much longer.

There were three banks with branches in our small town, and I nipped into the first one I came across – Nationwide.

‘I need to open a bank account,’ I told the clerk, slightly breathless from my fast walk to town.

‘All right, what kind of account did you want? And do you already have any accounts with us?’ she asked.

‘Just a regular account. And no, I don’t.’

‘OK. Wait there, I’ll see if someone’s available to talk you through the options.’

I was lucky. Someone was available and I was ushered to a desk behind a partition, where a smart young man with ‘Dan’ on his name badge sat opposite me with a pile of leaflets. I was blushing with embarrassment that a woman of my age – almost 50 – did not have her own bank account, and did not know the difference between a SIPP and an ISA, a current account and a savings account. I’d had my own account before Paul, of course, but I’d closed it on his advice when I stopped working when Matt came along, and had just used our joint account for the twenty-four years since then. Dan was patient and gentle with me, but I could tell he thought I was an oddity.

‘Well, Mrs Farrell, as you’re wanting to pay in an inheritance but still have instant access to the money, I would recommend our Flexclusive Saver account. Decent interest rates yet fully flexible. We can open that now for you, if you have some proof of ID and proof of address.’

I hadn’t for a moment thought I’d need anything like that. I’d been so far removed from all this sort of thing – Paul of course handled all our finances and paid all the bills. But thankfully I had my driving licence on me, and at the bottom of my handbag was a water bill with a shopping list scribbled on the back. Dan accepted those.

Twenty minutes later I left, grinning like a cat with cream, clutching a piece of paper with my bank account numbers on it. A card would arrive by post in a couple of days, Dan said. Our post arrived around midday so I’d be able to pick it up before Paul saw it.

Back home I called Mr Greve, passed on the bank details, and made myself some tea in an attempt to calm myself down a little. I’d done it. I’d taken the first step towards independence.

Next step, tell Paul.