My parents were at a loss. They didn’t think it was right to discourage me from praying, but they were concerned at the intensity of it.
When I announced at dinner one night that I wanted to become a nun and go out to the mission to help Father Brian bring God to the indigenous people of Peru, my parents decided to speak to me. Later that night they came into my room and sat on the side of my bed. This was always a bad sign. If one came in and sat on your bed you knew you were in trouble, but if they both came in you were in deep shit.
‘What are you reading there, kiddo?’ asked my father, trying to be all jokey to ease the tension. ‘The life of Saint Bernadette,’ I said not looking up from my book, which I was truly engrossed in. Saint Bernadette was my new hero. Justin Timberlake was gone from my thoughts and Saint Bernadette was in!
‘Pet, why are you spending so much time praying? Is there something troubling you, apart from poor Mr Butler dying, of course?’ my mother asked, much more in tune with what was going on.
‘I’m praying for God to give me a vocation,’ I told them in all sincerity.
My mother took my hand. ‘Sweetheart, there are lots of things you can do when you’re older to help people. You don’t have to be a nun to be a good person. You could be a doctor and save people’s lives, or you could be a lawyer and defend people who have been wrongly accused or—’
‘Mum,’ I said, looking at her with pity, ‘there’s no greater way to serve God than to be a nun and not get distracted by material goods.’
‘But you won’t be able to have children if you’re a nun.’
‘The children of Peru will be my children.’ I had an answer for everything.
My mother looked at my father and shrugged. He gave it one last shot. ‘Emma, nuns can’t do tap-dancing, you know.’
I faltered. Tap-dancing was my favourite out-of-school activity. I loved it and fancied myself as a bit of a Ginger Rogers. But I rallied well. ‘God sets us all little challenges, Dad. My sacrifice will be tap-dancing – it’s a small price to pay compared to what other people have to forgo.’
I was so pious that the Pope himself would have looked like a sinner compared to me. It lasted three months. In June I said a tearful farewell to Mrs Butler and went on a family camping holiday to France where I met Jean-Christophe, fell madly in love and had my first snog. The rosary beads were out and tanned French guys with fluff on their upper lips were in.
The church in Perpignan was cool inside and very quiet. I felt calmer instantly. I had spent so much time in churches growing up that there was always a feeling of familiarity when I entered one, wherever I was. I went over to the side, lit a candle and wished for a baby. ‘Dear God,’ I prayed, ‘please make me pregnant soon.’
I then spent a leisurely afternoon checking out the makeup counters in Perpignan looking for new products and drinking cups of frothy cafe´ au lait on sun-drenched terraces, trying to order in my rusty school French as the waiters glared at me impatiently.
By eight o’clock that evening, I was worried. James was still not back and I’d left five messages on his mobile, which was switched off. Eventually at half past eight he staggered in the door, assisted by two players.
‘Oh, my God, what’s wrong?’
‘Ow, ouch, ow,’ cried James dramatically, collapsing on the bed.
‘What’s going on?’ I demanded.
‘Groin strain,’ grunted Paddy O’Toole, the number three on the team.
‘What?’ I wasn’t sure what a groin strain was, but I was pretty sure it was not conducive to having lots of sex.
The two players backed out the door and I was left with the patient, who was writhing in pain on the bed. ‘James, what exactly is going on?’
‘Oh, God, Emma, I’m in agony. Can you get me some ice, please? The physio said I needed to put ice on it.’
‘I’ll get you ice in a minute. What happened?’
‘I was showing Donal how to jump higher in the lineouts and I landed badly and – oh, God, the pain . . .’
I was trying to stay calm. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as he was making out – James was not a good patient. ‘So what’s wrong exactly? Where does it hurt?’
‘I’m in agony.’
‘Yeah, I know, but where exactly?’
‘My upper thigh – for goodness sake, Emma, what does it matter? Will you please get me some ice? I’m dying here.’
I left the room and counted to ten, then twenty, but by the time I got to fifty, I was no calmer. I got a bucket full of ice from the bar and came back in.
‘Oh, thank God,’ said James, when he saw the ice. ‘Can you wrap some in a towel and hand it to me?’
‘How bad is it?’ I asked, fetching a towel from the bathroom and filling it with ice.
‘Well, we won’t know until tomorrow for sure. If the swelling is bad, I’ll be in pain for weeks. But hopefully the ice will help,’ he said, taking it from me and placing it against his inner thigh.
‘Can you have sex?’
‘What?’
‘You heard me.’
‘Emma! I’m in agony, I can barely walk and all you can think about is sex.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, was I bothering you there? How selfish of me, thinking only of myself and the baby I want and you obviously have no interest in or you wouldn’t have gone out and behaved like some stupid irresponsible teenager and ended up in this ridiculous state, thus rendering my journey here completely futile!’
‘Would you please keep your voice down,’ James hissed from the bed, shaking his home-made ice pack at me. ‘This is not about selfishness, this is about me trying to make my team better so we can win on Saturday. Do you really think I did this on purpose? Do you think I enjoy pain?’
‘No, James, I am well aware of your extremely low pain threshold.’
‘Believe me, Emma, if you had this injury you wouldn’t be so flippant.’
‘Fine. So, is sex out of the question? I mean, it’s not your penis you injured, is it?’
‘No, but it’s right beside it. Sex would be excruciating.’
‘How do you know? If you have a bruised cheek, would that stop you kissing? No, and that’s right next to your mouth.’ I was clutching at straws, but I didn’t want to waste any time and James was prone to being delicate about his health.
‘Emma, this is not a black eye. It is a very severe groin injury.’
‘Let me see.’
‘No.’
‘James, let me see it.’ I pulled away the ice-pack and could see nothing. No swelling, no bruising – nothing. ‘There’s nothing there.’
‘The swelling can take twelve hours to show up. It may not look bad but it feels bad.’
‘How about if you lie back and think of England and I gently lie on top, being very careful not to lean on your sore side?’
‘No!’
‘Let’s just try it out.’
‘Emma.’
I lay on top of him carefully, putting all my weight on my hands, but then I lost my balance and fell, kneeing him in the groin. He howled like a banshee. ‘Get off me, you lunatic. Bloody hell, are you insane?’
‘I’m sorry, I lost my balance. There’s no need to raise the dead.’
‘Emma,’ James ground out, ‘I would greatly appreciate it if you left me in peace before I really lose my temper.’
‘Drama queen,’ I shouted, and slammed the bathroom door, then locked myself in to have a long, hot soak in the bath and a cry. Tomorrow was day fourteen. I prayed that the swelling would not be bad and that he’d be feeling better – because even if I had to tie him to the bed, we were having sex.
11
The next morning James’s groin was only very slightly swollen. Needless to say, he believed the dig I had accidentally given him with my knee hadn’t helped matters. But I knew he was feeling better because whenever he thought I wasn’t looking, he walked normally – without the exaggerated limp.
We had an intimate breakfast – just the two of us and
the thirty squad members – and then they all headed off for strategy meetings and training sessions.
‘What time will I see you later?’ I asked.
‘Same as yesterday, I guess,’ answered the grumpy gaffer.
‘Are you feeling better?’
‘Marginally.’
‘Look, James, I didn’t mean to—’
‘Well, well, if it isn’t the screamers,’ said Donal, interrupting us. ‘Declan said you were very noisy last night, howling like werewolves, he couldn’t get a wink of sleep. Fair play to you, James, with the groin strain and everything. You’re all man, I’ll say that for you. Anyway, can you keep it down tonight? Poor old Declan needs his kip.’ Donal slapped James on the back and roared laughing as he walked away.
I looked at James, who was smiling for the first time in eighteen hours. He leaned in and whispered in my ear,
‘We’ll have to give them something to really talk about tonight. I’ll see you later and, yes, I promise to stay on the sidelines today. Sorry for being such a grump. I’m a bit tense about the match.’
‘Will you be able to?’
‘Oh, I think I’ll manage. See you later.’
I was delighted. Now I wouldn’t have to jump him when he came in and tie him to the bed, or give him a sleeping pill and hop on him that way – which was the other alternative I had come up with the night before. I wondered if I could go to prison for that. Surely not. An all-female jury would totally understand, wouldn’t they? Anyway, it wasn’t an issue now. I decided to go into town and get some sexy underwear to help raise the sail as it were.
I bought some sexy red lingerie and went back to the hotel to pee on my ovulation stick to double-check. It was definitely day fourteen in my cycle, but I wanted to check the ovulation status. I peed and waited. One line was thin and a bit blurry and the other was thick and strong. I suddenly realized I didn’t know which was the reference line and which the test line. Damn, I hadn’t brought the instructions with me. Which was which? I couldn’t remember. I began to panic. I needed to know – after all, I had travelled over for this. I had to make sure.
I decided to go to the pharmacy I had seen near the hotel and get some new sticks. My French wasn’t great but reference was ‘reference’ in French and test was probably ‘test’ so it would be easy to figure out from the diagrams on the instructions.
I walked into the pharmacie and looked around. The shelves were packed with medicaments. I wandered down the aisles looking for anything resembling an ovulation test but couldn’t see any. The woman in the white coat was clocking my every move. When I approached the counter she sighed and said, ‘Oui, Madame?’ in that dismissive way French people have when they know they’re dealing with a tourist.
‘Bonjour, parlez-vous anglais?’
‘Non.’
Shoot. OK, now I’d have to play the pidgin-French-language game. I took a deep breath and launched.
‘Je chercher le sticks pour le bebe´,’ I said, pointing to my stomach.
‘Pardon?’ said the unimpressed pharmacist, looking at me as if I was some kind of nutter.
‘Je chercher le test pour le bebe´?’ I tried again, raising my voice this time in some lame hope that shouting would make it clearer.
By this stage, there was another woman in the pharmacie who was waiting behind me and decided to join in. ‘You have the sick baby?’ she said, in strongly accented English. Isn’t it amazing how wonderful it sounds when a French person speaks English and how utterly wretched it sounds when I try to speak French?
I turned to face her. ‘No, not a sick baby. I’m needing the test so I can make the baby,’ I said, resorting to pidgin English and doing so with a French accent. I sounded like Peter Sellers’s Inspector Clouseau.
She looked puzzled and spoke in French to the pharmacist who shook her head. They turned back to me and shrugged. I was trying desperately to think of another way to explain. I took a nail file from the counter, straddled it, crouched down and pretended to pee on it, making sssss noises so they’d understand, and then said, ‘To check for le bebe´,’ and rubbed my stomach again.
‘Mon Dieu!’ said the pharmacist, staring at me in shock. I could picture her telling her friends over dinner about the mad foreigner who had come into her pharmacie and performed doggie impressions.
‘Ah, oui, j’ai compris,’ said the customer, smiling at me, and laughing as she explained it to the pharmacist.
‘Ah, d’accord,’ said the pharmacist, looking relieved that there was a sane explanation for my behaviour.
I smiled gratefully at the customer; she nodded and smiled at me. The pharmacist handed me a pregnancy test – I could tell by the drawing.
‘Oh, no. Non,’ I said. ‘Pas le bebe´, uhm, it’s for before le bebe´.’ I was desperately trying to think of the word for ‘before’ in French.
The two ladies, meanwhile, were looking peeved. They thought they had cracked my code.
I took a deep breath and pointed to the test. ‘Non,’ I said, ‘le bebe´ is not possible, I need to make the bebe´.’ I looked around for inspiration and I saw a calendar. I pointed to it and the pharmacist handed it to me.
‘Regardez,’ I ordered the two women. I pointed to day fourteen. ‘Tres important pour le bebe´,’ I said. ‘Le test pour le bebe´ – ici,’ and I tapped on day fourteen. They still looked puzzled.
Damn. I was getting really hot and bothered now. My face was purple with effort and embarrassment. Half of me just wanted to leg it out the door, but I decided to give it one last go. So I pointed to day fourteen and, making a hole with my thumb and index finger, poked my other index finger in and out, miming sex, and said, ‘Le sexe, ici pour le bebe´. Je need le test pour checking the eggs. Ah, yes, les oeufs.’ Hurrah, I had remembered the word for ‘eggs’; I was in the home stretch.
‘Je need to faire le test pour checking les oeufs pour le sexe pour le bebe´.’
The two women looked at each other and then the penny dropped. ‘Ah, oui, Madame, vous cherchez le test d’ovulation,’ said the pharmacist.
And there it was – ‘ovulation’ was the same in French. We all nodded and laughed. I paid the formerly stern-faced pharmacist, who patted my arm and wished me ‘bonne chance’. We were all women. We understood. It was tough out there.
I skipped back to the hotel, put on my new red underwear and waited for James. He hobbled into the room and collapsed on the bed. I took a deep breath and asked him what was wrong. He said the groin strain had got much worse during the day and he was in agony. I tried not to cry with frustration.
‘Could you help me with my shoes, please?’ asked Hopalong Cassidy, in a particularly whiny voice.
‘Fine,’ I said grumpily.
As I reached down to untie his laces, James grabbed me, swung me back on to the bed and kissed me. ‘Just kidding, darling, I’m feeling fit, healthy and raring to go. Now, let’s get these sexy red lacy bits off.’
The next day was final training and motivation-building day. James was up at the crack of dawn and didn’t get back to the hotel till late that night. When he did arrive, he looked very grim. The prop forward Dave McCarthy’s shoulder injury had not cleared up. He was out of the game and, as a key player, would be sorely missed. I could see James was really worried, but he was putting on a brave face for the team.
For the next three hours his phone rang constantly as everyone we knew called to wish him luck and journalists hounded him for last-minute pre-match comments. I felt really nervous for him. After dinner that night, everyone was very subdued – jitters were setting in so they all went to bed early to get a good night’s sleep before the big game.
I woke up in the middle of the night to find the bed empty. James was sitting in the corner of the room staring at a piece of paper, pen in hand. ‘Can you not sleep?’
‘Not a wink,’ he said, looking up.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Trying to write a speech to give the boys tomorrow in the locker
room. I want it to be really motivational, but I can’t get it quite right. I’m nearly there – I just need to tweak it a bit.’
He looked like a little boy sitting there with his hair all ruffled and the pen in his mouth, frowning down at the paper. On the floor beside him was a book of Churchill’s greatest speeches.
‘Just speak from your heart, James. They trust you and look up to you. Whatever you say will motivate them,’ I said, in supportive-wife mode.
‘It has to be good, Emma. With Dave out of the game Perpignan have the advantage. I want them to go out there tomorrow and win. I need to give them a really rousing speech.’
‘Let’s see what you’ve written,’ I said, picking up the pad. James’s speech was largely made up of quotes from Churchill’s broadcasts during the Second World War. It was totally over the top – he might just about have got away with it if he was speaking to fighter pilots on a mission to bomb enemy territory or something, but this was a Leinster rugby team . . . Come on – know your audience.
We have before us an ordeal of the most grievous kind . . . You ask, what is our aim? I can answer in one word: ‘Victory – victory – at all costs, victory, in spite of all terror, victory, however long and hard the road may be . . .’ But I take up my task with buoyancy and hope. I feel sure that our cause will not be suffered to fail among men. At this time I feel entitled to claim the aid of all, and I say, ‘Come, then, let us go forward together with our united strength.’
I tried to tread carefully so as not to hurt his feelings. ‘James, I really don’t think you need to quote Churchill. Just use your own words.’
‘Darling, Churchill is considered by many to be the most motivational speaker of all time. Mayor Giuliani quoted Churchill when he spoke after the September eleventh attacks to great effect. I’m sure these quotes will get the boys going.’
The Baby Trail: How far would you go to have a baby? (The Baby Trail Series (USA) Book 1) Page 8
