by Alison Walsh
‘What the hell size is he anyway?’ Mary-Pat marvelled. ‘He looks like a sumo wrestler already, don’t you, love?’ At the sound of Mary-Pat’s voice, he stopped roaring and listened, mewling quietly, then venturing to open his eyes, two inky black splashes underneath a heavy forehead. ‘A chip off the old block, that’s for sure, isn’t that right, isn’t it?’ Mary-Pat burbled, hovering over Rosie’s shoulder, a look of rapt attention on her face. She gave Rosie a brief squeeze. ‘I’m proud of you, pet. There’s plenty of women who’d have the C-section booked for a grand fellow like himself, but you made it look easy. Well done.’
Rosie was speechless, looking down at her son as he gave a huge yawn, uncurling his fists so that his hands, which were wrinkly like an old man’s, made a starfish shape, then curled up again as he made a little moue with his mouth. You’re mine, she thought. You’re mine and I can’t quite believe it.
He twisted his head now and opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish. ‘Oh, he wants a feed already, the greedy so-and-so.’ Mary-Pat laughed. ‘Will we set you up, love, and you can get started?’
Feeding? God, I have to do that, Rosie thought. I am responsible for this baby’s survival. The thought made her feel panicky and elated at the same time as she let Mary-Pat lift the baby to her breast, where he latched on as if he was to die of thirst, fixing her with a beady stare as he did so.
‘He’s no wallflower, that’s for sure,’ Margaret said, laughing. ‘He won’t fade away, anyway.’
‘He will not. He’s an O’Connor through and through.’ Mary-Pat beamed, lifting his bottom up and tucking him in tight against Rosie. An O’Connor; Rosie turned the name over in her head as the room fell into a contented silence, thinking that it was the first time that any of them had thought it was a name to be proud of. She felt the tears fill her eyes and spill over onto her cheeks and soon she was sobbing, clutching her soft, warm little bundle to her.
‘It’s the shock, love. You’ve just climbed a mountain and you need to sit for a while and take in the scenery,’ Mary-Pat said, rubbing her shoulder.
‘That’s right,’ Margaret agreed. ‘And we’ll just need a bit of quiet so you can deliver the placenta and then we can tidy you up.’ She shot Mary-Pat a meaningful glare.
But Mary-Pat continued, ‘And none of that shite about wanting to eat it or bury it in the garden. All that New-Age nonsense.’
Rosie knew that her sister was trying to distract her while Margaret worked away, and she was grateful. Her teeth were chattering and she wanted nothing more than a cup of tea. A cup of tea and Mark. ‘He should be here, Mary-Pat. I shouldn’t have done it without him. What was I thinking? I wanted him to be free of me and all of this … stuff that I seem to bring with me. I didn’t want to tie him down.’
Mary-Pat shushed her. ‘For a start, that stuff, as you call it, is you, Rosie. You might not like it, but it’s who you are. And I have a feeling that that fellah of yours is strong enough to cope with it. He’s a good man, Rosie, better than that eejit you married anyway. You dodged a bullet there, love, when he vamoosed.’
‘Mary-Pat!’
‘Well, contradict me if you disagree, Rosie,’ her sister said crisply. ‘And do you know what’s more? The timing’s never right, love, God knows, I should know,’ she said, rolling her eyes to heaven and stroking her own small bump. ‘Nothing is ever perfect, so you just have to get on and make the most of the life you have.’
Rosie sighed. Her sister was right, of course. She was always bloody right. ‘Let me take himself for a moment,’ Mary-Pat said. ‘We’ll clean him up. Won’t we, my little sausage?’ she crooned, taking him in her arms. ‘Yes, we will, we will …’ Her voice faded as she went out the door and it closed behind her.
Rosie leaned back on her pillow and closed her eyes for a moment. It was a lovely summer evening and through the open window of the room she could hear the clatter and hum of city life, could smell the faint metallic odour of petrol fumes, and she longed to be back on the towpath, smelling the sweet clover in the grass, hearing the rushes whispering in the wind. She could feel herself drifting now, even as the thought nudged at the edge of her mind that she wanted the baby back from wherever Mary-Pat had taken him. She wanted him in her arms. And she wanted Mark beside her. And if he couldn’t be beside her, because of her own silly pride, she’d need the next best thing. She pulled herself up in the bed, reaching out to the bedside locker and pulling her bag onto the bed. God, the pain. She’d never have another baby.
She thought for a few moments. How could she say what she needed to say in a text – how could she explain it all? And then she had an idea, and she began to type, fingers clammy on the phone screen. And, before she could tell herself not to, she pressed ‘send’. Then she smiled and leaned her head back on the pillow and fell asleep.
21
Mary-Pat had reluctantly agreed to let Margaret bathe and clean her nephew and she supposed the woman would manage, she thought now, as she sipped tea in the hospital canteen. She’d picked mint tea, even though it tasted like mouthwash, because caffeine wasn’t good for the baby. Mind you, nothing was good for the baby now, was it? It seemed you could eat nothing at all nowadays; no prawns or tuna or smelly cheese. She’d lived on tuna when she’d been expecting Melissa, not knowing she’d been filling her daughter’s brain with mercury. It seemed that people had become so cautious nowadays, afraid to take any risks at all. Everything was a danger, a hazard. But, sure, where would you be without taking a risk?
She sipped the warm mouthwash, wincing slightly as she did so. Funny, Rosie being a mum. Part of Mary-Pat always thought of her sister as a child, forever dancing around in a fairy costume that June had made her out of an old pair of curtains. She looked as if she were hardly old enough, but she was thirty-two, and Melissa and John-Patrick had been at school when Mary-Pat was the same age.
And now, here she was again. Mary-Pat closed her eyes at the thought of it. She’d never have the energy for it at her age, all those sleepless nights, the feeding and the colic, but she supposed she’d have to. And John-Patrick and Melissa would help, in spite of themselves. They were good kids.
PJ, once he’d got over the shock of it, had set his shoulders and said they’d just have to get on with it. ‘Kids keep you young anyway,’ he’d said, in a way that had made Mary-Pat guffaw with laughter. ‘I know, I don’t sound very convincing, but we’ll be good parents, MP, I know we will. We are good parents.’
They said that babies couldn’t save a marriage, and Mary-Pat knew that, but she also knew that this baby came after the fact, so to speak, so it didn’t count. The marriage had been saved, and the baby was the result, so it was a win-win situation, she supposed. And it had all been worth it anyway, to hold PJ in her arms and feel close to him again, to feel protected, with her man by her side. You can stuff that up your gingham pinny, she’d thought as she’d lain there with PJ after, thinking of that young one and her bright smile. This man’s taken.
It was funny, Mary-Pat thought as she relived the rest of that evening, looking out the hospital window, that he’d said that she was still the girl he used to know. She wasn’t. She’d changed and for the better, she liked to think. She knew that she was still capable of sharp words, but at least now she could think before she opened her great big trap. At least, most of the time. The words didn’t come bursting out of her before she’d had time to edit them, probably because she wasn’t keeping them down all the time. Now, she was more inclined to say what was really on her mind and not just bark out smart comments.
They’d had plenty of time to chat, herself and PJ. Sure the sex had been over in about five minutes, the pair of them were in such a hurry. They’d taken their time later, but the first … well, it made Mary-Pat blush to think of it, the way he’d grabbed the cord of the dressing gown when she was halfway up the stairs and then, oh, it had been fast and furious and just fantastic. She’d got carpet burn on her rear end and this little person to show for it, she t
hought, rubbing her stomach. It was like starting all over again.
She hadn’t breathed a single word to PJ about the family stuff. She knew that it wasn’t probably in the spirit of their new start together, but she didn’t want to burden him with it. And because she knew that he really didn’t want to hear it. He’d pretend he did – he’d listen attentively and ask lots of questions, but she’d know that he’d be cringing inside, waiting for the latest revelation to be over. She knew this because he’d been in no hurry to ask her why she wasn’t on the phone to her sister gabbing the way she normally did. She’d rung June once, but the conversation had been stilted and she’d hung up after five minutes, not sure that they’d ever speak again. Not like they used to anyway. She didn’t power walk down to Pi’s either or make her daily visit to Daddy. Now, she went twice a week, on Wednesdays and Sundays, and if she felt guilty about it, she’d remind herself that she’d more than done her bit – and anyway, guilt wasn’t going to be the driving force in her life. Not any more. Daddy was safe and comfortable and as happy as any man could be in his condition. Imelda had let her bring Duke with her and Daddy found comfort in that, sitting in his armchair, hand resting on Duke’s head, before looking at her and asking for the hundredth time, ‘Are you Jim Brogan’s girl, Ailbhe?’
‘That’s right. That’s me,’ Mary-Pat would agree, the thought that, at last, he’d forgotten her name making her feel light-headed with relief. It was as if a weight had literally been taken off her shoulders. A yoke. Her family had been part of her life for far too long. It was time her marriage and her children took centre stage.
Anyway, the kids still needed her, at least a bit. They didn’t want her standing over them, but they still liked to have her around, to chat to, to tell her about their plans and to ask her advice and then to tell her she didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. Melissa had announced that she wanted to be in a reality TV show the other day, which Mary-Pat had just said was lovely altogether, congratulating herself that she hadn’t torn a strip off the girl. And John-Patrick, well, he seemed to have found himself a bit more in the last month or two. He still liked the computer games, so that made him a bit of a nerd, she supposed, but that Swedish girl seemed to have cheered him up. God knows what they were getting up to, but she tried not to think about it too much, apart from telling John-Patrick to act responsibly. In fairness to him, he didn’t state the obvious.
She took another sip of her tea and looked at her watch, wondering if PJ had got stuck in traffic. He and Pi were driving up together with the kids to see the new little man because there was no way in the world she was letting her brother rattle into the car park in that heap of junk of his.
She was glad Pi was back, mind you. And glad that he’d made the first move. It was big of him, she had to admit. He’d appeared on her doorstep one morning after Easter in a smart-looking jacket and a new pair of jeans. ‘Well, will you look at himself,’ she’d said, trying to conceal her delight at seeing her brother. ‘Very debonair.’
He’d blushed then, and of course the penny had dropped. There could only be one reason why a man would look that happy – or dress that well. ‘What’s her name?’
He’d shuffled from foot to foot, muttering something about it being early days. ‘Ehm, it’s Daphne, you know, Rosie’s friend,’ and then he’d blushed to the roots of his hair, stroking Jessie’s silky ears to avoid making eye contact.
Christ almighty, Mary-Pat had thought. The girl was practically half his age. She’d had to use every ounce of her new-found self-control not to say it, though. ‘Come on in,’ she’d told him then. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’
They’d chatted about everything and nothing, the way they usually did, both of them carefully skirting the topic of the family conference. She suspected that they weren’t ready for that yet. So she’d told him about the baby and he’d looked stunned, but only for a second, God bless him, and then he’d thrown his arms around her, giving her a tight squeeze. ‘I’m lost for words,’ he’d eventually admitted.
‘You’re not the only one,’ she’d said wryly, and they’d both had a laugh at that.
‘Actually, that’s why I’ve come.’ He’d cleared his throat, refusing her offer of a second cup of tea. ‘It’s Rosie. She’s, ehm, in the same condition,’ and he’d nodded in the direction of her bump.
Mary-Pat just couldn’t believe it. The shock of it. Out of force of habit, she’d looked around for any sign of her fags, but remembered then that she was off them. She’d have to cope with this news without them. Her baby sister, pregnant, and she’d never said a word to her. And Melissa, that madam, she knew all along. That was why she was down there all the time…
Mary-Pat had felt the bitchy words forming in her throat, the hurt bursting out of her, but then she’d stopped herself. Was it any wonder Rosie had said nothing? Why on earth would she, after all that had happened? Poor little thing. ‘I’ll go down to her later.’ She’d stood up, pushing her chair back with a scrape on the kitchen floor. ‘She’ll be needing help with everything. Has she got a buggy, do you know? I think I have a spare one up in the attic—’
‘MP, sit down a second,’ Pius had said, placing a hand on her arm.
‘What?’ Mary-Pat had sat down on the chair.
He’d cleared his throat. ‘I think it has to come from her, MP. After everything, you know …’
Mary-Pat had felt her heart sink like a stone. ‘I suppose you’re right. But how will she manage? She’ll need me, I know she will.’
‘Well, she has Daphne, and me – I’ve been to two scans so far and an antenatal class,’ he’d chuckled.
‘Fair dues, Pi.’ Mary-Pat had managed a smile, and then she’d added, ‘Do you think you might show me the scan pictures the next time you come up? I know I shouldn’t without asking, but I just need to see them, do you know?’ I need to feel that I’m looking out for her, she thought, that I’m there for her, even if I can’t say it.
She’d paused then, toying with the sugar in the bowl, scooping it up with a teaspoon and letting it trickle back in. ‘I’m sorry about everything, Pi. It’s just … I was trying to protect her. I couldn’t see what good the truth would serve.’
Pi had shifted in his chair. ‘I know. I know you were, MP. And we were all guilty, if that’s any consolation. We all knew, in various ways, and we said nothing, so we share the blame, whatever there is of it.’
‘Hmm.’ Mary-Pat had been silent then. ‘Do you wish you’d looked at the letters? I sometimes do,’ she’d said sadly.
Pi had looked anguished. ‘At one stage in my life, I’d have given my left arm to hear from Mammy. Just one word, that’s all. Something to let us know that she still loved us. That she still cared.’ He shook his head then. ‘Ah, sure what’s the point, MP, in going on about it now? What good will raking over the past do? We have to move forward. We have no choice.’
‘It might help us understand, I suppose,’ Mary-Pat had said thoughtfully. ‘Do you know I’ve been seeing a therapist? I know, who’d have thought it. Me?’ She’d laughed at Pi’s look of incredulity. ‘It really helps. I know it won’t bring her back or help me to understand why she left us like that, but it helps me to make sense of how I feel about it, if you see what I mean.’
‘We never will understand, will we, Mary-Pat?’ Pius said quietly.
‘No, that’s one of the things about it. Even if we ask her, she won’t tell us, I know that. At least, she won’t tell us the truth. Even if we send a message through the envoy up in Dublin,’ and she rolled her eyes to heaven.
‘You haven’t forgiven her, then,’ Pi had said softly.
Mary-Pat had thought of the phone call she’d made the previous week; the conversation that just seemed to peter out after a few minutes, with June finally announcing that she had a few things to do and Mary-Pat putting the phone down, wondering if she’d have been better off not having picked it up – maybe it was too early for either of them. ‘I’m probably being t
oo hard on her, Pi, I know that. Maybe I’m just jealous that she got to talk to Mammy and I never did. I’d say that’s it, to be honest. I wish it had been me that Mammy had confided in, you know? I know that if it had been me, I’d probably have done exactly the same thing as June. I’d have kept it all to myself because I’d have been so thrilled about it.’
She could see from his face that he’d been surprised at that, at the honesty of it. ‘It’s true, Pi. Might not make me look very good, but it’s true.’ Mary-Pat had shrugged. And then she’d asked, ‘What about Rosie? Will she forgive us, do you think, Pi?’
He hadn’t said anything for a while. He’d got up slowly and had put his jacket on, pushing the chair gently back in under the table. Then he’d said, ‘Give her time, MP. Just give her time.’
He was a good man, Pi, and he’d been a rock to Rosie, that was for sure, Mary-Pat thought as she looked at her watch again. It was visiting time, so she hoped they’d get a bloody move on. She wondered then if that Frances O’Brien would turn up too. Maybe not. Mary-Pat wasn’t sure if Rosie had told her anything, and maybe it was best if she waited.
Mary-Pat had taken Duke for a little walk down to the woman’s place one morning after that bloody family conference, to fill her in, that her dark little secret was now out in the open. Mary-Pat knew it was cruel, but the woman hardly deserved to have her feelings minded, now, did she? But then she’d seen the look on the woman’s face, the way she’d gone as white as a sheet and clung to the doorframe, and she’d understood that it had probably brought it all up again for her. She wouldn’t see it as a fresh start, or a new life; she’d probably be remembering every bit of her own sad little story, and no amount of that praying she did could disguise it.
