âIâm glad youâre jealous. But you must know you have no cause.â When he tried to assert some authority she was not so much intractable as impervious. It amazed her that he â or any man â would even make the attempt to tell her what to do. But when he gave up she eventually realised that this was worse.
Franco had always been fond of women, gambling and drink, not necessarily in that order. He gave up other women when he married Georgie â she knew he was occasionally unfaithful but always maintains it was ânothing seriousâ â but turned increasingly to gambling and drink to reassert his emasculated ego and deaden the smart to his self-esteem. He could not rule his wife; had she chosen to rule him, within the domestic domain, taking over from his mamma whose iron dominion had been curtailed rather than softened by chronic illness, he would have adjusted. But Georgie did not want to rule. It was her independence which defeated him, and when he protested, ranted, fumed, all he saw was that she didnât take him seriously. His male bravado and lust for mastery was a game to her, a game she won effortlessly, without even noticing the contest. He drank to give himself the courage to challenge her, to numb himself to her laughter and her charm. By the time she had begun to understand, it was too late.
They wanted children but, despite constant groundwork, nothing happened. Georgie went for tests, Franco wouldnât even consider it. Doctors attributed the problem to âpsychological barriersâ. When she finally learned she was pregnant, after her mother-in-lawâs last stroke, she didnât tell him straight away, in case anything went wrong and the failure of his hopes proved too much for him. He was drinking now to blot out the dread of his mammaâs approaching death, or for any reason, or just for the sake of drinking. He came back late one night barely able to stand; she was trying to help him up the stairs to their flat when he fell against her and sent her sprawling. She tumbled down the rest of the flight and lay still, bleeding copiously. Neighbours called an ambulance; Franco was too drunk to help. The next day, doctors told him she had lost the baby he hadnât known she was carrying; subsequent tests confirmed damage to the womb which meant she was unlikely to conceive again. He sobbed out his guilt on her hospital bed, promising to give up the drink and saying having children didnât matter. A week later, he was blaming her for not telling him, and drinking again to drown both his shame and his bitterness that he would never be a father.
And so it went on. Drink â penitence â abstention â awareness â guilt â drink. Garry Grimes had gone on benders lasting two or three days but in between he had periods of relative sobriety. It was depression he needed to fight, not alcoholism. But Franco was now a full-blown alcoholic. Ultimately, he drank because he drank. After his motherâs death they moved into the family mansion, a decrepit villa full of nooks and crannies where bottles could be hidden. Georgie tried getting rid of them, but he only bought more. She sought medical advice, only to be told there was nothing to be done until he decided to do it himself. She took control of their finances, only to find they hadnât any: what remained of the Cavarisâ ancestral wealth had mostly been gambled or drunk away. Franco borrowed money from her, and never repaid it. When she refused to lend, he stole. The tenor of their rows had changed: she no longer laughed or teased him. One day, he hit her.
That was when she knew she would have to leave. Not tomorrow, or the next day, but sometime, someday. She stood at the window looking out over the Eternal City and thinking that its roots were deeper than love and its towers higher, because a city was a strong thing, a work of skill and stone, and the edifices of the heart
Franco had always been fond of women, gambling and drink, not necessarily in that order. He gave up other women when he married Georgie â she knew he was occasionally unfaithful but always maintains it was ânothing seriousâ â but turned increasingly to gambling and drink to reassert his emasculated ego and deaden the smart to his self-esteem. He could not rule his wife; had she chosen to rule him, within the domestic domain, taking over from his mamma whose iron dominion had been curtailed rather than softened by chronic illness, he would have adjusted. But Georgie did not want to rule. It was her independence which defeated him, and when he protested, ranted, fumed, all he saw was that she didnât take him seriously. His male bravado and lust for mastery was a game to her, a game she won effortlessly, without even noticing the contest. He drank to give himself the courage to challenge her, to numb himself to her laughter and her charm. By the time she had begun to understand, it was too late.
They wanted children but, despite constant groundwork, nothing happened. Georgie went for tests, Franco wouldnât even consider it. Doctors attributed the problem to âpsychological barriersâ. When she finally learned she was pregnant, after her mother-in-lawâs last stroke, she didnât tell him straight away, in case anything went wrong and the failure of his hopes proved too much for him. He was drinking now to blot out the dread of his mammaâs approaching death, or for any reason, or just for the sake of drinking. He came back late one night barely able to stand; she was trying to help him up the stairs to their flat when he fell against her and sent her sprawling. She tumbled down the rest of the flight and lay still, bleeding copiously. Neighbours called an ambulance; Franco was too drunk to help. The next day, doctors told him she had lost the baby he hadnât known she was carrying; subsequent tests confirmed damage to the womb which meant she was unlikely to conceive again. He sobbed out his guilt on her hospital bed, promising to give up the drink and saying having children didnât matter. A week later, he was blaming her for not telling him, and drinking again to drown both his shame and his bitterness that he would never be a father.
And so it went on. Drink â penitence â abstention â awareness â guilt â drink. Garry Grimes had gone on benders lasting two or three days but in between he had periods of relative sobriety. It was depression he needed to fight, not alcoholism. But Franco was now a full-blown alcoholic. Ultimately, he drank because he drank. After his motherâs death they moved into the family mansion, a decrepit villa full of nooks and crannies where bottles could be hidden. Georgie tried getting rid of them, but he only bought more. She sought medical advice, only to be told there was nothing to be done until he decided to do it himself. She took control of their finances, only to find they hadnât any: what remained of the Cavarisâ ancestral wealth had mostly been gambled or drunk away. Franco borrowed money from her, and never repaid it. When she refused to lend, he stole. The tenor of their rows had changed: she no longer laughed or teased him. One day, he hit her.
That was when she knew she would have to leave. Not tomorrow, or the next day, but sometime, someday. She stood at the window looking out over the Eternal City and thinking that its roots were deeper than love and its towers higher, because a city was a strong thing, a work of skill and stone, and the edifices of the heart
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