Chapter 16
The sun was making a last-ditch attempt at shining before evening set in as Patricia ventured out into the open once more.
She’d been meandering around St Stephen’s Green when the heavens had opened, forcing her to take shelter in the bandstand alongside other foolhardy souls who’d ventured out without an umbrella.
The rain hadn’t lasted long, though, and now she was enjoying dodging puddles, breathing in the scent of damp grass and wet leaves and listening to them crunch beneath her lace-up, high-heeled boots.
The boots were not in the least practical and smacked of the Victorian era.
In fact, when it came to comfort, they ranked alongside corsets, but she didn’t care.
The character she’d created for herself this week didn’t give a toss about comfort.
She was all about the aesthetic and the flamboyance of her appearance.
A sudden whiff of cigarette smoke made her crinkle her nose as a nondescript man, puffing on a cigarette as though his life depended on it, strolled past. David had smoked when they’d first been married.
She hadn’t minded then. In fact, she recalled thinking it was a sophisticated habit, but it was one she couldn’t abide now.
Not just for the obvious health reasons, but because cigarettes reminded her of her ex-husband and another time.
Up ahead, an inquisitive squirrel watched her progress for a moment before darting away in a streak of grey fur as she drew closer.
Patricia felt alive on this inclement Dublin afternoon.
She was filled with the sort of energy that made her want to do something mad.
Never mind that dressing up and pretending to be someone else could be classed as certifiable.
If she’d had the park to herself, she might well have run down the path with her arms flung wide in carefree abandon, singing The Hills Are Alive from The Sound of Music.
Her cheeks were flushed from the brisk air, and her eyes shone brightly beneath the brim of her hat, which was the exact shade of ruby red as her coat.
It even sported a rakish swirl of red feathers.
She’d left her coat open despite the chill because, sure, what was the point of wearing something wonderful if nobody could see it?
The wonderful in question was a hot-pink zebra-striped dress she’d chosen for her afternoon outing.
You could be forgiven for mistaking her for one of the eclectic fashion designers she’d long admired, such as Vivian Westwood or Zandra Rhodes, although her outfit was unmistakably Patricia Harte.
As much as she revered those fashionistas, her true idol since her teenage years had been the American costume designer Edith Head, who held the record for the most Academy Awards won by a woman.
While Edith was well known in the circles she'd moved in for a young Irish girl in 1954, she was still something of a wild card, especially when all Patricia’s friends were googly-eyed over matinee idols.
Edith had first come to her attention while Patricia watched the credits roll at the end of Sabrina.
Audrey Hepburn and her wonderful outfits had held her transfixed throughout the film, and afterwards she’d been desperate to know who was behind them.
There she’d sat on a leatherette cinema seat that would rip the skin off the backs of your bare legs in the summer months while her friends urged her to get up.
They were eager to catch up with the lads loitering outside, but Patricia hadn’t budged until she had her answer.
Edith Head. Rear Window, White Christmas, To Catch a Thief — it was always her.
Patricia immersed herself in imagining she might have a career like Edith’s too, but life had put her on a different course and scuppered her plans.
A woman in a mustard coat caught her eye, distracting her.
She was striding through the Green as though she owned it.
Colour was a marvellous aphrodisiac for confidence, Patricia thought.
There was something about standing out from the crowd that made her hold herself a little straighter today.
She fancied the staff at Marks & Spencer had treated her with a deference she didn’t usually receive earlier that day, too.
When had she become so nondescript in her day-to-day life?
When had all the colour seeped from it? They were pointless questions because she already knew the answer.
There was no defining moment, rather a gradual acceptance of time passing and dreams dying.
It was like that Marianne Faithfull song about the woman who dreamed of riding through Paris in a sports car, only to realise it was never going to happen.
Like her dreams, she had simply faded into the background of life.
Her thoughts darted about much like the squirrel and settled on David.
Where her parents were concerned, her accountant ex-husband had ticked all the boxes.
They’d never come right out and said they knew the reason behind the haste of their wedding, but given the timing, they must have twigged.
She did love him, though, and all her girlfriends said he was a catch.
Her vows had come from the heart on their wedding day.
She was certain David had intended to keep his too, but he still had many wild oats to sow.
He thought she didn’t know, but she did.
A wife always knew. She’d stayed because they were a family and her children needed their father.
So instead of following her dream, she settled into domestic life and, just as her parents had foreseen, became a wife and mother.
Perhaps if they’d had more in common, or if he’d been the sort of man who encouraged her to pursue something beyond the home, things might have worked out between them.
After all, it takes more than love and vague hope to sustain a marriage.
A leaf drifted past Patricia, and she paused to watch its lazy descent.
People say opposites attract, but in her experience, only for so long.
In the long run, shared interests and like-mindedness are needed to steer a marital ship.
She’d tried, but she simply could not get excited about golf or complicated sums adding up the way David did.
Just as he didn't understand the thrill of snipping the final thread from one of her creations, whether an outfit for herself or a costume requested by the children.
As the years rolled into one another, they realised their only common denominator was the children.
Her parents couldn’t have foreseen David Harte running off with his secretary twenty-five years down the line when he and his wife became empty nesters.
They couldn’t have foreseen her dad’s heart attack, which had come out of nowhere and seen them farewell him at Glasnevin Cemetery.
Nor could they have foreseen her mother’s illness, which developed soon afterwards.
Initially, the mysterious symptoms evaded diagnosis while taking a very real toll on Margaret Dunne’s body.
The fatigue left her bedridden, while aching joints, hair loss and headaches contributed to a myriad of other symptoms Patricia had feared were terminal.
There had been relief when her mam’s illness was finally diagnosed and they had a name for it: late-onset lupus.
A condition that saw her body begin attacking itself.
How or why she’d developed it, the doctors couldn’t pinpoint.
It could have been genetic or environmental.
They simply didn’t know. Patricia put it down to plain old bad luck and the stress of her dad’s sudden death.
As an only child and a divorced woman whose children were off leading their own lives, it had been only natural for her to care for her mam when she first became unwell.
It took months for her to return to full health—or as close as she was ever going to get—and they tootled along for two years without further incident.
The disease wasn’t done with her mam, however, and when it flared again, it was worse.
Patricia moved her in because she had a ground-floor bedroom thanks to an extension at the rear of the house.
This time, the illness wreaked havoc on her kidneys, and eventually dialysis was needed.
There was no sense in her mam returning to her own home and these days she was too frail to live independently.
In fact, this was the first time they’d spent longer than a night apart in years.
Patricia loved her mam wholeheartedly, but there was a delicious sense of freedom in knowing she was off duty.
She began walking again, seeing the gate for the south-side exit up ahead.
The question she’d asked herself so many times over the years jostled for attention, refusing to be ignored.
What if she’d stood her ground and said no to secretarial college?
‘What ifs’ were futile, however, because she hadn’t.
Besides, she wouldn’t be without her children.
This week wasn’t for dwelling on the past, Patricia told herself sternly, the Marks & Spencer bag containing Quinn’s gift swinging by her side.
It was for living her dream.