So this morning goes great, she stays very calm, very quiet in herself. Some first-timers seem to know what they’re doing as if it’s their eighth. The dad keeps up the counter-pressure on her hips I showed him; he’s speechless, wet round the hairline. Coming up to the second hour of pushing, she says something in a little-girl’s voice.
‘What’s that, Marie?’
‘She said she can’t,’ he tells me, almost growling.
‘You’re doing great,’ I say to her, ‘you’re marvellous. Take a breath. I think you’re crowning. Will I check again?’
‘No time –’ Her voice spirals up and up and up.
‘Chin down,’ I remind her, but I don’t even get to say ‘Push’ before it’s out in my hands. A girl, a shock of black hair on her.
Kisses and tears, the usual. She’s lying on Marie’s chest; he adjusts the little blanket over her foot. He – Joe, his name is – says in my ear, ‘Shouldn’t she be crying?’
‘No hurry, sure there’s enough of that in life.’
Afterwards is when it gets interesting. Joe stays for the afterbirth and the stitches and all, then he goes out. When I go to the nurse’s station for some juice for Marie, I pass him talking on his phone: ‘… ten ounces, man, you should have been here! She was astonishing, jaysus, I’m in awe. Listen, Mick, come in the minute you get this –’
‘No mobiles in here,’ I mouth at him, and I’m thinking I’ve never heard anyone call his father, or father-in-law, ‘man’. But then he does have a tattoo – a bird of some sort, under his left ear.
I’m helping Marie with the first latch-on, a while later, with Joe a foot away, his lips moving slightly as he memorises what I’m saying: ‘Brush the middle of the upper lip with the nipple, that’s it, till her mouth opens really wide …’
That’s when I hear the ruckus outside the door. An English voice, loud and husky. ‘ … what I keep telling you!’
Joe straightens up – guiltily, I’d have said. ‘Sorry, I’ll just –’
He goes out, shutting the door behind him. I carry on helping Marie – ‘move the baby, not the breast’ – but her neck has stiffened; she knows what the altercation in the corridor is about.
‘Course I’m immediate family, I’m the dad ain’t I, technically?’ That’s not Joe, it’s the other voice.
I pretend not to hear a thing. ‘Brush her lip again, that’s right …’ The baby’s falling back to sleep anyway, so I’m about to suggest we try again later when the door swings open and in comes the Englishman.
Leathers, piercings, the whole deal. ‘Darlin’!’ He presses a kiss on Marie’s mouth.
‘Howarya, Mick,’ says Marie tiredly.
‘Didn’t our old groupie do well?’ he asks Joe. He bends again towards the newborn, though without lifting his shades I don’t know what he can see. ‘Wow, so teeny, I nearly missed her. ’Allo, redface!’
‘They’re all that colour,’ she snaps.
‘No, but seriously, what a stunner! Welcome to the world, baby. Oi, she’s got my hair.’
In the silence, I grab the bouquet (birds of paradise) off the bed before it can spear the baby.
Joe’s hovering like an uninvited guest. ‘I can’t believe you missed it, man. I know you wanted to be there, I left you a message as soon as she went into labour –’
‘Didn’t hear it till I got off the phone with Sherry,’ Mick assures him. ‘Seems to think I pay her fifteen per cent to sit around on her arse and tell me times are hard. And traffic was dire as per fucking usual.’
‘Sure he’s never been on time for anything,’ says Marie. ‘Remember all those soundchecks you and Niall and Dieter had to do on your own, Joe?’
Joe laughs and so does Mick. ‘Crazy days, crazy days,’ says Mick.
Marie’s not laughing. ‘I did think maybe you’d make an effort, this one time, for your own –’
None of them say anything for a second. ‘Are you hurting at all, Marie?’ I murmur.
‘A bit. Cramps.’
‘I’ll bring you some ibuprofen. And a vase for these.’ I just want to get out of that room, actually.
The Englishman has produced a small bottle of Veuve Clicquot from his trench coat and is scraping at the foil with one long nail. ‘No alcohol on the ward,’ I mutter in his direction as I brush by.
‘Ah, just a toast to these two beautiful girls.’
‘I’ll wait for my painkillers,’ says Marie.
‘Which in my experience only double the kick!’
Her voice gets harder. ‘You don’t change, do you?’
‘He’s only having a laugh,’ says Joe anxiously.
‘It’s hard to laugh when you’ve got six stitches in your perineum.’
‘Spare me!’ moans Mick.
Joe passes me at the nurses’ station a minute later. ‘Just going out for a smoke,’ he says, raising two fingers to his lips as if I need the term explained.
‘South Exit’s the quickest,’ I tell him. And then, wanting to set him a little more at ease, I add ‘Smokers recover faster.’
‘What’s that?’
‘They’re back on their feet the day after the operation. Motivation!’
He doesn’t just laugh, he lets out a jagged whoop.
It wasn’t that funny. ‘How’re you doing, a bit shaky? Birth takes a lot out of –’ I stop myself before ‘fathers’. ‘Big day,’ is all I can think to say.
‘That’s putting it mildly. Never the same again!’
‘Very true.’
‘We won’t know what’s hit us when we take her home,’ he says, as if answering the question I didn’t ask.
‘Ah, you’d be surprised; after a week you’ll have the hang of it,’ I tell him. Then, ‘Go on, have your cigarette. I’ll bring Marie her tablets.’
‘She gave up the day she did the test,’ Joe volunteers.
Painkillers? I think, horrified. And then, ‘Smoking?’
‘Yeah. Will of iron!’
‘More power to her.’
He’s still hovering. ‘Gave up Mick the week after.’
‘Ah, right,’ I say, rearranging the flowers.
‘He’s cool with it,’ says Joe, staring at the signs that say OBSTETRICS, DELIVERY, NICU. ‘I mean, with me. You know, muscling in.’
It’s a funny term for such a mild-mannered guy. ‘Great,’ I murmur, still fiddling with the flowers.
Then he wanders off in the wrong direction, towards the West Exit, and I head for the medication cupboard.
Marie is on her own when I go in. Well, apart from the baby, of course. I suppose I think of a mother and newborn as one person still, except on those rare, awful occasions when a woman puts her face in her pillow and says, ‘Take it away.’
I have no intention of being nosy, but as I hand her the tablets and a paper cup of water I find myself asking, ‘Your visitor left already?’
‘A “lunch date”,’ she quotes, with a slight curl of the lip.
Does that mean she wants to talk about it? ‘So is he planning to be … involved?’
‘That’s the idea.’ She swallows her second tablet. ‘Joe’s idea, actually.’
My eyebrows go up.
‘Mick had been off touring Germany. He’s got a band called The Layabouts,’ she explains. ‘Joe was on keyboards, used to be. Now he’s teaching.’
‘Good lad,’ I say under my breath. She blinks at me.
‘I have a soft spot for men who knuckle down to breadwinning when there’s a baby on the way.’
Marie grins through her fatigue. ‘Well, Joe said it was only fair to get back in touch, invite Mick to be … “part of all this”.’
‘Like, an actual …’
‘Well, we still have to sort out the details.’
I nod, and stroke the baby’s arm with my fingertip. Newborns always look oddly muscular in the shoulder.
‘She’ll live with me and Joe, of course. But he kept insisting it wasn’t fair to leave Mick out. That if it was him, if it wa
s the other way round, he – Joe – couldn’t bear not to know his own child.’
But it never would be the other way round, I’m thinking.
‘We haven’t decided about the birth cert,’ she adds uneasily. ‘But Mick’s keen. The way he freaked out, when I first told him – well, I’ve never regretted giving him the push. But just because he was a lousy boyfriend doesn’t mean he’ll make a lousy father, does it?’
‘I suppose not,’ I say, as neutrally as I can.
‘The more the merrier, I suppose. I mean, the more people to love her.’ And a tear drops on the swaddled baby, turning pale pink to red for a minute. ‘Sorry to spill my guts like this,’ says Marie unevenly.
‘No bother.’
‘You probably think we’re all mad.’
‘Oh, I’ve heard stranger stories, trust me. All shapes and sizes,’ I add rather incoherently.
‘It’ll just take a bit of imagination, I reckon. A bit of goodwill all round.’
Good luck, I think grimly, tucking in the sheet, but I keep my mouth shut.
Marie sleeps a bit; whenever I put my head in, Joe – in the armchair – is holding the baby very still on his knees like a holy chalice of oil.
The Englishman shows up again later, heading into Delivery, and I guide him to Marie’s room.
‘Visiting hours are over in five minutes,’ Sister reminds me.
‘He’s the … they’re both the dads.’
Her thin eyebrows tilt. ‘God help the child.’
For a second I think she’s quoting Billie Holiday.
‘Tattooed by its first birthday,’ she adds nastily as she turns away.
I don’t listen at Marie’s door, but as I’m going past a few minutes later I hear a raised voice: ‘No way!’
I let myself in quietly. Mick is holding the baby up like an award statuette. I want to tell him to mind the studs on his jacket.
‘Not Jane, man!’
‘I like it,’ Joe is saying. ‘We both do.’
‘Ah c’mon, no child of mine is going to be a plain Jane! She needs something to make her stand out from the crowd in kindergarten. Garbo, I don’t know.’
‘Garbo?’ Marie repeats incredulously.
‘Charmian? Chaka Khan? What did Geldof call his – Fifi Trixibelle?’
‘You’re just taking the piss.’
‘Jane’s a family name,’ Joe puts in.
‘Which family?’ Mick demands.
‘Marie’s.’
All at once the energy’s gone out of the argument. I take Marie’s pulse – which is high, but no wonder.
The Englishman bounces on his heels, whistles softly to the sleeping baby. He transfers her to the crook of his arm, strokes the back of one furled hand with his thumb. ‘Whatever happened to Baby Jane?’ he murmurs.
‘Drop it, man,’ says Joe. It’s the first time I’ve heard him angry.
‘C’mon, darlin,’ grip it. Grip my thumb.’
‘The grip thing doesn’t kick in for a while, it says in the book.’
‘Listen to Doctor Spock,’ Mick sneers.
At which point I announce, ‘Time’s up, gentlemen. The ladies need their sleep.’
I expect Mick to object, or ignore me, but he purses his lips and puts a kiss on Jane’s dark hairline. Handing her back to her mother, he says, ‘It’s been a trip.’
‘I’ve sketched out a sort of schedule,’ says Joe suddenly, holding up a pamphlet titled ‘Bowel Function after Birth’. It’s got a chart in pencil in the margin.
The other two stare at him.
‘Just a few ideas,’ he tells Marie. ‘Mick could come in, like, once a week, and as she gets to know him he could take her off on walks, maybe. Or we’d go out on our own while he minds her. Then once she’s, whenever she’s weaned, there’s no reason why he couldn’t have her one night a week, maybe.’
‘Right, see how it goes,’ says Marie stiffly. ‘Assuming he turns up on time and doesn’t mess her around.’
Joe ploughs on. ‘She could call you, I don’t know, maybe me Daddy and you Dadda. Or should we be Joe and Mick?’
The air is thick with good intentions. I am cringing even before Mick gives a long, theatrical sigh.
‘God, I love you, man. Both of you. You’re family, you know? Always.’
Uh-oh.
‘Thing is, I’m not sure how the actual hands-on stuff is going to fit with my plans right at the minute. Which bites, obviously. Sherry says if we want the corporate gigs, which is where the bucks are these days, then we really have to base ourselves on the West Coast for a while.’
‘Like, Galway?’ asks Joe.
I don’t think he’s being stupid, he’s just doing his best.
‘Like, LA.’
‘I knew it,’ says Marie under her breath.
I should be gone by now, but I can’t move. I pretend to be adding something to Marie’s chart.
‘You knew he was moving to the States?’ Joe asks her in bewilderment.
‘I knew he’d fuck us over again, one way or another!’ Marie’s voice is shrill, but that’s all right, she gave birth today. She’s my patient, she can take a bedpan to this gobshite’s head if she needs to.
Mick slips his shades back on and puts his hands up in one smooth pacifying gesture. ‘When you guys got in touch, I was moved, you know? I thought I’d put the move off for a couple years. But I don’t think that’s going to be doable.’
‘Do you not give a damn about her?’ demands Joe.
‘Marie? Sure I do.’
‘Jane!’
‘Yeah, yeah, Jane. She’s a gem, she’s the real deal,’ says Mick with a regretful nod. ‘But this whole daddy thing, it’s not me. It just struck me today. I wouldn’t want to get into it and then …’
‘Not be able to get out of it?’ suggests Marie icily.
‘ … arse it up. Ultimately, you know, you’ve got to do your thing.’
‘What does that even mean?’ Joe’s speaking through his teeth.
‘Stick to what you’re good at, you know? Which for me is, like –’ Mick strums the phrase on the air – ‘rock ’n’ roll!’
They are both staring at him.
‘But hey, I’m gutted it’s not going to work out. But you guys will do great on your own. No hard feelings, eh?’
‘No harder than they ever were,’ says Marie.
After he’s gone, I say, ‘Everyone all right?’
Both of them nod, like children.
‘He’s right. You’re going to do just great.’
‘The thing is, he’s not even that good at rock ’n’ roll,’ Joe remarks, and our laughter wakes the baby.
Festus
Gerard Donovan
NOT LONG AFTERWARDS WHEN IT WAS all done, Festus Burke understood that he went to the top of the hill because he must have known what was going to happen to him and the people in the town below, that peaceful saucer of streets and bricks laid out below on the plateau between the mountains and the coast. It was early morning and an ocean fog curled up to the first houses and wrapped around the church spire. There hadn’t been a wind in days, but in the faint first light the white mist scuttled on a breath coming up from the water, silent and free over the empty streets. He sat and watched quietly. Something was going to happen. It was the same feeling that drew him directly to the hillside from his house down below, his narrow bed in the top room where the light rarely reached. But from here he could see everything.
Around the mountain a river flowed under a stone bridge, scratched in different seasons by hanging brambles and strawberries: he followed along the silver string where it flowed through the town before spending itself into the waves. On the sea side of the town, the moor air mixed with salt along the strips of sand in small bays that sheltered idle boats, some tethered to the stone pier in the harbour. Like the river, a single road coiled down the slopes out of the wilderness and ran until it met the bridge and then the line of houses that led to the square.
He’d c
ome up this morning, grabbing grass and roots until he met the trail that raised him in awkward steps to the sky in high mountain fields that sometimes rolled upward with bales of hay stuck in yellow pins to the stubble under a purple sky, in different seasons sometimes lines of green grass in ridges under calm weather. On the far side of the mountains, a flat plain of scrub and stones and sand stretched east, eight hours by car to the cities.
The bridge road was the only way in and out through the mountain. Another less-travelled road, flooded often in bad weather, went south to north through the town to swampy ground and the valleys. From the heights he saw laid bare the cross of both roads where they met in the town, and above fast clouds raced shadows under them, changing in seconds anything that might be recognised again.
Being up this high made Festus feel he could see into the past and the once prosperous town under that shifting mist, the throng of busy shops that used to be. In better times the town population swelled during the tourist season, when the good mountain road brought busloads of visitors into the desolate paradise across the barren miles. From a population of a thousand people, the town had dwindled to four hundred, and with Easter here, some of those were gone to relatives. The good times would come once more, he was sure, and only waiting would bring them again. Those buses would arrive once more out of the sky along that road and unload the gold of cameras and room reservations.
For two years a wild silence crept like vines across the fading fabric of that once famous place: the sinister hand that once kept this place remote had found it again. The fish were gone from the sea, the boats tied up. In those summers neither sun nor tourists had visited for any length of time. For those few who did arrive along that road, the town was a stop on the way to someplace else. One of the two hotels had shut, and the wide footpaths studded with sycamore trees and flowerbeds and benches were grown over with grass and weeds. Businesses were for sale or shuttered, and in empty houses curtains replaced the people who could not sell their properties and left to wait in other places for things to change. In their gardens ‘For Sale’ signs rode out the seasons like hardy flowers.
New Irish Short Stories Page 6