Chapter Twenty-One
Grace stared at the page. Her nose throbbed and her elbow was stinging where she rested it on the arm of the chair, but the real pain was in her head.
Ever since Jude dislocated his shoulder Grace had suspected Frank might have had the same condition as him, and now it was clear Frank thought the same.
How on earth had she missed it? And why hadn’t he told her?
Forty-six years ago, they’d promised to love and support each other in sickness and in health.
She scanned the page again and noticed a date at the top left of the page.
Six years ago. That was five years before Frank’s death.
Five years of him not sharing his inner thoughts with her.
She traced her finger over the letters, feeling the infinitesimal indents the pressure of his pen had made on the paper, back when his heart still worked, and his brain sent messages to his hand.
Years ago, Frank told her someone once said to him that the best thing an over-thinker can do to order their thoughts is to write.
These were his ordered thoughts, and he’d put them on paper instead of turning to her.
She turned to the next page, wiping tears from her eyes before starting to read.
Recognizing those traits in Sherlock Holmes has really got me thinking. I’ve been doing a lot of research online and some of what I’ve read has been pretty scary, to be honest. Adding that to what happened to Tony, I became very concerned for Jude …
Grace’s muscles tightened. Was Frank collating Jude’s behaviour with his brother’s?
Was there something else she didn’t know about Jude?
Six years ago, Jude was only seventeen. She cast her mind back and remembered an anxious, studious boy with few friends.
He certainly wasn’t drinking and carousing like Tony had.
Not that she knew of. But she was beginning to worry she didn’t truly know her family at all.
But I’ve decided to reframe my thinking.
Yes, Holmes had executive function issues, but they paled into insignificance when compared to his mental capacity when he was focused.
I’ve seen the same in Jude. When he’s into something, he’s really into it.
Rosie’s the same. I can almost forget those worrying days when I thought she was going down the same road as Tony when I think about how incredibly committed she is to her work.
I know she has her battles, but she’s a brilliant photographer and an incredible mother to that wonderful boy.
So, he thought Rosie had ADHD too. That was what Rosie had implied when they were in the car on the way back from the hospital, but it seemed Frank’s suspicions went much further back.
Rosie said Frank talked to her about her drinking when she was a teenager.
But why hadn’t Frank ever spoken to her, his wife and Rosie’s mother, about any of these things? She turned her eyes back to the page.
I know the feeling of hyper-focus well. When I was designing the back of The Lodge and how it could tie in with the frontage and work logistically, I often forgot to eat.
I remember being annoyed that I had to sleep because I wanted to carry on with my work.
It’s always been the same with reading too.
When I’m in the zone, I don’t want to stop.
No, it’s not that I don’t want to – it’s more that it doesn’t occur to me to stop because I’m so engrossed.
Any interruption shifts my focus completely and it’s hard to get back in the zone.
Even going to bed is an annoying inconvenience.
Grace is so structured in her routines, but I put sleeping off for as long as possible, sometimes drinking a strong coffee, thinking it will keep me awake, but it has the opposite effect.
I’ve learned now that stimulants like caffeine actually slow down brains with ADHD.
That’s why they prescribe synthetic stimulants.
Imagine speed calming you down! I’d try it if I didn’t think it would give Grace a heart attack.
So, he did know I existed, thought Grace, with a tinge of resentment at being the structured one and, it seemed, the fun police. Was she really the only thing stopping Frank from trying speed?
I keep going over the pros and cons of telling Grace about what I’ve found out.
When I first mentioned ADHD to her, she was dismissive, saying everyone needed a label these days.
She said something about people always wanting to feel special, or make an excuse for their poor behaviour, and since I’m not sure, I don’t see the point in worrying her.
Guilt rushed through Grace. She didn’t remember that conversation, but those had been her thoughts and she could now see why Frank hadn’t confided in her. She shifted in the chair to take the pressure off her bruised hip and read on.
I’ve got to the grand old age of sixty-four without a diagnosis, so I don’t see the point of going for one now.
I feel terribly sorry for younger me, who spent years getting told off for being late, untidy and forgetting homework.
Good job I had my art. If you excel at something you love, life’s easier, I think.
I’m fortunate I could channel my skills into something varied enough to keep my interest and that made me a good living.
And when you’re an architect, people expect you to be quirky, so I didn’t have to hide behind a corporate mask at work.
Now I look back, I can see I masked a lot.
I kept the inner working of my head to myself after being laughed at enough times.
Our Tony was always in so much trouble, it allowed me to look like the normal one.
And I am normal. I’m normal for me, Rosie’s normal for her, and Jude is normal for him.
Our normal might just look a little bit different to other people’s.
Her heart ached for the child Frank had been.
She wanted to scoop him up and hold him close.
The last words rang in her ears, though.
Grace’s family was normal. But for all his protestations, Frank seemed to think they weren’t.
At least, three of them weren’t. Where did that leave her?
On the outside looking in? The thought stung again.
She’d always been glad Frank and Rosie were close, but looking back, she knew there were times when she would come into a room and find them laughing or sitting close together on the sofa and feel excluded.
She’d pushed down the feelings because what kind of mother feels envious of their child’s relationship with their father?
But she had to admit she did, and she wasn’t proud of herself for it.
I think Rosie’s doing all right now. Paz is a good match for her. He reminds me of Grace, in a way, solid, dependable, happy not to be the centre of attention.
Grace balked at this description of herself.
She sounded like a carthorse, not a wife.
Mrs Hughes, the housekeeper in Downton Abbey appeared in her mind’s eye.
She was solid and dependable. She also lived below stairs, only there to make the more important people’s lives run smoothly.
Tears welled in her eyes. She’d been so desperate to read Frank’s words, but now she saw that their marriage had been flawed on both sides.
It was here in his distinctive rounded handwriting; he viewed her as separate from himself and their daughter, when all the time she’d deluded herself they were one happy family.
She’d read enough. Maybe going through Frank’s journal had been a bad idea.
Didn’t they always say the eavesdropper never heard good about themselves?
She snapped the book closed, a draught from the pages chilling the tears on her cheeks.
Her guilt along with the words Frank used to describe her made frantic circles in her mind.
‘Dismissive,’ but ‘helpful, supportive, solid, dependable, normal.’
Those were the words written down by the man she thought of as creative, brilliant, funny and unique. It seemed to Grace that she’d romanticized her marriage over the last year. They hadn’t been a loving unit. They were two different families living under one roof.