Promises, Promises

by Patricia Scanlan

  Miriam had told Ben about the baby. When Ellen went over to the house the next day, he told her that he and Miriam would help as much as they could and that she was to do what she felt was right, about keeping the baby. Sheila was keeping the pressure on about her going to her aunt’s in Navan and having the baby adopted.

  There’d been a mighty row when Ben told Sheila that they had asked Ellen to be godmother. Ellen was doing the washing-up and Sheila was icing a cake at the kitchen table when Ben told his mother of their plans. Sheila glared at Ellen and turned on her son.

  ‘What kind of a person is she to be godmother to any child? She’s in a state of mortal sin. She can’t parade up to the altar in St Joseph’s. What will people say? A godparent is supposed to undertake to look out for the moral welfare of the child. That one has the morals of an alley cat.’

  Ellen walked out of the kitchen, white-faced.

  Ben held his ground. ‘It’s what Miriam wants, Mam. Ellen’s been very good to her.’

  ‘Can’t she ask Emma? It would be altogether more fitting. Especially as Vincent is the godfather,’ Sheila argued.

  ‘No, Mam, and don’t cause a fuss. I won’t have Miriam upset. She’s tired and a bit weepy still.’

  Sheila gave an eloquent snort. ‘And what about me? Does anyone care about me being upset? My daughter’s disgraced the family name. Your father won’t let me handle the matter the way it should be handled. You won’t listen to my advice and have Emma as godmother. I’m just your mother and my feelings don’t count for anything. Is that it?’

  ‘No, Mam, of course not. And I know it’s a very unfortunate situation. But Miriam wants Ellen to be godmother to show her some solidarity and I think she’s right.’

  ‘Oh, so Ellen’s to get sympathy and a pat on the back for behaving like a slut.’ Sheila was fit to be tied.

  ‘Mam, don’t talk about Ellen like that. She’s going to be godmother and that’s it.’ Ben turned on his heel and left.

  Sheila hurried upstairs and marched furiously into Ellen’s bedroom.

  ‘If you had any sense of decency, you’d tell Miriam no. That child deserves better.’

  ‘Emma doesn’t even want to be a mother. She’d hate to be asked to be godmother. Miriam asked me and I’m going to do it. And if you don’t like it, you can lump it,’ Ellen spat. Her mother’s words had cut her to the quick.

  ‘Don’t you talk to me like that, my girl. Don’t think you’re too old to feel my hand on that cheeky puss of yours.’ Two bright spots of red stained Sheila’s cheeks. Her hands itched to slap Ellen’s face. She wanted to physically hurt her for the anguish and shame she was causing. The two women stared at each other. Then Sheila turned and walked out of the room, quivering with anger.

  Ellen sighed, remembering the altercation. Things were going to get worse. Only the immediate family knew of her pregnancy at the moment. Once the relations and neighbours knew, Sheila’s anger and resentment would increase. And Ellen would bear the brunt of it.

  Rebecca gave a little cough. Ellen gazed down at her admiringly. She was lovely. So dainty and perfect with her big blue eyes and shock of dark hair. If she had a little girl, they’d be pals, just like her and Miriam. The thought gave Ellen some comfort as Ben swung the car into the drive and Miriam prepared to receive her guests.

  ‘Have a sandwich.’ Ellen held out the plate of sandwiches to Emma and Vincent. She’d decided to act as though everything was normal. Tough luck if they couldn’t handle her pregnancy. She wasn’t going to go around with her head bowed no matter how much they expected her to.

  ‘No thank you,’ Emma said snootily.

  ‘Vincent?’

  ‘Have you no shame?’ Vincent growled. ‘It’s bad enough getting pregnant before you’re married when you were warned not to get involved with Chris Wallace. But to flaunt yourself before Father Kelly, and promise to look after Rebecca’s moral welfare, that takes the biscuit.’

  ‘It’s none of your business,’ Ellen gritted.

  ‘You’re damn right it’s my business. When you devastate our parents, that’s my business. Imagine how Mam’s going to feel when she has to meet Mr and Mrs Connolly. When you make a show of the family, that’s my business. And I’m going to make it my business to make sure that Chris Wallace marries you, no matter what he or Dad says.’

  ‘You stay out of it, Vincent. I don’t interfere in your life. Don’t you go interfering in mine,’ Ellen argued heatedly.

  ‘Why couldn’t you listen to Vincent and me, when we told you to stay away from Chris?’ Emma couldn’t contain herself.

  ‘Listen, you. I don’t have to take any crap from you, and I won’t.’

  ‘Vincent, don’t let her talk to me like that. I’m your wife.’ Emma bristled.

  ‘Shut up, Ellen.’ Vincent’s voice rose. ‘Don’t talk to Emma like that. She’s every right to say that to you. She warned you about that creep.’

  ‘You fuck off, Vincent Munroe, and stay out of my business. I didn’t interfere when you married that stuck-up little bitch, even though I knew you were making a big mistake. Did I? I let you make your own mistakes without lecturing you. So you let me make mine.’ Ellen was so mad she said the most hurtful thing she could think of and she didn’t care who heard.

  ‘How dare you!’ Emma stuttered.

  ‘Oh grow up,’ Ellen snorted. ‘You’re pathetic.’

  Vincent was purple with fury.

  ‘You’re a vicious little—’

  ‘Vincent, Ellen!’ Miriam exclaimed, coming to stand between them. Emma was weeping at this stage. ‘This is my daughter’s christening. If you want to have a row, do it somewhere else. Please.’ Her voice shook. It took a lot of effort to assert herself but she was determined. Enough was enough.

  ‘Take me home, Vincent. Miriam, I’m sorry about this. You can blame her,’ Emma blubbered.

  ‘I’m sorry, Miriam.’ Ellen was suddenly contrite. It wasn’t fair brawling at Rebecca’s christening party.

  ‘So you should be,’ Vincent exploded.

  Ellen bit her lip. She badly wanted to retort that he’d started it but Miriam was upset so she said nothing.

  ‘Are you satisfied now?’ Sheila demanded as Vincent led his sobbing wife from the room.

  ‘Be quiet, Sheila,’ Mick said quietly. ‘Ellen, go and get me another cup of tea, please.’

  Ellen went out to the kitchen. She was trembling. Vincent’s venom had taken her by surprise. She knew he’d be mad. But the strength of his feelings surprised her. If it had been anyone else other than Chris he wouldn’t have been so annoyed. It was an awkward situation and his in-laws wouldn’t be impressed. But so what? Blood was thicker than water for God’s sake and what the hell was so special about Pamela and Judge Connolly? They didn’t live in Glenree. They’d never have anything to do with her. There was no need for Vincent to get his Y-fronts in such a twist. He was always the same anyway, doing the older brother act. If he wanted to come the heavy with Emma, fine, but Ellen wasn’t going to put up with it.

  She poured her father a cup of tea. Mick hadn’t referred to the incident with Chris or made any comment about her pregnancy. His attitude towards her wasn’t angry or reproachful like Sheila’s. He was supporting her in his own quiet way. It gave her comfort. She’d never really appreciated her father until now. In this, the biggest crisis of her life, he was her strongest ally. She’d never realized how much he loved her until he’d done his best to restore her dignity in front of Chris. She was lucky to have him. She was going to need his strength in the next few months.

  Miriam opened her top and put Rebecca to her breast. The baby fed contentedly. Miriam felt desperately tired. It had been a long day. She was glad it was almost over. She’d been dreading the family coming back to the house after the christening. Sheila was like an Antichrist these days and Vincent was very annoyed about Ellen’s pregnancy. He’d phoned Ben and asked him to reconsider having her as godmother.

  The row that afternoon was d
istressing. Miriam felt sorry for Ellen but she’d been annoyed that her daughter’s christening party was marred by the Munroe’s family squabble. That was why she’d intervened.

  Miriam sighed. She was sick to death of being stuck in the middle of them. Sheila whinged in her ear about how Ellen had disgraced the family. Ellen was forever making snide remarks about Emma. Emma was always giving out about Sheila. It was very wearing. From now on, Miriam decided, she was just going to concentrate on her own little family. She wasn’t going to take everyone else’s burden on her shoulders. She had enough of her own.

  ‘Vincent, Vincent! I’ve got a terrible pain. Quick! We’ve got to get to the hospital.’ Vincent woke from a deep sleep to see Emma peering down frantically at him.

  ‘Emma, it’s just cramp. Relax,’ he muttered groggily.

  ‘No, I think I’ve started. This time I know it’s for real.’ Emma was nearly in tears. Ever since Miriam had gone into labour prematurely she was petrified the same thing was going to happen to her. Her greatest fear was that she wouldn’t get to the hospital on time. She didn’t want a home birth. She wanted to be in hospital where there were drugs and anaesthetics to knock her out so that she wouldn’t feel any pain. The nearer she came to giving birth the more frightened she became. She’d lie awake at night having dreadful panic attacks. Poor Vincent wasn’t getting any sleep at all because of her.

  ‘Please take me to the hospital,’ she begged.

  ‘Well just wait another little while and if the pain gets worse we’ll go,’ Vincent promised.

  ‘But Vincent, I might be the same as Miriam. It might come really quickly.’ Emma jumped out of bed and began to dress.

  ‘Emma! Will you get back into bed? It’s four a.m. You’re not going anywhere. You’re not going to be like Miriam. It was Miriam’s third child. Labours are much longer on the first.’ He tried to keep the impatience out of his tone. He was dead tired. This was Emma’s third false alarm since Miriam had given birth. Each time he’d managed to calm her down and had avoided a trip to the hospital.

  ‘Please, Vincent. I’m telling you it’s different this time.’ Emma was insistent. ‘If you don’t drive me to hospital I’m going to phone for a taxi.’

  ‘Emma, for God’s sake—’

  ‘Don’t for God’s sake me,’ she yelled. ‘I’m scared and you won’t help me. I hate you. And I hate your stupid bloody family. And I hate this baby and I wish I wasn’t having it. I’m going to the hospital whether you like it or not.’ She pulled her dress down over her head and rushed out of the bedroom to the phone downstairs.

  Vincent shot out of bed, cursing. He got to the phone just as Emma was about to order the taxi. He grabbed the phone off her and hung up. ‘It’s all right, Emma, I’ll bring you to the hospital if that’s what you want,’ he growled.

  ‘I want to go now!’

  ‘Right, I’ll get dressed.’

  Emma sat rigid with fear as they drove through the back lanes of North County Dublin past the twinkling lights of the airport, towards the city. The pain was still there. Not coming in spasms like Miriam’s had. Just constant. Maybe there was something wrong with the baby. Terror engulfed her. It would be all her fault if there was. Hadn’t she said she hated it? She didn’t want it? Maybe she’d wished this on the child. Just say it was a handicapped baby. What would she do then? She broke down, sobbing.

  ‘Stop crying, Emma. We’ll be there soon.’ Vincent was at his wits’ end. Never again, he vowed silently as he scorched down The Meatpackers’ Hill, past Hedigan’s field where the gymkhanas were held. This child would be their first and last. He hoped it was a boy. He’d have a son and heir to carry on his name. But even if it wasn’t a boy, there’d be no more. Once was enough to go through this trauma. It was causing too much stress in their marriage. Emma wasn’t able to cope with it, and right now, neither was he.

  It was a long night. Emma was whisked away for examination as soon as they got into the hospital. Vincent expected they’d both be leaving for home in less than an hour but some time later a doctor came and told him that, although Emma was certainly not in labour, her blood pressure was alarmingly high and there were some signs of slight toxaemia. They would keep her in for observation. If the blood pressure went higher and the toxaemia worsened, they’d have to do a Caesarean. Vincent, remembering how he’d tried to pass it off as another false alarm, felt like a heel. He was allowed to see Emma for a few minutes. She lay in her hospital bed, pale as a ghost against the pristine whiteness of the starched sheets and pillows. Her eyes, huge in the thinness of her face, were bright with apprehension and exhaustion.

  ‘You’ll be all right,’ he whispered, conscious of the other sleeping women in the darkened ward.

  ‘I’m scared,’ she whispered back, gripping his hand.

  ‘Don’t be. The nurses and doctors know what they’re about. They’ll look after you. The doctor said it’s nothing to worry about and they’re just keeping you in as a precaution,’ Vincent fibbed.

  ‘I’m sorry I said I hated you and the baby and your family. I didn’t mean it. I love you, Vincent.’ Emma’s bottom lip quivered.

  Vincent felt like crying himself. She looked so small and scared and vulnerable.

  ‘I love you, Emma. More than anything. This will all be over in another few weeks and I promise you, when the baby’s born, we’ll get someone in to help and when you’re better you can ride Cleo and go to lunch with the girls and do all the things you wanted to do.’

  ‘That sounds lovely.’ Emma reached up and caressed Vincent’s cheek.

  ‘I’m afraid you have to leave now, Mr Munroe.’ A nurse slipped quietly between the drawn curtains. She reached for the blood pressure kit on the locker.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, darling.’ Vincent kissed her gently and left the nurse to her work.

  The days that followed were fraught with anxiety. Emma’s blood pressure soared and dipped. The toxaemia worsened. A week after she was hospitalized, the doctors decided to perform a Caesarean. Emma was frantic with worry. The baby was going to be born weeks premature. It was all her fault for not wanting it. She was riddled with guilt. Guilt she couldn’t share with anyone, because they would think she was a horrible person if they knew why.

  Secretly though, she was most relieved to be giving birth by Caesarean. She’d be asleep, she wouldn’t know anything about it. She wouldn’t have the indignity of lying with her legs apart in stirrups, panting and groaning in front of some man she hardly knew. She wouldn’t have the awful pain that Miriam had endured. It would be sore afterwards. But she wouldn’t care about that. At least the ordeal would be over. The only thing that worried her was the scar after the operation. She didn’t want to be disfigured. It was bad enough having stretch marks. Silver streaks across her belly that nothing would erase no matter how much baby oil she rubbed into them. The doctor had promised her that he would do a neat cut and she’d be able to wear a bikini with no unsightly scars. People might think it was vain of her to worry about such trivialities when her baby’s life was in danger, Emma knew. But these little things mattered to her. It was bad enough having a baby she didn’t want and going through all this trauma without looking like Frankenstein’s monster afterwards.

  When the nurse came to shave her, she was absolutely mortified. When they gave her an enema she wanted to die with embarrassment. Miriam hadn’t told her about any of this. No-one had! Not even her mother.

  Pamela visited every day, full of concern. She’d assured Vincent that he and Emma were welcome to stay with her and the judge as long as they wanted to after the birth, until Emma got on her feet again. Vincent accepted the invitation gratefully. Pamela thought he looked ghastly. Grey and strained and exhausted. He was spending as much time as he was allowed with Emma as well as working all hours. He was desperately worried about Emma. As was Pamela. She hadn’t given her daughter much sympathy during her pregnancy. She’d been brisk and matter-of-fact, hoping that Emma would stop panicking and
start looking forward to her new baby. It hadn’t happened. Emma did not want the child. She was afraid but, worse than that, she was resentful. Pamela hoped against hope that when her daughter held her newborn baby in her arms for the first time, some maternal spark would ignite in her. Emma had been a very much wanted child. Pamela found it difficult to accept that her expected grandchild was not.

  She was allowed in to visit Emma shortly before the operation. Vincent was already there. Emma had been given her premedication and was already drowsily drugged.

  ‘You’ll be fine, and so will the baby,’ Pamela said reassuringly. ‘And you’ll be thrilled when you hold it in your arms. All this will be worth it, won’t it, Vincent?’

  ‘Absolutely, pet. Just think when you wake up, it will be all over and we’ll have a new baby.’

  ‘Time to leave, please.’ The nurse whisked back the curtains and an orderly with a trolley arrived. The nurse and orderly assisted Emma onto the trolley. It was hard and cold after the warmth of her hospital bed. Emma flopped back against the pillow. She gave Vincent and her mother a feeble wave. She felt floaty and light-headed as if it were all a dream. It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation. It was rather nice, she thought drowsily as she was pushed down a long corridor. Now that it was actually happening, she didn’t care. She wanted to go on being pushed along corridors for ever. She didn’t want to wake up and suddenly be a mother. She wanted to stay in this cotton-woolly twilight world with people taking care of her, where she had no worries and no responsibilities. The lights overhead flashed by as the nurse and orderly pushed the trolley along. They stopped at a lift and manoeuvred her in. It rattled and groaned and came to a halt with a jerking shudder that made her stomach lurch slightly.

  She was vaguely aware of passing through green plastic doors. A very strong sweet sickly smell made her feel queasy. Ether. Overhead, a huge white light gleamed in the morning sun. She was lifted onto another hard surface and a nurse covered her with a green blanket. A man with a green mask peered down at her. He had kind brown eyes. ‘You’ll just feel a little prick, Mrs Munroe,’ he murmured as he rubbed the skin on the top of her hand. ‘Count to ten.’