Meet Francine Pt. 8
I marvel at people torn up on the road of tragedy. There is always one more road ahead, one more field to run through, someplace off beyond, round the bend, better than the bend before
Francine is keen to learn what is going on with Brannon. Perhaps spraining her ankle was serendipity—but is it?
Bunny has just gone up the stairs to look for a photo album, something he wants to show me; as I said earlier, what a gentle soul the man has. I can hear the floorboards creaking.
Mum and Dad were happily married. They had their moments, some of which I recall. If there were arguments, it was about how to handle other family members. Mum felt it was essential to get together to celebrate holidays, which we did. Always at our house. Always with mum preparing, cooking, and cleaning up. Dad wanted to stop it, tradition or not; he didn’t want tradition to mean all work for mum and no play. It caused arguments, and though I was on Dad’s side, Mum wanted to keep the family together. Losing them together, well…. I don’t know what I think about that.
I’m sitting here in the comfort of a man’s home, a man whose heart is broken or has been stolen. I think about my dad. It would have been very tough for him.
I was born in 1989 at Princess Royal Maternity Hospital. There is nothing special about the way I was raised. I was loved, often spoiled, an only child, and well-educated. The mistakes in my life were never a result of my parents' teachings but my insecurities in my twenties around men.
“Here it is, Francine. I had a job finding it, it’s been several years since I last looked at it,” he says. “Took me awhile, sorry.”
“Don’t apologize, Bunny. It’s a huge album.”
“Aye, after Rachel died, I combined several into one huge one. Our wedding photos are at the beginning, and then Brannon’s birth, and later his school years. To my knowledge, Brannon has never appeared in a photograph after Rachel…” and he pauses.
“Died, Bunny.”
“Nay, lass,” his eyes fill with emotion. Rachel and I tried for a child for over ten years without luck; we had come to the understanding we wouldn’t have children,” he says.
“Better late than never, Bunny,” I say.
“Rachel was brutally attacked on her way home from a performance in Edinburgh, Francine. She was raped and almost killed by strangulation. Brannon is the child resulting from that rape,” he says, looking down at photos of Bannon as a child asleep in a cot. “You see, Francine, Rachel had been viciously attacked and unconscious when raped. In the days and weeks that followed, Rachel could remember nothing. Or didn’t want to; her mind shut out everything about that night.
When Rachel discovered she was pregnant, there wasn’t a moment’s hesitation about her decision. She was going to abort the pregnancy. On the day she was to have the procedure done, we were at the hospital; you may have noticed it is next to a school. I remember hearing the noise outside, the children in the playground, laughing, calling, and playing. Rachel heard it, too,” Bunny is crying, and I’m close to shedding tears when I recall saying to him, better late than never, no matter how long I live, I’ll never forgive myself for that hasty remark.
I feel myself wanting to hold Bunny’s hand, and without giving it another thought, rest my left palm on the back of his, resting on the armchair. With his other hand, he pats the back of mine.
“At that moment, we both seemed to understand that those children had their own world. This child, not a result of love but horror, is going to lose his or her chance. This baby would not enjoy the day-long sunshine, a room of his or her own, with people willing to love such a child,” he says, touching Brannon’s photo as he sits in a highchair.
“Rachel got up from the hospital bed, dressed, and took my hand. We said nothing to each other. That afternoon, still not discussing what we’d done, we went in the garden and picked garden vegetables, tomatoes, and the garden, well, it was big enough for the two of us to get lost in,” and he wipes his eyes.
I'm thinking this beautiful man, this heartbreak, and the evil that punctured their happiness is unspeakable. May was right, evil.”
“Bunny,” I whisper, “I don’t know what to say, what there is to say; I’m so sorry for wanting to learn something that does not concern me. I feel like an intruder.”
“It’s not so, lass, I understand. I always thought one day someone would have an ear to listen,” he says. “I can tell you have feelings for Brannon. I don’t know that Brannon has feelings anymore. He’s like a vice where emotion is concerned. Nothing leaks out. He is kind and generous, working his fingers to the bone. Any woman would be honoured to love him, but there’s nothing there, Francine.
There was a chance, at least I choose to believe so, and as he got older, he started to question things. He became elusive, not coming around, and when Rachel was diagnosed, he came to see her only while I was working. The illness came for her quickly, just three months. Brannon was nineteen. He never shed a tear at her funeral,” he says.
Bunny fingers through the photo album, pausing to look at and cherish many. Some of which he tells me little anecdotes and laughs at himself.
As I listen and sense his love for Brannon, I recall writing a song some years back. It was a song about family, about how every family has its irrigation ditch, which allows the dispersal of what each family doesn’t want or need. Sometimes, it overflows.
Bunny continues. “Of course, the police were doing their best to find the attacker. A year went by, two years, three, and still no memory of it had been returned to Rachel. As far as she was concerned, Brannon was ours, ours alone…” he says as the phone in the kitchen rings.
“That’ll be Brannon. I don’t get calls on that phone from anyone else. I’ll just see what he wants.”
While Bunny is in the kitchen, I’m wondering what Brannon knows. It sounds like he does know something, but what? I can only imagine the questions he must have had. Whenever I’d ask a question my parents didn’t want to answer, it was always, darling, let’s not talk about that now.
“Hi, son, yes, hold on a minute…. Francine, do you like a certain cut of meat? Brannon wants to know,” Bunny calls through to the living room.
“Oh really, anything at all, it’s that long since I had beef, I’ve forgotten what it tastes like, tell him.”
“Brannon, Francine says she likes Filet Mignon.”
Oh, Bunny, you rascal, I’m thinking.
“And not to forget the Lanark Blue Roquefort. I’ve got the vegetables. Oh, sorry, Francine is saying something… what was that Francine…” he says, faking out his son, “Okay, I’ll tell him. She would like some clootie dumplings, son. If you don’t have any, pick some up at Martha’s on ye’s way through, lad,” he says down the phone.
Bunny returns with the biggest grin ever seen on a man’s face.
“Bunny, I don’t believe you did that. He’ll think me so ungrateful.”
“Nay, lass, he knows I’ve given him my favourite. Just having a bit of fun with the lad. You’re good for me, lassie. Now, how about we have another cup of tea? Brannon will be there for three hours yet,” he says, picking up the tray.
As he leaves to return to the kitchen, “Bunny, you might be the kindest man I ever met,” I tell him.
He laughs kindly. “Lassie,” he says, “you don’t have to bribe me to get more shortcake.”
As I wait in front of the fire, I feel that Bunny is his island, this house, separated, adrift, away from the mainland, and has been that way since he lost Rachel. But this cottage is his backrest, his bible, and he’s waiting for his prodigal son to come home.
