Expecting Emily

by Clare Dowling

  “Mam, I don’t want you to stay too late, not if you’re feeling a bit under the weather.”

  She was finding Pauline hard work. She always did. “And you don’t like driving in the dark,” she added.

  Pauline drove at twenty miles an hour in the dark and pulled over to the side of the road for every oncoming car. If it were a truck, she would go halfway up the ditch.

  “Better be safe than sorry,” she would mutter under her breath.

  Emily knew now that there was no guarantee at all that if you practised safety you would not get sorrow.

  “That’s true,” Pauline said. “And I want to catch eight o’clock Mass.”

  This was unprecedented. Pauline went to Mass on Sundays, naturally, and every first Monday of the month. Then there were the Stations of the Cross, of course, and she usually went every morning during Advent. She never let a funeral pass either, and always turned up for the remembrance Masses. But on a Wednesday night?

  “Has somebody died?” Emily enquired.

  “No, no. I thought I’d go for you, Emily.”

  This was Pauline’s way of supporting her.

  “I’m not that sick.”

  “Still. Every little helps.”

  “Oh, Mam, sign this for me before you go.” Emily reluctantly reached for the petition. Maggie was probably listening expectantly.

  Pauline didn’t like this. For no reason at all she didn’t like it.

  “It’s just to stop the hospital closing,” Emily said impatiently.

  “But it’s going to close anyway,” Pauline said.

  “Well, yes, but there’s no harm in trying, is there? There’s no bloody law against making the effort!”

  Pauline fretted as she looked at the form. “I won’t get sent any unsolicited material, will I?”

  “No, Mam. I can assure you of that,” Emily said grimly.

  There had been a very embarrassing incident last year involving unsolicited material. A monthly magazine had got Pauline’s name and address from somewhere and had sent her details of a prize draw. All she had to do was sign and send it back. Each month, more material would arrive from this crowd, breathlessly informing Pauline that she had been selected to go through to the next round, and the next. Pauline’s natural antipathy of forms had been overcome by the promise of big money, and she had signed and sent them all back, telling no one. Then a sample cheque had arrived from the magazine people for a quarter of a million pounds, made out in Pauline’s name. Pauline hadn’t noticed the ‘sample only’ stamp on the top of the cheque and had tried to cash it in the bank in Paulstown, whispering to the bank manager that she was going to give some of it to Emily and Liz, and the rest to the church fund for a new roof. She had even generously urged him to keep a tenner for himself. The bank manager had discreetly called Emily in. Emily had sent a stiff solicitors’ letter to the magazine crowd, warning them never to darken her mother’s doorstep again.

  Pauline had been very embarrassed and upset about it, and Emily had felt more sad than anything. For the first time in her life her mother had sensed real independence, only for it to be whipped from her because she wasn’t sharp or cynical enough for this world.

  Emily felt a greater connection with her now as Pauline laboriously signed and handed back the form.

  “Thanks, Mam.”

  “Who will you give it to?”

  “What?”

  “The petition?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” Emily said unhappily. She hadn’t thought about this.

  “I don’t see why you bother half the time, Emily.” This was said with no rancour, just genuine puzzlement, and Emily felt annoyed again.

  “It’d be a fine old world if nobody bothered, Mam.”

  Pauline just shrugged and stood. “I’ll leave a shepherd’s pie over to Conor in the morning.”

  “He can cook. He has nothing else to do all day long,” Emily said sharply.

  “It’s no trouble,” Pauline said, gathering her bits and pieces. It seemed to take ages, as she took keys from her big bag, put her umbrella back in, changed her reading glasses to her driving glasses, checked her keys again. Emily hadn’t noticed her doing any of these things when she’d arrived.

  Then she reached in and took Emily’s hand. Emily was so touched that she felt tearful, but only until she realised that Pauline had pressed a wad of ten-pound notes into her fist.

  “Mam? What’s this?”

  “For the baby. Best that you choose something yourselves. I wouldn’t know what to be getting.”

  You’d never think she’d had four children herself.

  “But Mam . . . this is too much.” There was at least a couple of hundred pounds there.

  Pauline stiffened with pride. “It’s not for you, Emily. It’s for the baby. I did the same for all of Liz’s.”

  “Sorry, Mam . . . thanks. I’ll buy something nice.”

  Pauline nodded and left, buttoning up her thick coat and pulling on gloves as though she were stepping out into the Antarctic.

  Emily put the money away carefully in the little zippered pocket inside her washbag. It was the first present she’d got for the baby. Most people had the tact to wait until the child was actually born alive and in one piece. But it hadn’t occurred to Pauline that Emily had had a miscarriage and might be a bit sensitive. To Pauline it had been nature’s way of dealing with defects, and had consoled Emily with the words that she could always have another one, and ‘lightning never strikes twice’.

  Emily wasn’t at all sure about this. What about cleft palates and heart defects, congenital abnormalities and haemolytic jaundice? This was in addition to the big worries of spina bifida and Down’s syndrome, which Emily had spent many hours convincing herself the baby would have. Eventually she had stopped reading pregnancy books altogether, because they always seemed to fall open at some new disease or disorder that you’d never heard of before but would immediately start fretting about. It was the deodorant premise again; the more information you had, the more you worried. And the more you worried, the more likely you were to end up in hospital with stress-related pre-eclampsia. It was a vicious circle, Emily thought darkly, and she would very much like to meet the person who had started it all in the first place.

  Conor’s car was in the driveway, so Gary knew he was home. Gary was delighted with his suggestion to go over and talk to Conor. For one thing, it had earned him untold brownie points with Neasa. “Oh Gary, would you? Because if I go I’ll only wring his neck. You might be able to talk some sense into him.”

  Also, Neasa had finally made up her mind to go in to the hospital, and it would be no fun without her at home. He supposed he could have rung up someone to go out for a few jars in Milo’s, but then he realised that he didn’t have any friends. Not any bosom buddies anyway, he quickly corrected. He had a very wide-ranging circle of laddish acquaintances all right, mostly the guys from work and the boyfriends of Neasa’s friends. But he didn’t have best friends like Neasa did. It seemed an awful lot of work, all the phone calls and the popping around to each other’s houses, the dinner dates made weeks in advance. Sometimes Gary did make dinner dates, of course. He didn’t want Neasa to think that he had no friends.

  He stepped out of his BMW, grabbing six bottles of exotic beer he’d bought in the off-licence. They would need much more as the night progressed but Conor was bound to have some in the house.

  He rang the doorbell with a confidence he’d never had on Conor’s turf before, and fixed a suitably empathetic expression on his face.

  The two dogs came galloping around the corner, barking viciously.

  “Bollocks,” Gary said. Neasa had warned him. But he’d been so busy anticipating Conor’s confession that he’d forgotten to buy two pork chops.

  Conor came to the door in the nick of time.

  “Get down,” he told the dogs quietly and they turned and slunk away.

  Conor didn’t look unshaven or drunk or red-eyed, as Gary had expected
, and he faltered a bit.

  “Ah, hello. I was in the neighbourhood.”

  Conor looked at him, and Gary had the same uncomfortable feeling he’d had back in school when his science teacher had found him pulling the legs off a live bluebottle.

  “I suppose you’d better come in,” Conor said.

  The living-room was devoid of leftover TV dinners, whiskey bottles or damp tissues. Was the man human at all? Then Gary got the whiff of cigarette smoke. Ah-ha. Conor had been smoking inside the house. A crack in the armour.

  “Neasa not with you?” Conor enquired, looking over Gary’s shoulder just to be certain.

  “No. She’s gone to the hospital,” Gary said softly, as though he were talking to the recently bereaved.

  Conor didn’t react. Instead he offered tea or coffee.

  “I brought some beer,” Gary said unnecessarily.

  “You go ahead,” Conor said. “I’ll stick with tea.”

  Gary was starting to regret ever coming around. You couldn’t have any kind of a bonding session on tea.

  In the kitchen, Conor emptied the kettle of hot water and refilled it with cold. It would take longer to boil. He wondered had Neasa sent Gary around in one of her ham-fisted attempts to get even on Emily’s behalf. Conor was aware of Gary’s reputation as Jaws in the office and wearily anticipated that at some point it would get physical.

  When he eventually went back into the living-room, Gary was plonked comfortably on the sofa as though he intended to stay there for the night.

  “Would you like a glass with that beer?” Conor asked politely.

  “No, no, I drink it by the neck.” And he demonstrated this by twisting off the top and throwing half of it into his big mouth.

  Conor sat down in the armchair opposite and tried to think of something to say. Gary didn’t seem bothered at all by the silence; he just leaned back and lifted one ankle to rest on the other knee. Conor had tried to sit like that once, it looked so casual and relaxed, but he had just had this awful feeling that he was exposing his genitals. Which, actually, Gary was doing, if you looked closely enough. Those jeans were welded to him. It was almost obscene, and the sort of thing only very confident men could carry off. Conor wondered what it took to become that confident in your own skin.

  “What’s the beer like?”

  “Oh, lovely. Mexican, you know? Lovely little bite to it. Go on, have one.”

  “No, really –”

  “One won’t kill you.”

  Conor took the bottle Gary held out. It was quite pleasant actually. Conor felt it was his turn again to say something.

  “Manchester United won 2-1. I saw it on the news.”

  Gary looked very surprised at this. “Did they now? Well, well.”

  Conor hoped that he wouldn’t ask him who had scored, because he didn’t have a clue. The appeal of football had always eluded Conor. Everybody else seemed to love it, women too. It was a kind of social grace now to have a favourite team. Conor, rudely, had never had one. He did have a Manchester United bag, though.

  “2-1,” Gary repeated, his brow furrowing furiously. Conor was taking the mick again. Just when you thought he was loosening up, just when he’d lowered himself to have a beer. “I’m not a Manchester United fan,” Gary said loudly, just to let him know that he was on to him.

  “Oh,” Conor said. He had even picked the wrong fucking team to talk about. He had thought that Manchester United were perennial favourites. If Emily could hear him now, she would laugh her head off. Talking about football and beer, giving himself airs and graces.

  He grappled around for something else acceptable to say. That was the trouble with him, none of it came easily.

  “Mind you, they’re the cup favourites. Again,” Gary said.

  You see, Conor thought, Gary was in the know. Gary had his finger on the pulse of what was normal social interaction. No situation confounded him or left him lost for words. Most of what he said was absolute shite, in Conor’s opinion, but that didn’t matter. People loved it. Emily too. She’d laughed all night long the last time they’d had Gary and Neasa over for dinner. When they had finally left, the house had seemed empty and devoid of energy and Conor had felt very defensive.

  Gary threw more beer into his mouth and decided to cut to the chase. “So, Neasa was telling me. You know, about yourself and Emily having a bit of trouble. I was just wondering if there was anything I could do at all.” Gary had rehearsed this on the way over and had thought it perfect. But on reflection it sounded like he was offering to take over the shagging of Mary Murphy or something.

  Conor was very surprised. Gary sounded sympathetic and Conor had not expected this. Sympathy was something usually reserved for the hurt spouse. The most the offending party could expect was a dose of vilification and the possible destruction of personal property.

  “Thanks,” he muttered. He had not talked about the affair to anybody. Who would he talk to? Mark would wilt with embarrassment. Certainly he couldn’t confide in any of his friends in the orchestra. Billy Middlemiss would look at him with such utter disappointment that Conor would die. Most of his other friends were shared with Emily and all would be very firmly on her side. How could they not be?

  “Ffion, wasn’t it?”Gary prompted, leaning forward. Best to call her by her proper name. It sounded much more sexy and mistress-like than Mary.

  “Ah, yes,” Conor agreed.

  Both of them had known it wouldn’t go anywhere, and neither of them had wanted it to. It wasn’t some great passion that had been bubbling for years and years under the surface. It was more a recognition that the other found life wanting. Ffion’s husband had been made redundant and was suffocating her with his listless presence in the house all day. Conor was suffocating under Emily’s disappointed looks at home. It started with Ffion joking about Conor being the strong, silent type. He had found it reassuring at first. Then he had found it necessary. It was like the beginning of his relationship with Emily, when everything was perfect, before he had been found out.

  The sex wasn’t particularly great. Ffion loved the secrecy and the excitement and the stolen moments. That was her kick. He hated all that – he lived in mortal dread of letting something slip and Emily finding out. But in those evenings and nights with Ffion, he told himself he felt worthwhile and desirable again. She wasn’t demanding that he be things he wasn’t. There was a curious release in that.

  Gary was itching to ask about the details. Like most folk, he had an intense curiosity about other people’s lives. If some salacious and forbidden act had taken place, all the better. Gary’s desire was all the more acute because of his intense preoccupation with comparing and contrasting his life with that of others, and making sure that he was doing and experiencing all the right things.

  “So, ah, is it over?”

  “Of course it is,” Conor said testily. Jesus Christ, did he think that Mary was up in the bedroom at this very moment?

  Emily’s announcement that she was pregnant again had been like a bucket of cold water over the affair. Conor and Mary had looked at each other as though stepping out of a dream. There had been no discussion about the matter really. Mary, mildly embarrassed, had taken an unscheduled holiday with her husband, who was delighted.

  Conor had returned to Emily, whom he had never really left. In his more optimistic moments, he thought that perhaps his self-esteem might be in better shape now and that he might have more to contribute to the marriage. The naïveté of this still astounded him.

  Gary had the tops twisted off two more bottles of beer.

  “No, one is enough for me, thanks,” Conor said. It had already gone to his head.

  “You’ve had two,” Gary pointed out.

  Conor saw that he had. Gary pressed the third into his hand.

  “Get that down you,” he said with the authority of a man who dealt with broken marriages all the time.

  Conor obediently took it. He found that he was glad now that Gary was here. He re
ally was all right, if you looked past all the shite.

  “She won’t let me go in and see her,” he blurted.

  “I know,” Gary said sympathetically.

  “You know?” Emily must be giving Neasa a blow-by-blow account on the mobile.

  “No, I mean I don’t know, I didn’t know, I’m just . . .” Jesus, even with alcohol on him, Conor was sharp. “I suppose you’re going to have to play by her ball.” Shit. Play by her rules? Play ball? This Mexican beer was strong.

  “What would you do, Gary?”

  Gary was astounded. Conor had never once asked his advice on anything. Not even legal stuff. The only time Gary’s ‘friends’ seemed to ring him up was to get free legal advice.