NIAMH
Zemblanity (n.) – the inevitable discovery of what we would rather not know
Oxford, 1996
The sky was slick with rain, the promise of more to come hanging in gunmetal clouds. Thousands of droplets fell, striking the alabaster stone of Queen’s College clock tower under which a girl, just shy of twenty-one, stood waiting.
He wasn’t coming. It was obvious he wasn’t coming and even though she had dared herself to believe that everything was going to be OK, a little voice inside her head kept laughing at her naivety. She had been across the road to the college lodge twice in the last hour, asking the porter if there had been any messages left, and he had smiled his apology both times.
Of course he wasn’t going to marry her. Of course he wouldn’t be so stupid as to throw away his future for somebody like her. If only she’d listened to her doubts and never told him about the baby, perhaps then everything could have been different.
If she went to his house, confronted him, would it make any difference? Would the pain that was seeping through every part of her body be lessened in any way? Or would the sight of him, pity and regret written all over his beautiful face, be more than she could possibly bear?
What now? Carry on as normal, pretend nothing was the matter? How could she try and focus on her studies and ignore the swelling at her centre? It could work; it wouldn’t be hard to hide away with nothing more than books and music for company. She’d done it for years and she was used to being on her own, so why should now be any different?
But he was here. Leo was here and she could bump into him at any given moment. The hands of fate were unlikely to be kind and allow her to stay out of sight.
If not Oxford, where was she supposed to go?
Why, why, why had she been so stupid as to trust him, to believe him when he said he would look after her? Because she wanted to. Because she loved him, but clearly it had all been a lie.
I wish Erika was here. The idea popped into her head, making her heart swell, and she had to bite down on the back of her hand to stop herself from screaming. It was too late. There was no time to try to make amends because there was a new life growing inside her. A life that she had to protect, no matter what. And that meant swallowing all her pride, all her fear, and doing what was best for someone other than her.
It had only been two weeks since she’d found out. Fifteen days, to be precise, since she’d peed on that bloody stick and everything was turned into chaos. She’d barely seen Leo due to a combination of her being exhausted and him trying to get the wedding organised, but perhaps he had been keeping his distance on purpose? It was so hard to figure out what was real and what was a result of her over-thinking, of questioning every tiny gesture or word that came out of his mouth.
The last time she’d seen him he was holding something back, she was certain of it. It was two days ago, when they were watching True Romance for what felt like the thousandth time up in his bedroom, accompanied by the sound of all his housemates watching the football filtering up from downstairs. The film had been a distraction, a way for them to avoid actually talking to one another about the enormity of what was happening, but she couldn’t focus on the screen due to the raging hunger inside her so she had sent Leo out for strawberries and chocolate cake.
When he came back, hair wet with rain and carrying a box of raspberries, she had to stop herself from throwing them at him.
‘What’s the difference?’ he’d said, running his hands through his hair and glancing back at the door as the sound of his housemates shouting at the TV when somebody scored wound itself up the stairs. It was like an angry reminder of what he should be doing, a harsh glimpse into the future when his life would still be dictated by the needs of a small child, instead of his own selfish desires.
‘The difference is I’m not hungry, the baby is hungry and I have no control over what it wants.’ She could tell he wanted to be downstairs, to be one of the gang, just a normal student. Before the baby that’s exactly what he would have been doing and she wouldn’t have minded, choosing instead to catch up on some work or spend the evening with her friends. Except that was life before Leo, not just before she fell pregnant.
‘There’s someone here to see you,’ Leo said, glancing again at the door.
‘Who?’ But she already knew.
She’d spotted Erika again the other day, upstairs in the history section of Blackwell’s. Niamh had heard her before she’d seen her, the boom of her laugh as it exploded from the other side of a bookshelf. Niamh had retreated into a corner, kneeling down and ducking her head so she didn’t know if Erika had seen her as she passed by, but the scent of her perfume was enough to make her stomach ache worse than any morning sickness could.
A second later and Niamh had got up, followed Erika out of the bookstore and along Broad Street, watching as she went inside the entrance to Balliol College and hating the fact she had no idea who it was she had gone to meet. It wasn’t that long ago they knew everything about one another. Well, clearly not everything; that was what had caused all the problems in the first place. But enough to not be terrified of bumping into one another, of being able to talk to your best friend about what the hell you were supposed to do about the baby that was growing inside you.
She missed her friends with such a keenness; she wanted to be able to talk to them more than ever before, but she knew it had been too long, too much time had passed and so much had changed.
‘She asked me to give you this,’ Leo said, holding out a small plastic troll with pink hair and a lopsided smile. Niamh stared at it, thinking all the way back to the night she and Leo had met, before which it had just been her and Erika, putting on make-up in her room and deciding what to wear to a stupid college bop.
‘Did you tell her?’
‘About the baby? I kind of figured it should come from you. It might help, you know, to tell her. Have someone to talk to.’
‘I don’t want her to know.’
‘Why?’
‘Because then she’ll forgive me for all the wrong reasons.’ Niamh wiped the back of her hand across her face, all too aware of how much it was shaking.
‘She came all the way here,’ Leo said, trying to decide whether or not Niamh would let him comfort her. ‘Don’t you at least want to hear what she has to say?’
‘Tell her to go.’
Leo paused at the door, his fingers drumming against the frame and Niamh could tell he was deciding what he should do, whether or not to stay or hide downstairs inside a bubble of denial.
‘What’s really going on, Niamh?’
‘Nothing. I’m just tired.’ She was always tired. It was like having a teeny-tiny succubus growing inside her, drinking up all her energy and turning her into a walking, ravenous zombie. ‘I don’t know if I can do this, Leo.’ The words were soft, barely more than a whisper, even though they’d been running around her mind for days.
‘Do what?’ He turned to her with a frown and part of her wanted to scream at him for not having a clue what she was thinking.
‘Keep the baby.’
‘But you said—’
‘I know what I said.’ The words were louder now, as if raising her voice would make the idea more convincing. ‘I know it’s wrong, that it’s a mortal sin. But I’m scared, Leo. I’m so fucking scared that you’ll change your mind. That this is already tearing us apart.’
‘Hey,’ he said, perching on the edge of the bed and taking her hand. ‘I’m never going to leave you.’
‘You say that now,’ Niamh replied, wiping her eyes and wishing she could stop crying at the drop of a hat.
‘I’ll say it always,’ he said, kissing her forehead, then her cheek and then a long, slow kiss on the mouth. ‘Because I love you. Both of you.’
Niamh closed her eyes, gave in to his kiss as she wrapped her arms around his neck and tried to tell herself that he meant it. That he would always be there for her, no matter what.
‘You shoul
d get some sleep,’ he said, pulling away, and she tried to ignore the cold sense of dread that was left behind. ‘The next few days are going to be a bit mad.’
He hovered in the doorway, watching as Niamh eased herself under the covers, one hand instinctively finding her swollen centre. She looked back at him, tried to read the expression on his face, wishing it was one of sympathy, of love and not regret. Then he pulled the door to, one thin line of light stretching across the carpet towards the bed, and she listened to the sound of him hurrying back downstairs, to where her best friend was waiting.
He wasn’t coming. The realisation hit her fast and furious, right in the solar plexus and Niamh gasped at the sudden, sharp pain that wriggled through her ribcage and stuck itself inside her heart.
There’s still time, she told herself, thinking that all she had to do was get as far away from there as possible. Because the more distance between them, the easier it would be to breathe.
The Oxford Tube stopped at the pedestrian crossing further up the High Street and she shouldered her bag. Stepping out to the kerbside, she held out her hand, waiting for the coach to pull up alongside her. Without a backward glance, she boarded the coach and found a seat by the window.
‘Mum?’
There was a pause on the other end of the line. ‘Niamh, is that you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why are you calling so late?’
Niamh traced her finger in a circle on the glass pane of the phone box. It was still raining, and the streets were busy with traffic and pedestrians, all hurrying home at the end of their working week.
‘I need your help.’
She heard her mother sigh and could picture her checking the clock that stood by the front door. ‘Well, you better be quick about it. EastEnders is starting.’
‘I . . .’ How was she supposed to explain what had happened, when she couldn’t bring herself to accept it?
‘Spit it out, child.’
Niamh closed her eyes, because clearly that would make her confession so much easier. ‘I’m pregnant.’
There was a horribly long pause, behind which Niamh could make out the tinny theme tune to her mother’s favourite soap.
‘I see.’
‘Mum?’
‘And the father?’
‘He’s . . . I don’t know.’ He was gone. He wasn’t there, with her, as planned. There would be no wedding at Chelsea Town Hall. There was no need to carry around the ivory dress and shoes that she’d found in a charity shop on the Iffley Road. He had made his choice without her, and now she needed to figure out what came next. Even if that meant going back to Cork, to a house that had never been a home and two parents who had struggled to ever make her feel like she belonged.
‘Just like your bloody mother.’ The bitterness in her voice travelled oh-so easily across the sea and down the line into Niamh’s brain. It wasn’t unexpected, but that didn’t make it any less painful to bear.
‘Mum, please.’ She was crying now. Long lines of wet that matched the falling rain outside.
‘No, it won’t do,’ her mother shouted back. ‘I won’t have it.’ Then came the sound of the phone’s receiver being thrown down, followed by raised voices in the distance and the opening and slamming of doors.
Niamh waited, cradling her own receiver between cheek and shoulder as she rummaged in her bag for more coins. The timer on the phone was counting down, flashing the remaining seconds at her before she would be cut off. Pushing more coins into the slot, she saw the number climb back up just as another voice came on the line.
‘Hello?’
‘Dad?’ Niamh exhaled her relief.
‘Is it true?’ His voice was measured and calm. But Niamh knew he would be rubbing at his temples as he struggled with the emotional depth of what he was having to ask.
If she didn’t answer then it wouldn’t be true. Because a truth is only a truth if somebody believes in it. Or was that a tree falling in the forest? Fuck. Nothing made sense any more. Her mind was so muddled and confused and filled with all kinds of feelings that it was proving impossible to latch on to any of them for more than a second at a time.
She heard him sigh, which told her his answer even before he spoke.
‘I can’t help you, I’m afraid.’
The apology was meaningless, because he wasn’t really sorry. He just did whatever made his life easier, even if that meant abandoning his child.
‘Can’t or won’t?’ Her emotions had tipped from sad to angry in less time than it took for her father to betray her. They had taken her from the convent into their home with the unspoken promise to take care of her, to love her. Now she couldn’t help but think that she would have been better off staying in the convent. At least with the nuns, you always knew where you stood.
‘She won’t let you back in the house. Not after what she’s been through.’
The loss of a child wasn’t something Niamh could empathise with, even now her own stomach was beginning to swell with new life. She understood, though, the powerful sense of unfairness that her mother believed belonged only to her. The idea that life can be so very different, depending on what you’re born into, what genes you inherit. Just like Leo and his perfect family, a family that wasn’t about to open up its doors and invite her in.
‘But I’ve nowhere to go,’ she whispered as she held out one hand to the doorframe, afraid that her knees were going to buckle and she’d end up sprawled on the filthy floor.
‘And whose fault is that?’
‘Dad, please?’ The seconds ticked away on the screen in front of her, faster and faster until she heard three long beeps telling her she was out of time. Even before the line went dead, she knew her father had hung up, that she was completely and utterly alone.
What now? Niamh replaced the receiver and picked up her bag. Pushing wide the red metal door, she looked across the road to the station. Her purse held little more than a few coins and dust, but her fingers found the thin plastic rectangle that winked at her with possibility. It was only supposed to be for an emergency, not even to be considered unless all else had failed. But what other choice did she have, other than to go back to where it all began?
ERIKA
BUTTERFLY BROOCH
London, 1997
It’s a Monday afternoon, too early even for the regular punters, but the pub will be full once the end-of-day commuters start to pour in. December means all the usual rules about no mid-week drinking are thrown out of the window, even by the most health-conscious of Londoners.
The pub looks like Christmas on steroids, with a giant tree in one corner, garlands strung from the ceiling and a dancing Santa at the end of the bar. Mariah Carey seems to be playing on repeat and the landlord has even mentioned the idea of all the staff dressing up as elves in order to ‘get into the festive spirit’.
I have no desire to get into any kind of spirit, despite Alex’s best efforts to bring a little cheer into the household. Term is over for the holidays and for weeks now I have been smiling and saying no, I’m not going back to Sweden this year. Instead I will be spending it with my uncle and his neighbour, who has already started work on the Christmas pudding and ordered enough turkey to feed a village.
‘Sorry I’m late.’
I look up as the pub door opens, bringing with it a cold blast of winter and a girl who is half-hidden behind an enormous pink scarf. I watch as she begins to unwind it, walking towards the bar and smiling across at me before using her teeth to pull off her gloves.
‘I’m Layla,’ she says, dumping her accessories on the nearest table and shrugging off her oversized parka. Underneath she’s wearing a tartan mini-skirt and black roll-neck, with over-the-knee socks and DM boots. ‘Are you Erika?’
I nod, watching as Layla tips her head upside down and fashions all those tight curls into a bun.
‘Hey,’ Layla says as she comes around to this side of the bar and points at me. ‘We’re matching.’
‘I guess.’ I sm
ile as I look down at my denim mini-skirt and red jumper that I’ve paired with Adidas trainers and ribbed tights.
‘You a student?’ Layla asks as she takes down a pint glass and fills it with Coke from the bar gun.
‘LSE.’ I take a sip of my water, thinking I should have gone for some caffeine as well.
‘Ah, one of them.’ Layla drags an empty beer crate across the floor, then uses it to reach up to the top shelf for a tin of festive sweets.
‘One of what?’ I’m pretty sure those sweets belong to the landlord and shouldn’t, under any circumstances, be stolen. But I still help myself to one wrapped in orange foil, and then also a toffee when Layla rattles the tin at me in encouragement.
‘Super nerd.’ Layla twists open a nougat-filled chocolate, nibbling at one corner as she tosses the purple wrapper in a nearby bin.
‘What about you?’ I ask, looking at how the undersides of Layla’s fingernails are a deep shade of blue, but not the kind that comes from hours of essay-writing.
‘St Martin’s,’ she says, reaching into her handbag, which has a clasp made up of two golden Cs. She catches me looking as she takes out a sketchbook and places it on the bar. ‘I know, it’s a cliché. Poor little rich kid studying art because I have no idea what else to do.’
‘If you’re rich,’ I say, aware that I’m lisping due to the toffee that’s stuck to the top of my mouth, ‘why are you working here?’
‘Mum said I needed some grounding.’ Layla puts the tin back on the top shelf, then opens the dishwasher and stands back to let out all that steam. ‘To actually realise what it’s like to earn my own money.’
‘Sounds fair.’ I hand Layla a tea towel and we work together, one drying, one restacking the shelves.
‘Oh, she’s annoyingly hip and totally au fait with weed and shit, because she used to smoke it back in the day.’
‘Does it help?’
‘With what?’
I nod towards her sketchbook. ‘Your painting. I’ve heard cannabis creates psychotomimetic symptoms.’
The Love We Left Behind Page 24