Unspoken

by Gerard Stembridge

  ‘A woman as hearty and healthy as you will have no bother at all.’

  Mrs Lynch leaned in a little closer and dropped her voice as if to make sure that no one else heard. It pleased Ann that the most revered midwife in the city seemed to be confiding in her.

  ‘I wish I could say the same for some of the rest of them here tonight. But sure we’ll manage them all anyway with the help of God. You’ll be the least of my worries, Mrs Strong.’

  Ann was thrilled to hear such praise. She hated being a bother to anyone. Judging by moans from the other cubicles, it seemed that Mrs Lynch had quite a few other women needing care and attention, yet here she was, her hand on Ann’s stomach, pressing confidently, taking time to make sure that everything was as it should be. Mrs Lynch, her head turned a little, listening closely, as if hearing things that the normal run of humanity could not, waited in stillness and utter silence until the next contraction came. Ann’s breath quickened but she tried to be as brave and calm as possible. Mrs Lynch smiled.

  ‘Good for you. It’ll be a few hours yet. We’ll look in again in a while – is that all right?’

  ‘Oh that’s fine Mrs Lynch.’

  *

  The smell of cleaning fluids was so overpowering in the tiny scrubbed waiting room that Fonsie knew he didn’t need to worry about any of the other fathers-to-be catching a whiff of Swarfega from him. The others, sitting close together on the wooden benches, nodded and muttered greetings, then returned to silence as Fonsie sat and clasped his hands on his lap. After a few moments he shifted them to his side. Then he folded his arms making the hands virtually invisible. Though it was clear that no one was even looking in his direction, he couldn’t help feeling a bit awkward. It was obvious to him that none of the other men worked with their hands. Soft faces, too. Fonsie didn’t recognise any of them even to see and, from the lack of any conversation, it seemed that no one else knew each other either.

  A different kind of man might have considered the curious coincidence of time, place and event that brought five strangers together like this and how soon, in one way or another, each of their lives would be changed, but Fonsie Strong did not have such thoughts. His only passing reflection was mild surprise that they were all strangers but he guessed that, if they started talking, some connection would be established very quickly, as was always the way in a provincial city that wasn’t much more than a town. He, however, would never be the one to begin such a conversation. Arms folded, he stared at the door, hoping someone would come soon and let him know how Ann was doing.

  The young man directly opposite Fonsie, Brendan Barry, sat quite still apart from occasionally flicking his blond fringe back from his eyes. He didn’t recognise himself in any of these other men. They were all much older, of course, but it wasn’t just that. It still felt like a bit of a shock to be here at all. Brendan had grown used to being the kind of young man that girls looked at in a certain way although he never really analysed why, preferring just to enjoy the attention and steal the kisses. His new wife Elizabeth Flanagan could have told him exactly what had enticed her that first night barely nine months ago. The combination of delicate good looks, genuine politeness and a strangely alluring passitivity of manner had been somehow irresistible. She’d walked into Cruise’s Hotel expecting nothing other than a boring night celebrating her parents silver jubilee with their boring friends. Then she noticed the young trainee manager. Brendan had immediately clocked her clocking him. Leslie Caron; that’s who she was like with her short-cropped hair, slim frame and dancing eyes. Later, when he wheeled a trolley with cake and champagne into the party, he felt those eyes on him all the way, so it was no surprise when, later, she wandered out to the lobby, sniffing round. Of course he enjoyed flirting with her, of course he could have just laughed off, as a joke, her suggestion that he steal a key to an unoccupied room and of course, even after he got a kiss off her and a shift in the darkness of room 35, he could have resisted going all the way, but the pleasure of the adventure, the thrill of the secret encounter, made it hard for Brendan to stop himself. Young Elizabeth Flanagan definitely didn’t want him to stop. Anyway, it had been a brilliant laugh.

  As a particular favour the marriage service was arranged in great haste by a close friend of the Flanagan family, Father Connolly, parish priest at the Mother of Good Hope church on the North Road. Circumstance alone had made Brendan Barry from Claughaun Terrace an acceptable Flanagan son-in-law, the birth of a healthy child in wedlock being the first priority for everybody involved in this awkward situation. His father-in-law bought the couple a brand new semi-detached house in College Park and opened a generous current account to take care of household bills. Both the house and the account were in Elizabeth’s name only. Brendan wasn’t that bothered by the insult. The Flanagan family could not organise all things, however. They had prayed that Elizabeth might be sufficiently overdue to allow them to create the impression in their circle that the birth was respectably premature, but nature thwarted them. Now that the moment had arrived, several days early as it happened, and quite definitely less than seven months since the wedding, Brendan still did not know exactly what his true feelings were. The force of Elizabeth’s passion for him could still be exciting. He regretted none of the rampant pleasure of their escapade nor its consequences, and he was quite giddy at the notion of becoming a father. But what lay beyond now seemed more complicated and difficult. Duller too, maybe? His knee briefly touched the man on his left. They both shifted position immediately, silently.

  This man, Cormac Kiely, sat waiting in placid contentment, perhaps because it was his seventh such vigil, or perhaps because he was, broadly speaking, a contented man. He had been content to become an architect as his father had been and content to continue the business practices that had proved fruitful in earlier difficult times. A carefully maintained relationship with the Bishop meant he was always first to be called on by the diocese for their many building projects, while he and his wife Louise, insofar as so many joyful pregnancies allowed, also involved themselves enthusiastically in local society: the Lion’s Club, the Junior Chamber of Commerce, Castletroy golf club and the Cecilian musical society. That pleasure and profit should flow equally from such pleasant social interactions was something Cormac continually gave thanks for, as he gave thanks for each of the six previous vigils he had undergone in this same waiting room, itself part of an extension to St Gerard’s that he had designed. His wife swore by Mrs Lynch, and there had been no mishaps yet. Of course a new baby meant that Louise would not now play any part in the Cecilian’s autumn production of The Merry Widow. Cormac didn’t at all mind the idea of attending rehearsals solo. He even had a notion that, this time, he might put himself forward for one of the lead roles. He was an untutored but decent baritone, certainly good enough to take on Baron Zeta. Why not? Silently, his head nodding in time, he began to hum ‘Women! Women! Women!’

  In curious contrast, the man next to him, George Collopy, was silently praying, his prematurely balding head bowed low. A deeply religious man, and a traveller for Mattersons Meats, he sold their pork and bacon products to retailers all over Munster. Having been graced with three girls, he hoped that God would understand why he had been praying for a boy-child since arriving at St Gerard’s several hours before.

  ‘Oh Jesus, Lord of mercy, though I am but a poor sinner and have no right to ask favours of You, yet I know that in Your compassion and love You will listen to my plea and grant my humble petition. I pray for the safe birth of my child and I implore that, on this occasion, You will grant me the miracle of a healthy boy. Oh blessed Mary, mother of God, intercede for me and beg the indulgence of your most wise, merciful and loving Son, to allow me the opportunity to raise a strong and upright Catholic boy, who I will teach to be your humble servant all the days of his life.’

  George Collopy’s lips didn’t move as, on and on, the words tumbled through his head. Sometimes he drifted on to decades of the rosary, keeping count of the Hail Mary
s by moving his right thumb from finger to finger and, after five joyful mysteries and a Hail Holy Queen, reverting again to another variation of his specific heartfelt personal plea for his one abiding wish.

  The man sitting, slumped forward, between George Collopy and Fonsie, the last of this coincidence of fathers-to-be, desired neither son nor daughter. Michael Liston’s black bowed head seemed to assert his reluctance even to be here. He had last become a father twelve years ago and didn’t want to be one again. He didn’t even want to be married any more. Not to her, anyway. Right now he just wanted a drink. To have been caught, snared like this left him brooding and resentful. The one and only time in more than two years, for Jesus’ sake! Drink, he had to concede, had played its wretched part, although it in no way prevented Michael from blaming that cow for luring him into some kind of trap. This suspicion had befuddled him for months since. Had she somehow heard about his opportunity of a move to Dublin? How could that be? He hadn’t told her anything. The phonecall was strictly on the QT from a high-up in the Department of Industry and Commerce, a special word in his ear because Michael’s expertise and loyal support were much appreciated. Things were about to change at last, he was told. Dev was being moved on, economic regeneration could begin, everything was going to loosen up, especially in the whole area of re-zoning and urban planning. Dublin was about to be transformed. That was the exact word the high-up used. Transformed. Planning experts like Michael would be in demand. Was he interested in a move? Michael was more than interested especially if, at the same time, it allowed him to engineer a gradual withdrawal and ultimate escape from married life, even though he could never end the marriage itself.

  Then the fiendish bitch told him she was pregnant. For the first time in twelve years. It was a miracle, she declared.

  It was hard to tell if the smile on her face was true maternal joy, a sign that all was for the best and their love had been renewed and borne fruit, despite all their little trials and tribulations – or triumphant malice. Michael had never hated her so much. With a child on the way he couldn’t leave her and if they all moved to Dublin together he’d never ever escape. Ever. The only reason he was sitting here at all, staring at the floor, savagely smoking, was because his sister had called to the house earlier, looked him in the eye and said she was sure he must be up the walls wondering how poor Eva was getting on and she’d be more than happy to mind the twins while he went to St Gerard’s. How closely women stuck together in these situations. Michael Liston was sure of one thing. Whether this creature turned out to be a boy or girl, it would not be wanted or loved. Not by him. And no one could make him, not she, nor his sister. Not anyone.

  Fonsie’s thoughts, less fixed and certainly less livid than the man seething quietly next to him, were like the invigorating Atlantic tide that, every August, he loved watching as it rolled and crashed on Ballybunion strand. No matter how much flotsam washed about in his worried head, the high-tide mark was always Ann, and each time his thoughts returned to her she seemed to roll in that little bit closer. First, he allowed himself a vague reassurance that she must be all right because if there was any problem surely someone would come and tell him? Should he go home then? Was Mary Storan managing all right looking after his four as well as her own? At nearly twelve, Ritchie was probably old enough and sensible enough to be of some help. He tried so hard to get things right. Always does his best, they said in his school reports. Ritchie would always be Ann’s favourite, though she’d never admit it.

  Ann. The wave rolled up the strand again and his uncertain imagination now saw her in a big iron bed in a spotless ward, surrounded by large comforting women with basins of hot water and towels and scissors. But the moment he closed in on her face, twisted in pain, he shifted his thoughts quickly. Would the bags of coal left on the lorry outside be all right? Barrington Street wasn’t the safest at this hour. Maybe he should go out and have a look. Whatever about stealing the coal, messers could easily jump on the back and start throwing lumps at each other. He tried to recall how it had been the last time, not the last terrible time when the baby was lost but the time before, with Martin. That was at the flat. Fonsie had been able to go to bed and sleep. Someone had woken him up with the good news. With Marian, before that, it happened in the middle of the afternoon while he was at work. Maybe things went much faster in a nursing home with everything laid on? He wondered how long these other lads had been sitting here. Had anyone told them what was going on? Ann had taken on sewing work and saved and saved so she could afford to come here. It was all paid for already. She was amazing that way, once her mind was made up. All on account of the last time, of course.

  When he’d mentioned to his mother how upset Ann was, his mother had said he should tell her just to get on with it. Everyone lost babies; she herself had lost three. It was God’s will. Say a Magnificat and pray for intercession on behalf of the poor little soul in Limbo. Fonsie did all those things himself and they helped him, but he never mentioned any of it to Ann, who would have gone through the roof, especially as the advice came from his mother. Of course, if it had been his father saying exactly the same thing, Ann would have said how kind Robert was to be thinking of her. Lovely old Robert. A true gentleman. Fonsie knew that, as far as his father was concerned, the best decision his son ever made was to marry Ann Casey, a sensible smiling girl with a lovely gentle singing voice.

  ‘Is Mr Barry here?’

  It was just two o’clock when a young girl of no more than twenty came in to the waiting room, looking around as she spoke. There was a couple of seconds delay, then, as if suddenly remembering his own name, the youngest of the five men leapt up.

  ‘Oh sorry, yeah. Me, yeah, that’s me.’

  ‘Your wife Elizabeth had a lovely baby boy a little while ago.’

  ‘Yeah? Yeah? Oh Jesus, really? Really, yeah?’

  Flicking back his fringe, his pink face flushed even more in embarrassment at his own excitement.

  ‘Do you want to come up and see them?’

  As the youngfellah hurried out ahead of the girl, Fonsie caught the eye of the man he did not know was Cormac Kiely, who was smiling the smile of an old hand.

  ‘One down. His first, I’d say.’

  ‘Oh yes, yes.’

  Fonsie gestured politely as he smiled and spoke but quickly noticed how visible on his palm were lines of ingrained black that even Swarfega couldn’t shift. He folded his arms again. Fonsie wondered how many children did these other men have already. Two seemed near his own age, in their thirties, and the one who had spoken to him was definitely older, maybe forty-five or so. Would Fonsie be still having children at that age? Not for him to decide. It was going to be hard enough now taking care of five. At least it meant moving up the council list for a three-bedroom house, but that would mean higher rent. Ritchie was finishing national school next year so there would be fees if he went on into secondary. There would be no week’s holiday in Ballybunion this August for the Strongs and maybe not next year either. He’d better pray for a freezing wet fire-lighting winter.

  Dozing off, he woke to hear the girl telling the older man, who she called Mr Kiely, that he had a beautiful new daughter born just after three o’clock. He took the news in his cheerful stride as if this happened every other week.

  ‘That’s four daughters to comfort my old age, and three sons to spoil it. Good night gentlemen and God bless you and keep you.’

  After he left, the one who was going bald seemed to get more nervous. Fonsie didn’t like to look but he could sense him shifting about on the bench and even heard him whispering to himself. The next time the girl put her head round the door he jumped up like he was electrocuted as soon as she said his name.

  ‘Mr Collopy.’

  ‘Yes, yes, that’s me.’

  ‘Congratulations. You have a new baby boy born at ten to four.’

  Mr Collopy couldn’t speak. He put his hands to his mouth and breathed in and out. Then he blessed himself, raised his head, a
nd prayed aloud.

  ‘Oh most loving and most tender Jesus, You have heard the prayer of an undeserving sinner. I am Yours unto eternity.’

  He blessed himself again and made a little genuflection in front of the open-mouthed girl.

  ‘Can I go see him?’

  The man who smoked stared after the man named Collopy. As soon as the door was pulled shut he shook his head.

  ‘Sweet suffering divine Jesus!’

  A few moments later he stood up and left. Fonsie waited alone. He released his hands from hiding to stretch his arms and his spine. Surely it wouldn’t be much longer.

  *

  The relief came suddenly as Ann knew it would. Then she realised she wasn’t screaming any more, just panic-breathing. Mrs Lynch gestured to tell her to lift her head and see. There it was, held up by the little smiley girl. Ann couldn’t, in that moment, put a name on her. Smeared and wriggling, its teensy newborn face looked ready to cry out but it hadn’t uttered a sound yet. Another girl was snipping the cord. Only now did Ann realise she had had a boy. Then he opened his mouth…

  ‘WAAAAH! AAAAAAAAAGH!! WAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAGGGHHH!!!’

  He was whisked away. Ann lay back and closed her eyes, waiting for that last part she hated. The poor little thing seemed fine. Loud enough, anyway. Everything was going to be fine. Her heartbeat finally began to slow a little but she still felt sweaty. Someone touched her shoulder. She opened her eyes. Mrs Lynch was holding him, all clean and wrapped in a white blanket.

  ‘Seven pounds, four ounces. Sit up, so you can hold him.’

  Ann pushed herself up, despite the pain, and held out her arms. Wrapped so completely he didn’t move much now, but he howled as she took him into her and touched her chin gently against his temple so as to feel some part of him, skin on skin. ‘There, there, there, there.’ Then a brisk nod from Mrs Lynch and the little smiley one took possession again and carried him off.