She could see Conor through the window. He was still standing, which was a good sign.
“Safer! Shur what could possibly happen to you down in that big hospital in Cork? With all their new equipment and private rooms and Indian doctors coming out of the woodwork? Tommy! If I have to come out to you . . .”
Emily carefully lifted her cappuccino. It was easier to have something to do with her hands when talking to Liz. Sometimes she came perilously close to belting her.
“We didn’t actually get to choose the hospital, Liz, believe it or not. I’d have had the baby in St Martha’s except that it’s closing down.”
Liz was sent scurrying in another direction. “It’s a disgrace, that’s what it is. The memories I have of that place! All five born there, right down to little Willie.”
She gave the bundle on her chest a vague pat. Emily had forgotten all about Willy. He still hadn’t moved. But she didn’t dare ask if he were okay. The last time she had expressed concern about Robbie, whose nose was bleeding violently, Liz had got terribly defensive.
“It’s the politicians, of course,” Liz said. “They don’t care so long as they have Blackrock Clinic.”
“They don’t actually deliver babies there,” Emily felt she had to point out.
“Well, Vincent’s Private then.”
“They don’t deliver babies there either.”
“You’re so difficult, Emily. Anyway, they’ve got a petition going and everything to stop the hospital closing. I’ve signed it. I don’t suppose you have.”
Oh just leave, Emily wanted to shout. But Liz would be appalled, uncomprehending. Their mother would be informed, their mother with the weak heart. She would be on the phone asking Emily why she couldn’t see fit to be nice to poor Liz who had five children swinging out of her, six if you included Eamon; Liz who had only called around out of the goodness of her heart to find out how Emily was getting on. A huge family rift would develop and it would be all over the place. That was because Eamon knew everybody right down to the outskirts of Cork and possibly into Cork City itself. Emily might as well move country.
“I haven’t signed the petition yet because I haven’t actually seen it,” she said with great care, “but you can rest assured that I will.”
“Not that it’ll do any good,” Liz said. “Those politicians will close it down anyway. And we’ll all have to drive thirty miles to Cork in the throes of labour.”
“Thinking of going again?” Emily enquired.
“Jesus Christ, are you mad? No, we were going to hold out for the girl but, to be honest, I don’t think Eamon’s sperm has got what it takes. The sex is determined by the father, you know. We were thinking of having it tested or something, but he’s not keen on the idea of going into one of those cubicles with a magazine.”
She was joking, surely. Eamon, who went around with a copy of The Sun glued to his armpit?
“Oh well,” Emily said, because there wasn’t really anything else to say to that.
“I suppose you’ll have a girl,” Liz said.
“It’s a fifty-fifty chance, isn’t it?”
“Oh, you will.” She sounded very depressed.
“Don’t you want to know how I got on with Mr Chapman?” Emily enquired coolly.
“Of course. How did it go?”
“He said my blood pressure is up.”
“By much?”
“He didn’t say.”
“They never do. It’s like some kind of state secret, isn’t it?”
“And he thinks I’m a bit puffy.”
“Well, maybe a bit. But I was puffy too. With all of them. Like a balloon.” Liz threw her eyes to heaven and smiled. She was great when she was like this. Not exactly sisterly, but definitely friendly. But then things seemed to rub her up the wrong way again. Or maybe it was just Emily.
“I’m kind of worried, Liz. You know, after everything.”
Liz was sympathetic. “I know. But Emily, you’re thirty-four weeks gone, You’re nearly there.”
“That’s what Conor said.”
“Of course, he did,” Liz said, as though any words that came from Conor’s mouth should be set in doctrine.
“I’m thinking of giving up work sooner than planned.” She wasn’t really, but she wanted to sound Liz out on it. She immediately regretted it.
“Didn’t I work until the day I dropped Tommy? And on my feet, too, not like you. Standing behind that counter handing out Lemsips and Vick Cough Syrup to people who don’t even know what it’s like to be sick!”
Liz had wanted to study pharmacy. She had believed that it would be glamorous and rewarding, and had been impressed by the white coat. What she’d really wanted to do was get a job in Boots in London, where medicine and make-up seemed to blend seamlessly. But then Eamon Clancy set his sights on her and college was somehow put on the back burner for a year. Then they got married, and Liz had taken a part-time job as an assistant in Roche’s pharmacy in Paulstown to keep her hand in, where the only make-up was a cheap line of American cosmetics on a white plastic stand inside the door. Not that the customers were interested in make-up. Mostly they came in to confide in Liz about their irregular bowel movements, and peculiar patches of hair that had sprung up in odd places overnight. After having Tommy, Liz’s maternity leave from Roche’s was up the week she discovered she was pregnant again. She hadn’t worked since. In the meantime, Eamon had expanded his business and was apparently doing well.
Emily sometimes wondered if Liz minded giving up her ambitions, but Liz never said anything, contenting herself with the odd dig about Emily’s job, which she and Eamon regarded as a very cushy number. “Fallen on your feet there,” Eamon was fond of saying, as though it were merely a matter of luck. “Oh, who knows what way it might all have turned out,” Conor would nod vigorously in agreement and Eamon would look at him suspiciously. But then again, Conor was one of those arty types, playing pianos for a living. A nice enough fellow but not the sort you’d play darts with in the pub on a Saturday night.
“You’re lucky being able to work,” Liz said glumly. “Try staying at home all day with five children.”
“Go back to work so,” Emily asked impatiently. “What’s stopping you?”
“If you need to ask that . . . childcare, of course! I’d be paying out more than I’d be earning! And those children –”
“They go through five packets of cornflakes a week, yes, I know.”
Liz was hurt at her tone. “Honestly, Emily, I don’t know what’s got into you today.”
Emily took a long, deep breath. Her headache was there in all its glory now, throbbing nicely just behind her eyes. “I’m tired, Liz, okay? I’m as big as a whale, my back is killing me and I want to put my feet up.”
Anybody else might have offered a smidgen of sympathy. Liz merely sprang up from the table. “Oh, well, sorry! I’ll just get the boys and go.”
“Stop, Liz! Just sit down and drink your coffee.”
“I’m not that keen on cappuccino. Well, I usually only have it when I’m out.”
“You are out.” Jesus, Mary and Holy Saint Joseph. “But never mind, because guess what! We have Maxwell House as well, the good old pulpy stuff that we keep especially for visitors!” She got up noisily to refill the kettle. Behind her, Liz started to cry.
“Liz?” Emily swung around, her heart beating fast.
Liz was hunched over in her chair, her head in her hands. She didn’t seem to notice the baby strapped to her front. Emily could see only two tiny blue-tinged feet sticking out either side of Liz’s heaving ribcage.
“Liz, please, what’s the matter?” Emily was frightened. Liz never cried. She shouted and roared and cursed, but she didn’t cry. It was alarming. Surely to God she wasn’t that upset about the coffee dig? Suffused with guilt, Emily leaned over. She put out her hand to touch Liz, but drew back. They weren’t a touchy family.
Liz eventually straightened, her nose streaming. Emily ran for a tissue, wondering wh
ether she should call Conor. But no. That would mean Tommy, Robbie, Mikey and Bobby too, and they might be too traumatised by the sight of their mother in this state. But Emily was worried about Willy. His feet were definitely blue. She wanted to offer to take him from Liz but didn’t want to upset her further.
“The bank is foreclosing on the mortgage,” Liz said, her voice thick with tears.
“What?”
“I know, it was news to me too. Eamon’s been hiding the post. But he went out early on a job this morning and I opened the letter. Apparently we’ve made no repayments since last August.”
“But that’s six months.”
“Seven,” Liz said grimly. “He’s been hiding it from me for seven months!”
Emily felt dread. “Maybe it was a clerical error . . .”
“No. I went through all the files, the ones he keeps hidden away. And the business is gone to the wall, Emily. He’s been borrowing like mad, hasn’t made a tax return in three years and the Revenue are looking for twenty thousand.”
“Oh my God,” Emily said.
“And now we’re going to be thrown out onto the street with five kids!”
“How could this have happened, Liz?” This time Emily actually did touch Liz. Liz drew away jerkily and sat up a bit straighter.
“Oh, he lost the Gannon contract last year. Or his mother’s nursing home fees have gone up. Or the kids are bleeding him dry. Or I’m bleeding him dry, who knows? But he’ll find someone to blame, you can be sure of that.”
“Oh, Liz,” Emily said again. She was raging – that big stupid lump of an Eamon! And sad, too, for her belligerent, harassed sister with her work-worn hands and her flabby stomach that wasn’t back into shape after Willy yet. She kept the whole shebang together. And this was the thanks she got?
“Can I use your bathroom?” Liz asked. She always asked, like she was in a hotel or something. In anyone else’s house, it was just, “I’m running to the loo.”
“Of course.”
“Hold Willy for me, will you?”
She popped the baby out of the sling with a speed born of long practice and Emily found him thrust onto her lap. Or more precisely, onto her big belly.
“Liz . . .”
Emily was terrified that the child was dead and that, when Liz got back from the toilet, she would get the blame for that too. But Liz was gone down the hall, her thin, angular body held with an awkward kind of pride. The bathroom door slammed.
Willy lay precariously on Emily’s bump, quite still, his eyes closed. He was so small that Emily was afraid she would break him. She had held him before, of course, but always under Liz’s eagle eye and constant instruction; “You have to support his neck, Emily!” or “Don’t bounce him like that, he’ll puke.”
Now Emily gingerly lifted Willy up so that his head was nestling comfortably on her arm and he was more or less balancing on her bump. She looked worriedly at his chest for signs of motion, but there was none. On the plus side, he was quite warm, but that could just have come from Liz.
“Willy?” Emily said gently. Nothing. His blue-veined lids seemed glued together. And why were his feet now so white? Conor, she decided. Conor would know what to do.
Willy’s eyes opened and looked directly into hers.
“Oh!”
Unfortunately he had Eamon’s eyes, but Emily ignored that. She smiled tentatively at him. “I’m your Auntie Emily.” She always introduced herself. Just because three-month-old babies had the memory span of a goldfish was no reason to dispense with courtesy.
Willy looked steadfastly at her. It was gratifying. And oh, how lovely it was to have him all to herself, with no one watching and judging. Emily lifted him higher and gave him a little kiss. Yummy smooth white skin. And he still had that newborn baby smell, although Liz maintained that she only threw him into the sink in the kitchen for a wash once a fortnight. She managed to get the dishes done at the same time.
Emily pressed her finger into his palm now, and watched his little fingers curl around hers strongly. She cocked an ear and heard water running. Good. Liz was still busy.
“Buh buh buh buh,” she said to the baby, feeling a bit ridiculous. But in Liz’s presence, she’d always had to suppress her urge to talk nonsense to Willy. Liz said it was unhealthy to indulge in ‘baby-speak’ and that one should just talk normally to children.
But Willy was mad for it. His little fists pounded the air and his feet kicked out robustly. What with his four brothers, he hadn’t had so much attention since he was born.
“You’re lying on your cousin,” Emily whispered.
She cuddled Willy’s floppy form into her. Might as well take advantage of the opportunity for a dry run. Imagine, in two months’ time, she could be holding her own baby. All going well. Which it would, please God, I’ll do anything. She didn’t mention about Mass again. Best not to remind him.
“A smile!” He was definitely smiling at her.
“Wind,” Liz said, having arrived back in the kitchen. Her hair was freshly scraped back. “But I think he likes you,” she conceded. Well, that was something. None of the others seemed to.
“I’d better get going,” she said, efficiently scooping up Willy and stuffing him back into the carrier.
“Look, why don’t you stay here for the evening? We could all have dinner together or something. The boys would love it.”
“I can still manage to feed them, you know,” Liz said stiffly.
Emily tried again. “Maybe Conor could have a word with Eamon or something.”
Liz gave a high-pitched half-laugh. “And what would that achieve?”
“I don’t know,” Emily said unhappily. “But Conor’s quite good about all that tax stuff.”
“I don’t think so,” Liz said, tight-lipped.
“You’re right,” Emily said. “It’s up to you two. Maybe you can work something out with the bank or something.”
Liz’s eyes flashed a bit. “Emily, I know you’re trying to wave your magic wand and make everything all right.”
Emily was annoyed. “You’re my sister. I’m just trying to help.”
“Just be thankful that Conor hasn’t taken the roof from over your head.”
Well. There was no arguing with that.
Liz looked a bit bitter now. “Conor would never let you down. You’re very lucky, you know.”
There was that luck thing again, as though Emily and Liz had been dealt their entire lives in a random hand of cards. Emily didn’t tell Liz that she felt exhausted and depressed sometimes too, that she was riddled with worry over this baby, that she felt her entire life was out of control on her most of the time, that Conor was great but increasingly silent. It would look like childish griping compared to the demands of raising five boys, and Eamon Clancy’s gargantuan capacity for financial folly.
“Maybe I should cancel,” Conor said.
Emily was irritated. She was lying on the sofa with her feet on a cushion. Her headache had developed into a migraine. But she had risked taking one aspirin and expected it to work very soon. The box had promised as much.
“I’m fine.” Creepy Crawley hadn’t rung. The meeting was over by now. At the very least, would he not be wondering where she had been the entire afternoon? It was all very ominous.
“I know, but all the same . . .” He looked at her. She knew he was waiting for her to make the decision for him. He was playing in the Cork Opera House tonight with the orchestra, a performance of The Nutcracker Suite, and needed to be there for a warm-up at six o’clock. But he had to rescue her car from the side of the road first.
“How can you cancel, Conor?”
“I could pick up the phone and just cancel!” he said stalwartly.
He couldn’t, that was the thing. It wasn’t as though the double-bassist could cover for him.
“Neasa’s coming around after work.”
“Is she?”
“Yes.”
“Well, in that case . . .” He was already rea
ching for his sheet music.
Emily smiled fondly, remembering Liz’s words. “At least you’d never let me down.”
He went a bit still. “Sorry?”
“Eamon, Conor?”
“Oh. Yeh. Eamon.”
I give up, Emily thought. She had told him the whole sorry saga the minute Liz was out the door and now he was acting like he’d forgotten all about it. Something as big as that! Or, more likely, it just wasn’t important to him. His reaction had been predictably downbeat. He’d contented himself with a few murmurings of “Bad situation, that,” and had refused to get involved in any bitching about Eamon.
“Haven’t we enough problems of our own?” he’d said rather ominously.
Expecting Emily Page 4