Meet Francine Pt. 1
It happened on a single day, two weeks ago, when my life was broken and shattered. A police officer came to the door with a priest. “Ms. Francine Murray?” He asked. The policeman told me that my parents were dead, killed in a car accident with an oncoming bus; they died instantly. I crumbled into a chair and sat there, frozen, not knowing how to respond.
A love story in twenty chapters.
Chapter one — Brannon.
Two weeks later, after a short funeral, I invited friends and relatives into my parent’s home for something to eat and drink. My parents had only recently bought a house in Bowness, the Lake District.
I couldn’t afford to move them back to Glasgow to be buried, and my parents didn’t know anyone in the town. So, friends and relatives travelled from Scotland, including Mum’s sister and her husband, Jack and Gilda, who are mean and don’t care about anybody but themselves.
After ten years of marriage, my husband divorced me a year ago. He never got on with my parents and didn’t show up for the funeral, which was small and short. Then, before I knew it, it was over. The following day, I packed, ready to head back to Scotland.
After the divorce, I sold the house and moved to the Island of Mull, far from Glasgow, and a leased cottage. It’s only 900 sq ft. and belongs to a farmer who has moved to another house. It will do until I can afford something better.
It’s a cold place, and I’m often chilled to the bone. I wrap myself in a blanket in the evening.
Tomorrow is my thirty-third birthday. It would have been filled with my parents’ love, but now it’s a day that will come and go.
The funeral is a blur. The sun is finally down, and everything in the cottage feels gloomy. With the towel wrapped around me, I lie on the bed and think of the past. Life was once filled with hope; now, it feels more like a duty to live and breathe. I reach over, grab the picture frame that holds a picture of my parents, and keep it close to my heart for comfort. Asleep, I want to dream of a sunny day full of my parents’ laughter.
I wake up to the sound of my cell phone ringing. It’s Gilda. She calls to ask what I will do with my parents’ priceless possessions. I tell her that I will arrange for furniture to be donated unless any relatives want it, and I will inform everyone on the weekend when such things can be collected.
“Don’t forget she was my sister, Francine,” she says. Dear God, how two sisters could grow up and be so different baffles me.
Two days before the funeral, I slipped into my parent’s bedroom and removed Mum’s gold charm bracelet. I then took both wedding rings from a secret drawer I only knew about, which Mum had told me was whereabouts. Next, I entered their closet, where Dad kept a small safe for papers, marriage certificates, birth certificates, passports, wedding albums, etc. I was surprised to find a wallet with money and my first camera. I hid that in my suitcase until it was time to leave.
“Francine, Jack and I are already down here. There are a couple of things I’m sure your mum would want us to have,” she says.
God, she drives me crazy. “Before any of that I need to speak with Mum and Dad’s solicitor, Gilda. There’s a possibility some of the things have been placed in a Will.”
I pour a glass of orange juice, butter, and a slice of stale toast for breakfast. I don’t touch it. I’m not hungry. I open the back door and am greeted by the smell of fresh, wet grass. The garden is still damp with rain, and I walk out onto the porch; birds are chirping.
Off to the left of the cottage is a forest of native conifers. I cannot help but wonder what is hiding there, maybe something I might catch with my camera. I’ve taken pictures of anything and everything since I first could hold a camera. Of course, my parents thought it cute, but I took it seriously.
I wanted to study photography in college and even took courses. My parents realized then that I was serious. The simple thought of Mum and Dad brings tears clouding my vision. I ran upstairs, flung myself onto the twin bed, and curled up.
I napped for two hours. Then, I was woken having a nightmare of being in the car and killed instead of my parents. I go into the bathroom, rinse my face, and get the suitcase from under the bed. I look at the camera, feeling very attached since it was an expensive gift from my parents for my fifteenth birthday.
I pull on a sweater and walk back outside to feel the sun on my face. I stroll into the distance, towards the trees that promise shelter from a world I despise. After an hour of climbing over fallen branches, I cross a quiet stream, looking for small animals, plants, and other things. I come across an unusually flat rock and take a rest.
Sitting here, observing my surroundings, I see Scotch Pine, Junipers, and Yew trees reaching up while animals, primarily squirrels, skitter back and forth across the branches. Bugs move sideways and every other way on the ground, digging among fallen cones, not knowing how small they are in the world.
What seems like minutes in the forest turns into a couple of hours. Where I come out is a different vicinity from where I entered. I’m not sure I know the way back. I’ll head in this direction; I believe it’s the right way.
I’ve been walking for half an hour, but there’s still no sight of the cottage. I feel a little panicky. I turned a complete circle and realized I didn’t know which way I came from and wanted to cry out in anger and foolishness. No matter what I do, the world finds a way to ruin it. This time, I started to run in one direction, caring only that it was the right way.
I hear something crack behind me and stop instantly. I whirl around, fearful of what it might be, but nothing is there. Then, off to the right, I hear something else crack. Oh, no, what if it’s a poacher? Suddenly fearful, I run, watching my feet on the uneven ground, only to slam into something hard and tall.
A face swims in front of mine. I see darkness. A minute or two later, I realize I’m on the ground, lying on my back with a man’s face leaning over me, asking if I’m alright. He helps me sit up.
“Dunna ye be getting up yet, lassie,” he says in a deep Scottish brogue.
Seconds pass, and I sit up dizzily, feeling the man’s strong hand help me to my feet.
His blue eyes seem darkened with worry. I pull on my light brown hair, brushing leaves and bracken and stroking strands from my face. Embarrassed that my cheeks are wet with tears, I use my cuff to wipe them away.
“Ye look as though ye’ve been running from a monster, are ye’s okay?”
I turn my face away. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t looking….”
“Think nothing of it, lass, ye’ll be far less damaged running in ta likes of me than a tree, that’s for sure,” he says apologetically.
We stand, looking at each other, and pause. The man’s nose isn’t long but not short, either — suitable for his features. His mouth is a thin line, a John Denver mouth, with the same hair mop.
He, too, is seeing me for the first time. I feel like I’m being touched wherever he looks, making me shift uncomfortably.
“Will ye be the new occupant of Warren Cottage?” He asks.
“Yes, you know the cottage?”
“Aye, my Dad own it. He told me a young lass had taken on the lease. I’m Brannon, I work the farm for him.”
“Hi, I’m Francine. Okay, well, I should be heading back now,” I say. “I’m sorry I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“Are ye going back to the cottage,” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Then ye’ll be headin’ the wrong way. Follow me,” he says and turns around, leading the way. I follow silently.
Never again, I’m telling myself. I will never allow a man to help me. But here’s a voice in my head saying, just keep telling yourself that, Francine.
After ten minutes, we edge the forest. Across the field, I can see the cottage.
“It’s easy to get turned around when you’re new to the area,” he says. “Ye’ll soon be getting used to the place.” Then, with hands tucked into a torn Barbour jacket, he cheerily says goodbye.
“Thanks, again,” I say.
Making the quarter-mile walk back to the cottage, I wondered what Brannon was doing in the woods. He had no shotgun. He he had set traps for rabbits, but somehow, he seemed different. He is tall — my gosh, he is so tall.
Dad loved John Denver; Brannon had that look about him: soft hair, a prairie smile, and good teeth. He seemed genuinely concerned after I’d run into him, nearly knocking the stuffing out of me.
I didn’t want to feel sorry for myself. Back inside the cottage, I would not brood, freeze, or feel malcontent. Dad would hate me feeling this way. When I married, I thought I had found it, whatever it was. Clive never wanted children. He didn’t tell me until I miscarried. At first, I thought Clive was trying to be kind. But the longer we were married, the more I understood he hadn’t wanted children. He didn’t have time for anyone but himself.
Looking back over ten years, I had a blueprint of what I thought marriage would be like. Damn, I have to stop thinking this way. It was a marriage that didn’t begin with love.
I wondered how I could move and go through the motions after the funeral, knowing what I knew. But even to myself, I have no options now. I’m alone.
My cell phone is on the kitchen table. There are three missed calls, all from Gilda. She also left a message, which I deleted. I can’t deal with her right now.
I’m still thinking about Brannon and where I would be had he not shown me the way home. But, of course, I would have found my way; I’m not some distressed damsel. I do wonder who cares for him, who he cares for, and where he lives. He did say the cottage belongs to his family. I had negotiated with the letting agent over the water in Oban.
Though it was luck, I didn’t want to be silly about our meeting. The chain of events seems to have made the unbelievable happen and then be believable again. But I’m thirty-three, too wise for daydreams. Better to keep working on myself.
Not that I haven’t had those kinds of daydreams; I certainly have. I dreamed of being a songwriter, singing my songs, and becoming a recording star, but instead, I nearly starved to death. But look, two years after I got married, I got a break, and a boyband picked up my lyrics. Five years into my marriage and two years working, Clive became jealous of the people coming in and out of my life. That gig ended. It should have been the marriage.
Hell, where did the day go? The sun is falling. The evenings are becoming chillier; I’ll need to gather wood for the stove. The cottage is bare and damp in some corners but only a thousand pounds a month. No internet.
I will begin writing songs again when I have time. I have a thousand pounds in the bank until my divorce becomes final. Clive is hiding money, and my solicitor is battling it out with his.
Until then, I could not afford decent furniture, so I bought it from Goodwill stores, but I had enough money to cover my essentials for a few months.
Looking in the fridge, it’s pretty scant. I’ll make something easy tonight and go shopping in Tobermory tomorrow. I need some fresh vegetables and meat, but I don’t have a freezer and won’t be able to stock them up how I like.
Hell, what’s that noise? It’s loud and sounds like it’s coming down the lane. I move to the window; a huge tractor pulls up outside the gate. It’s..is it..yes, it’s Brannon. What on earth…? The knock on the back door is not light; it would be hard to imagine those enormous hands could do anything with a soft touch.
“Brannon, hello, what can I do for you?”
God, he’s so tall. He’s holding two bags and a box on the ground.
“Aye well, being new, I wish to be neighborly. I brought fresh eggs, laid today, and I had a chicken in my freezer. Some fresh milk, and there’s a loaf of bread made by granny this afternoon. Also, there’s potatoes and cabbage in the box,” he says, looking down.
What was I telling myself earlier? I’ll never let a man do anything for me again.
“That is extraordinarily kind, but….”
“I’ll be putting it on the kitchen table,” he says. And does precisely that, “and ye’ll be needin’ some logs. This is a cold cottage. I’ll leave them by the shed in the morning, early. No need to get up. I’ll be on my way to bring the cows for milking. Right then, I’ll be off,” and before I can give him proper thanks he has turned and is walking back to the tractor.
I close the door, look at the table, and wonder if it’s the kindest thing someone has ever done for me. When I met Clive, we were in a nightclub in Glasgow. I was twenty-two years old. He bought me a drink, then another, and another. I was with girlfriends, but they, too, were drunk.
When we left the club, Clive met me outside. Com’on, he said, and I went with him. We parked on the common. Clive’s hands were all over me and, soon enough, between my legs. Finally, he pulled my panties down and was on top of me. It was quick; I daresay others might say it was rape. I never had a boyfriend before Clive. He took me home to my parent’s house and promised to pick me up the following night, which he did.
Looking back, I’m sure he did so to ensure I didn’t bring trouble for him. He told me he loved me. I was never the prettiest girl in high school; Clive was nineteen. I had large breasts, and it was these that fascinated the boys. George Bryant put his hand in my blouse, tearing off two buttons, and groped my right breast. I kneed him in a sensitive area. It was the last time anyone at high school attempted such a thing.
Clive came around most evenings for three months. Finally, I told him I was pregnant. Clive’s father insisted on him marrying me. I didn’t want the embarrassment for my parents, being pregnant and not having a fiancé. We married four weeks later at a registry office. Clive’s parents never attended, just mine.
I lost the child in my second semester, tripping on the stairs. I was heartbroken, but Clive took it in his stride. I think we could have divorced several weeks after that. We didn’t. I still believed.
I sang professionally. I made enough to pay the mortgage, and we had some holidays, but it all came to nothing when Clive became jealous, we fought, and on several occasions, he hit me.
I don’t know how it lasted ten years; I’m not sure any woman knows. It just did. One day, after breakfast, he upped and left. Then, while I was working, he changed the keys to the house and removed every stick of furniture. I had no alternative but to return home to my parents on the northwest side of Glasgow.
Mum and Dad had already discussed moving away from the city, becoming elderly, and ready to settle into a one-story home in the Lake District, Windermere, where they holidayed most years. So that’s how I came to leave Glasgow, and now I have a year’s lease on this cottage on the Isle of Mull. It’s not a pretty cottage, but the surroundings are beautiful, peaceful, and as far from any city as I want.
I’m going to bed early to keep warm and taking a sleeping tablet.
Well, so much for sleeping. Instead, I’ve been woken by a thunderstorm, lightning illuminating the sky, and rain thrashing against the roof and windows.
I know this is dumb, and you’ll think so, too, but Brannon comes immediately to mind. I’m feeling stupid. He’s not on his own. He’s not handsome, well, kind of, in a rough, ugly sort of way, but then how his face softens when he smiles. He’s attractive.
I must have fallen asleep, and as I wake, I am shaded by the sunlight pouring in through the window. It reminds me that I need to buy curtains. There is no sign of the storm, but a pile of logs is at the side of the shed. I didn’t hear the tractor.
I make breakfast of scrambled eggs. Yummy, the taste of freshly laid eggs, the colour of the yoke, and home-baked bread. I’m in breakfast heaven.
There’s the phone again; I’ll guarantee it’s Gilda. I let it ring.
