Rainy Days & Tuesdays

by Claire Allan

  ❃ ❃ ❃

  So we find ourselves sitting in front of Cathy. Daddy is on one side and Mammy is on the other. I am, as always it seems, piggy in the middle and I sit there feeling about eight years old and as if I should still be wearing long white socks and my hair in pigtails. I may be mistaken but I am pretty sure Cathy has a certain smug look about her – as if she is dying to tell me that she told me so, that she was going to get me to confront my parents one way or another. I imagine throwing her a dirty look or maybe even the finger and then sit back, my arms crossed across my chest in an act of wilful defiance and feel just ever so slightly sick about what is going to happen. Daddy has a strange smile on his face. I think it’s down to nerves. It’s bizarre to see him looking like that – vulnerable, with emotion (albeit semi-hysteria) drawn all over his face. Mammy has her business face on. It is mildly scary. I recognise it from all the days she called me by my full Grace Anne O’Donnell name when I was in serious trouble, or from the day she marched up to my school to teach the bullies a lesson or three.

  “I’d like to welcome you all here,” Cathy starts.

  Mammy smiles, replying in her best snobby phone voice that she is delighted to be here if it means she is helping me on my road to recovery.

  I, on the other hand, roll my eyes and grunt a huffy, “Whatever!”

  “I’m sensing a little hostility, Grace,” Cathy says and I have to try very hard indeed not to make some sarky comment about her obvious powers of perception.

  Instead I bite my tongue and answer with a simple: “I’m just not sure this is necessary.”

  “And why’s that?” Cathy asks.

  “Yes, and why’s that?” Mammy echoes.

  Daddy just looks at me and I remember his words, his hugs and assurances that I was enough and, instead of feeling calm, I feel trapped. My heart thuds that little bit faster. If I tell them why I’m not happy for them to be there then I would be opening a giant, ugly, painful can of worms that I’m not sure I will be able to close again. I don’t want to hurt them, or blame them or do anything which will make their own grief and pain more unbearable.

  “I don’t think it’s necessary,” I mutter, staring at my shoes. They are pretty shoes. Not as nice as the green Mary Janes but nice all the same. “Why not?” Cathy asks.

  “Yes, why not?” comes the echo. Daddy just stares. “Because,” I answer, raising my gaze from my shoes to Cathy and giving her a death stare I pray she will understand to mean ‘You know exactly why, Cathy. I’ve told you a jillion times’.

  She looks back at me, eyebrow slightly raised as if to say back ‘I told you I would make you talk this one out’.

  “Grace,” she starts, using my name in a lovely soothing tone of voice to try to pretend she is my friend, “I know there are things you need to say to your family. That is why I agreed to this meeting when your mum requested it. I can assure you that family sessions are very much a part of what we do.”

  “After two weeks?” I ask. “And when I told you I didn’t want to talk about these issues?”

  “Ah, so you have issues then?” Mammy jumps in, her face at first ecstatic because I have admitted I have issues and then, in turn, taut with worry at what those issues might be.

  I drop my head to my hands. You see, I didn’t want this. I never wanted this. This look of worry, this pain. I haven’t even opened my mouth yet and there it is, written all over my mammy’s face.

  “Of course, she has issues,” Daddy says, and Mammy looks at him – shocked to hear him use the word ‘issues’. Daddy doesn’t do ‘issues’. He might be sensitive. He might say the odd rosary, but he’s not really a New-Age-in- touch-with-his-feminine-side kind of a guy.

  Her mouth opens and closes, no noise coming out. The thudding of my heart grows louder again – drowning out the noise of the clock ticking on the wall. All I can hear is the thudding in my ears, my slow breath, my inner voice praying that what he is about to say isn’t going to open that big old wormy can without my being able to stop him.

  “Of course, she has issues,” he repeats, this time loud enough for the whole room to hear. Loud enough even to drown out the beating of my heart. “We all have issues,” he adds, staring directly at Mammy. “You know that, don’t you?” He sits forward, forcing me to lean back so they can stare directly at each other. He takes her hand in his, rubbing it gently and I am transported back to that bathroom floor. Him sitting beside her, rubbing her hand, reassuring her. Emotion etched across both their faces.

  “You wouldn’t have insisted so strongly on coming here if you didn’t think she had issues and if you didn’t think those issues were in some way to do with us. Things were tough when she was wee. We weren’t perhaps the best parents we could have been. We didn’t do anything intentionally wrong but that’s not to say that mistakes, and plenty of them, weren’t made. I mean, how much of her life was spent dealing with us dealing with our grief? Childhood shouldn’t be like that.”

  I wonder if I have actually died. Or perhaps I am just asleep and this is a nightmare, my worst nightmare. I am lying back as my parents practically lean across me, weeping sad tears about how they were rubbish parents.

  This was not the way it was supposed to be.

  I eyeball Cathy. “See!” I shout, sitting forward, breaking the moment and the handclasp. “I told you no good could come of this! So now everyone’s upset. Who exactly is that helping?”

  “It’s okay to be angry,” Cathy soothes, and I am glad to hear her say it, because I am fucking (and, yes, that is fucking and not fecking) furious.

  “This is supposed to be a healing process,” I say, my voice stronger, angrier than before. “Who exactly is being healed right now? Is he?” I ask, pointing my finger at Daddy’s wan and tired face. “Or perhaps she is? Don’t you think she looks full of health and vitality just now?” I point at Mammy’s tear-stained face.

  Cathy just stares back, a look akin to bemusement on her face.

  “Well?” I demand, my finger pointing madly at Cathy. “Calm down, love,” Mammy mutters, taking my hand – my pointing finger of doom – and bringing it down by my side. “Do you really think this could hurt us more than what we have been through already? We’ve been waiting for this. Hiding it away. I suppose we have been hoping it would never come out because then we would all have to admit that life hasn’t been perfect – but, you know what, I’m glad it’s out there because I don’t have to tiptoe around you any more. I’m sorry, Gracie,” she says, her hand still holding mine, “I’m sorry that we didn’t make you the centre of our world and that other things – other babies – got in the way of what should have been a perfect childhood for you. But I’m even more sorry that we didn’t ever really talk about it. We thought we were doing the right thing by keeping quiet. I think we persuaded ourselves you were too young to have known what was going on and when we realised you knew most of it, when you were twenty, it seemed too hard to talk about it then.” Daddy takes over, his monologue making me wonder if they have practised this speech. I even wonder momentarily if Cathy had helped them write it.

  “You seemed so together,” he says. “You had your great job and then you met Aidan and the pair of you seemed so happy. And Jack . . .” his face erupts into a smile when he thinks of his precious grandson, “well, he’s perfect. We had no reason to think that you were anything other than happy. Until . . .” he trailed off.

  “Until I ran away to Donegal and had a minor breakdown.”

  I’ve said it now. The words are out there and I’ve finished the speech. The speech Cathy wrote without realising. She looks pretty smug. I can’t say that I blame her. It is a pretty touching sight, seeing the three of us hugging – forgiving each other.

  Chapter 28

  “I need a drink,” I say, walking through the door to an expectant Daisy.

  She is sitting on the armchair in the kitchen, a book in one hand, a chocolate biscuit (which she tries to hide as I walk in) in the other.

&n
bsp; “Was it awful?” she asks, her voice heavy with concern. “Yes and no,” I sigh, walking straight to the fridge and pulling out a bottle of icy-cold Pinot Grigio before rummaging in the drawer for the corkscrew.

  I lift two glasses from the cupboard because whether she likes it or not Daisy will be having a drink with me.

  “Is it warm enough to sit outside, do you think?” I ask. Daisy looks at the slightly greying sky and announces it’s better not to risk it. “Let’s just go to the living room and you can tell me all about it,” she says and I follow, bottle in one hand, glasses in the other.

  “Did the kids settle okay?”

  “No problem, although Jack has taken Muck, Scoop and Dizzy to bed with him,” Daisy says, while claiming the squashy sofa closest to the window.

  I pour the drinks before sitting down opposite her and drawing my feet up under me.

  “You look remarkably calm,” Daisy says. “You should have seen me an hour ago.” “Did you cry?”

  I nod. “And shout, and huff and then Mammy cried and then Daddy cried and then we all cried, apart from fecking Cathy Cook who just looked remarkably smug and pleased with herself.”

  “For making you all cry?” Daisy asks, sipping from her glass of wine and letting out a satisfied sigh as the cold liquid slides down her throat.

  “No, for making us talk it all out. God, Daisy, they’ve been killing themselves with blame these last few weeks.”

  “So you’ve been able to sort it all out with them?” “Sort of. We’ve put a few demons to bed, but it wasn’t easy. I’m not sure how I feel.”

  “But it’s good to get it out there and talk about it?”

  “I don’t know if good is the word, but yes, I can see it’s going to be helpful.”

  Daisy nods. “Darling, you know I love the bones of you, and Mammy and Daddy, but you all needed this, you know. They need to let go of all the wee ghosties that are in their past and you need to feel loved for the wonderful person you are.”

  I blush a little. I’m used to hearing Daisy telling me that I’m wonderful, but it still makes me that little bit embarrassed. I still can’t really believe anyone would find me wonderful.

  “God, I need this wine,” I say, bringing the glass up to my lips.

  “Get it down your neck then.”

  “But it’s not very Weightloss-Wonders-friendly, now is it?”

  “You’re allowed the occasional misdemeanour, babes,” Daisy smiles, before adding with a wink, “as long as you don’t eat half a loaf of toast afterwards.”

  ❃ ❃ ❃

  Two hours have passed and the wine bottle is upended in the cooler. A second wine bottle is looking dangerously close to being empty. Daisy and I have talked through everything that happened at Cathy’s, what’s been going on lately in EastEnders and whether or not thong underwear is really more comfortable than belly-warming full briefs. We are now on the subject of why we really should do this more often and by this I think we mean sharing a few drinks and a laugh as opposed to the ‘this’ meaning me leaving my husband and moving in for a couple of weeks.

  My head is in that slightly swimmy, lovely hazy state. The world has a Doris Day kind of glow about it and I grin to myself as the thought pops into my head that Daisy and I are like Calamity Jane and Katie all holed up in our wee cabin together. (Without the lesbian undertones, obviously.)

  “You’re grinning like an eejit,” Daisy says, a smile on her own face.

  “Jus’ thinking how lucky I am, you know,” I mumble drunkenly.

  Daisy stands up, taking a second or two to balance herself before walking to the stereo and switching the radio on.

  “If Mohammed won’t come to the disco, then the disco will go to the mountain,” she mutters as I splutter wine down my front. “Don’t you fancy a wee dance?” She laughs, hauling me to my feet. “No point in wasting the drunk feeling by not dancing. We can practise our moves from class.”

  A generic dance song is playing on the radio and she stands there, one eye closed in concentration, trying to remember the routine taught to us in just one hour.

  I try to follow, but within seconds I’m bent over laughing.

  “Don’t laugh,” she grins, continuing with her hip waggling. “You couldn’t do much better, could you?”

  “Is that a challenge, Miss Caddisy?” I stutter drunkenly. “Well, if you are too chicken . . .” she says before losing her balance and landing flat on her rear end.

  “Oh, I don’t think it’ll be too much of a problem to beat that shameless display,” I laugh, taking my position in the middle of the living room – toe pointed like an Irish dancer getting reading to perform at the Feis. My head held high, I wait for a change in the music and then I start to move my body, my hips swaying, my arms twisting and pointing.

  “Holy fuck!” Daisy exclaims from her position on the floor. “Gracie, you can dance!”

  Another hour passes and while we have at least been sensible enough to replace the now-empty wineglasses with full pint-glasses of water, I still feel hazy and spaced out. The radio has switched from generic dance songs to those slushy love songs from the seventies and eighties and I’ve now joined Daisy on the floor. As each songs starts, we girly-scream that we know this one and start to sing along, only to realise that, bar the first few lines and perhaps the chorus, we don’t really know it at all.

  And then The Carpenters start to play and I’m transported back to my childhood – to sitting on the stairs, the sound of Karen Carpenter’s smooth and soothing voice almost, just almost, drowning out the sound of Mammy’s tears.

  “I love this one,” Daisy says and starts to croon along.

  I join in, but this time I know the words and the lyrics seem to reach right inside me and for the first time I know what it is like to feel my heartstrings physically pulled.

  Although I don’t usually sing in public – my tuneless warbling normally reserved for the car or shower – I start to sing along. The words of ‘Rainy Days and Mondays’ resonating with me now more than before, I start to cry, staring at Daisy and singing through my tears.

  “Ach, babe, don’t cry!”

  “But you don’t get it,” I mutter. “This song is about me – and you – and I love you and you saved my life and you are the only friend who has ever loved me back and you make me feel like I belong.”

  Daisy starts to cry too. “No. You!” she says pointing. “You are the one who saved me. You are my bess-friend and I love you.”

  And she starts to sing along too.

  And I realise the most important thing in the world is to know someone loves me – in fact, I’m lucky because lots of people love me. Even Cathy, in her own twisted little way.

  ❃ ❃ ❃

  My greatest fear in life has always been that I am not good enough – that I have been life’s great consolation prize – the human equivalent of a Blankety Blank cheque book and pen. It has taken me twenty-nine years, a nervous breakdown of sorts and two sessions with a counsellor to realise that, and while some may lie down under it I realise I’m one of the lucky ones. I have realised it and I’m doing something about it. When the powers that be mooted the idea that I change my life for Northern People, I laughed it off. (Well, if the truth be told, I cried for half an hour in the toilets and then I laughed it off). Me? Change my life? Step out of my comfort zone? Not a chance.

  Like most working mums I was stuck in a rut. From the Weetabix-stained clothes I wore to work to slobbing in front of the telly in the evening, praying my son would sleep through and give me some peace, I had stopped living and started merely existing.

  If I’m honest, I got pissed off. I had been promised it all. My generation had been told that we could have everything we wanted. A career? No problem. A fulfilling home life too? Why not? The joy of spending quality time with your child? Sure thing.

  Instead, I got a different version of it all. Stretch-marks? Yes. A headache? Yes, sirree! A life in freefall where I no longer knew who I w
as? I was your gal!

  I’ve written this introduction one hundred times, and one hundred times I’ve deleted my silly little platitudes about being an every-woman super-creature who is perfection personified. In the end I decided to strike a blow for real women. I am not a yummy mummy.

  I am me and I am doing the best I can. I am a mammy and I am a wife. I am a daughter and a friend, but most of all I am me and I implore everyone who reads this to stand up and be counted for the person you are.

  If you are feeling miserable, then the chances are something needs to change and although I would never have believed it myself a month ago, I now know we have the power, individually and collectively, to make those changes.

  This is the story of my transformation.

  I type the word transformation with a flourish before closing over the laptop and taking a refreshing sip from my glass of wine. Looking over the garden, to where the children are playing in the sand, Daisy crouched beside them, I feel elated.

  “Right, young lady, you would need to be getting ready for your big night out!” I shout across the garden to Daisy. “I’ve finished this blasted intro, so I can take over children duties and you can get yourself into the bath quick smart. You’ve only two hours to go.”

  Daisy grins, saluting me and kissing Lily on the head. Yep, tonight is another date with Dishy. (We had toyed with the notion of abbreviating that to ADWD, but we decided that was taking things a bit too far.) I’m on baby- sitting duty – something which I admit feels weird given my twenty-nine years on this planet. But it feels kind of cool also because my ‘boyfriend’ is coming over to help me. Now on a rare night off from work, Aidan was initially gutted I couldn’t get out of my baby-sitting commitments to Daisy. I mean, the woman has basically kept me for the last two weeks, so I could hardly say no. In the end it was Daisy herself who suggested he come over to keep me company – reminding me of just how much fun ‘baby- sitting’ can be. I feel myself flush. Aidan and I are supposed to be taking things slowly. I am not supposed to be having lustful thoughts about him.