Expecting Emily

by Clare Dowling

  “What’s wrong?” Maggie arrived back from walking the corridors in the hopes of bringing labour on. “Did they not give us a spot in tomorrow’s calendar for the hearing?”

  “I’d like to see them try,” Emily spat. “And it’s not a ‘spot’, Maggie, like we were entering a karaoke competition. It’s called a listing.”

  “So we have one?” Maggie asked doggedly. All her relatives would be asking when they came in later and she had to be sure to give them the latest facts. Apparently, Maggie’s Aunt Amy’s lodger’s best friend worked in RTE. They were trying to get him to give the campaign a plug. He only worked on The Late Late Christmas Toy Show, but you never knew.

  “Yes, we’re listed for tomorrow afternoon, Maggie.”

  Maggie hugged herself with excitement and wasn’t even put out when Emily declined a game of bridge and said she was having an early night.

  The next morning Creepy Crawley was forced to share the lift up to the third floor with two pregnant women. He coped by pressing himself as far into the corner as he could, and keeping his eyes firmly on his shoes. They were highly polished and perfectly matched his intimidating three-piece suit. The last time he’d worn this suit was two years ago, when he’d gone to visit his wayward nephew in the local garda station over that nasty drunk and disorderly business.

  The lift stopped and he elbowed his way out ahead of the pregnant women. The heat and the whiff of antiseptic made him reel, but he bravely headed for St Brenda’s Ward. He wished now he’d thought to bring flowers or something. That would have been a good touch. You’d have thought Daphne Dunne would have suggested it, her being a woman. Not that she ever behaved like one. The language out of her this morning! F-ing this and f-ing that! And some B words that Creepy had never even heard before. Ewan seemed to know what she was talking about and had joined in with a few choice words of his own, most of which also seemed to begin with F and B. Oh, and one with a W. Now that Creepy thought about it, that one had been directed at him. It was most unfair. Just because he slobbered all over Neasa Martin didn’t mean he had an obligation to know what she was up to all the time. No, that was Gary O’Reilly’s department. Or Gary Gilmartin, as he’d taken to calling himself. There was no way that would end up on the headed notepaper.

  Gary hadn’t been invited in to the meeting. Not because of any conflict of interests, what with him apparently dating Neasa. He just never seemed to have anything useful to contribute. He would just join in the f-ing and b-ing because everyone else was doing it.

  It was silly anyway, Creepy thought, to go losing the head. Reason was what was needed in this situation. Reason and tact and persuasion. Hence his presence in Martha’s this morning.

  “Emily! There you are.”

  “Oh, hello, Charles.”

  He was a bit taken aback. She never called him Charles. It was Mr Crawley to his face, or Creepy behind his back. And she didn’t even bother to sit up in the bed.

  “Just dropped by to see how you are,” he lied, trying out a big smile.

  “Well, you can see for yourself,” Emily said, patting her belly.

  Indeed he could. In fact, he had never seen anything like it, except in a documentary about sea lions. But her face looked the same, thankfully. He would be fine if he focused on that.

  “And, ah, how long to go now?” he asked jovially. He knew that this was the kind of thing you should ask pregnant women. That, and had she thought of any names for it yet. Then maybe round off the conversation with a little joke about how she would have her hands full. Most of them just wanted you to notice that they were pregnant, Creepy believed, as if it had never happened to anybody else.

  “Three weeks, minus a day or two,” Emily said.

  “Well, well,” Creepy said meaninglessly. “I always think Michael is a nice name. Or Jennifer, or Alan for that matter. Something sensible. You don’t want to go lumbering it with something trendy like . . .” he couldn’t think of any trendy name except from a song which had been playing on the radio on the way in, “Fatboy Slim.”

  “That isn’t a name we’re considering,” Emily assured him.

  “It won’t thank you when it gets teased in fourth class.” Creepy said this rather bitterly. Fourth class was a period in his life he would rather forget.

  If Creepy got any more transparent he would disappear altogether, Emily thought. She wondered now how she had felt any loyalty towards him or any of the rest of them. But they thrived on people like her, vultures preying on hard-working moles desperate for a word of praise. Dangling partnerships in front her nose like a carrot in front of a donkey.

  Emily wondered how she had got into this whole animal-comparison business. It was just that Creepy looked so much like a pig this morning, or a snake in the grass. Possibly he had been genetically modified to combine both.

  “I suppose you’re here about the hospital closure.”

  Her directness momentarily flustered Creepy. This wasn’t like Emily at all. Still, he supposed that they had them all on drugs in here. “It has only come to our attention that we appear to be involved.”

  Terry Mitton SC had called this morning to see if Neasa was on her way to Dublin. She was, and Creepy had taken the call instead. Imagine his surprise.

  “We don’t specialise in litigation, Emily,” he said gravely. “We’re in conveyancing.”

  “Right,” Emily said slowly, as though she hadn’t spent six years taking two percent on Creepy’s behalf. “So I’m on my own, in other words.”

  “No no no no,” Creepy said, when he actually meant yes yes yes yes. “It’s Neasa we have the problem with really. She should have informed us.”

  “And instead she’s on her way to the High Court right now,” Emily said cheerfully.

  Creepy gave an involuntary shudder at the mere mention of the High Court. “Yes, and frankly, we feel it is not our place,” he said, unsmiling.

  Emily looked at him pleasantly enough. “It’s my fault. You see, I didn’t think you’d mind representing me, after me working so hard for you all these years.”

  Creepy was ready for this. “Absolutely.”

  “With very little reward,” Emily added.

  “You did get that bonus we credited to everyone’s account only last week?” he enquired with a smarmy smile.

  “You know what I mean, Charles.” Her expression was flat and unyielding, and Creepy’s Joop! deodorant started to experience its first real pressure. Maybe he should have sent Daphne in. Emily’s hormones had obviously done something horrible to her, and Creepy was not an expert in this field.

  He cleared his throat. “Funny, we were just reviewing the partnership situation earlier. And I’m delighted to be able to inform you now that you’re up for a partnership.”

  “I’ve been up for it before,” Emily said.

  “No, I mean you’ve got it this time. Or, you will in due course once we’ve ironed out any mis-understandings.”

  Emily had to resist the urge to spit on his three-piece suit. Honestly, was the whole world out to compromise, pressure, coerce and generally screw you over? What had happened to all the nice, decent people? Had they become part of the screw-you brigade because that was the only way to protect themselves?

  Emily resolved that to become hardboiled was even worse than being a pushover. The prospect of living her life like she was on a survival course was too bleak, always looking over her shoulder for the Creepies of this world. Surely it was possible to be nice and still avoid being screwed?

  “If Crawley Dunne & O’Reilly wants to back out, then fine.” She didn’t lower herself to refer to the partnership. She just let him see from her face exactly what she thought of him, what she’d always thought of him behind that supplicant smile. “I’ll find someone else to represent me. There are plenty of them out there. I’ll file for a change of solicitor in the morning. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going for a nap.”

  Creepy found himself back on the corridor, scarcely able to credit that
he had been dismissed. He should feel triumphant really. After all, he had got what he wanted, which was to be shot of this, with no fuss. And he hadn’t even had to admit that there was no partnership. He’d made it up on the spot. Daphne and Ewan would be delighted with the outcome, and they could all go on selling land with gusto

  No, there was absolutely no reason at all to feel a bit, well, sneaky and sly and low.

  Which he was, of course – it was just that nobody had had the bottle to point it out to him before. And Emily had always been so nice, too. That’s what was so disappointing about this whole thing. Where were all the nice people gone, Creepy wondered?

  “Save Martha’s!”

  “We say NO to closure!”

  “Save Martha’s!”

  “We say NO – mind that bloody placard, Darren, you’ve snagged my tights – to CLOSURE!”

  “Sorry. Save Martha’s! We say – oh look, here comes Chapman – NO to CLOSURE!”

  The band of protesters outside Martha’s, its ranks swollen twenty-fold with news of the court case, stopped to gawk in the window of Mr Chapman’s car. He eased indifferently past them as though they were a flock of stray sheep. Then someone actually planted herself in front of his car. Mr Chapman’s foot never wavered from the accelerator, and the protester was forced to dive to one side or else lose a limb.

  “Save MARTHA’S!”

  “We SAY NO TO CLOSURE!” they screamed after him.

  Yes, well, it wasn’t up to them, Mr Chapman thought, and a jolly good thing too. He swung into a disabled parking space at the doors of the hospital and sat there for a moment.

  He wasn’t due to see Emily Collins today. But management had let it be known in their inimitable fashion that his presence was necessary at Martha’s. He had coldly asked them whether they believed Mr Dunphy and Mr O’Mara, Martha’s consultants, couldn’t take proper care of her. On the contrary, they had insisted. But nobody wanted to ruffle any feathers what with the High Court hearing this afternoon. Check her out. Best be on the safe side.

  It was as though Emily Collins, by her own actions, had ceased to become a patient for whom medical care was her basic right. She was now a political agenda and medical care would be dispensed accordingly. Plenty of it, it was true, but this was not a situation Mr Chapman was at all comfortable with. It only served to highlight for him how skewed his path had really become.

  He had spent the morning arranging to abort his own grandchild. Henry Maher had informed him that his daughter would not be picking a clinic out of a UK phonebook and going over on a cheap flight like she were some little scrubber. Mr Chapman would use his contacts to get her the best doctor, the best clinic. Mr Chapman would also pay all expenses.

  He had done it all, even booked the flights. Two return tickets. If this was what Killian wanted, then he would damned well go over with her. He would not shirk that responsibility. They would take a week off school, the pair of them, on sick notes which Mr Chapman had also organised.

  Hannah had said this morning that he must make the peace with Killian, that the boy was genuinely affected and that he needed their support. Mr Chapman had not even said goodbye to him as he was leaving.

  News of the application to keep Martha’s temporarily open spilled into the car from the radio. All the Cork radio stations were carrying it. Whether a full judicial review of the hospital closure would be granted would not be known until a later date, the newsreader informed him.

  If they got an order to keep Martha’s open, they wouldn’t be hearing about it on the Cork radio stations. No, they’d be looking at it on the bloody RTE six o’clock news.

  Something caught his eye and he looked up. There was Emily Collins in the window above, gesticulating wildly down at Mr Chapman. Good God, what was on earth was she doing?

  She mouthed something at him, desperately.

  “What!” he shouted, as though she could hear him.

  She pointed again, face growing more and more panicked. Was the woman in labour or something? Then she shut her eyes in resignation just as Mr Chapman was pitched forward in his seat. What the hell . . .?

  It took him a moment to realise that he had been rear-ended. Or, more precisely, that someone had backed into his stationary car. The person didn’t even notice. He heard a crunching of gears and the offending car moved off smoothly. Behind him, the protesters broke into laughter and a round of applause.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” Emily said again. “It’s just that she’s not used to driving at night.”

  “It isn’t night,” Mr Chapman pointed out testily. “It’s three o’clock in the afternoon.”

  “She shouldn’t really be on the roads any time after lunch,” Emily confided. “Is there much damage to your car?”

  “I haven’t looked yet.” He had. The rear fender was dented, and the H on his customised number plate, CHAP, had been damaged. Now it read suspiciously like CLAP. He watched Emily Collins closely now for signs of amusement, but could find none.

  Emily felt awful. Pauline hadn’t even called by expressly to see her. Oh, no! She’d been dropping Paddy Byrne and Mrs Conlon down to the gates, because they’d wanted to join the protest and neither of them could drive – not that Pauline could either. Pauline had called up to see Emily as an afterthought.

  “I’ll get her insurance policy number for you.” Emily was anxious to make amends.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Mr Chapman said stiffly. The last thing on this earth he needed was more legal wranglings with the Collins clan. He would pay for the damage out of his own pocket. And if Emily Collins ever became pregnant again, or if any of her extended family became pregnant, or indeed any friend or remote acquaintance or even a pen pal of hers, Mr Chapman would see to it that his books were full.

  He really was decent, Emily thought, not to try and claim for the damage off her poor mother. From the look on his face earlier, she’d thought he might even try and press charges.

  “Take it in cash then,” she said.

  “Sorry?”

  He watched, astounded, as Emily took out her washbag, unzipped a little pocket inside and held out a bundle of cash to him.

  “There’s about two hundred pounds there.”

  “I don’t want it,” Mr Chapman blurted. Like a lot of rich people, the sight of cold hard cash embarrassed him, even though he gladly took large amounts of it in cheque form.

  “It’s Mam’s anyway,” Emily insisted. “She gave it to me to buy something for the baby.”

  Mr Chapman felt even more embarrassed. Now she was taking the food out of her child’s mouth to give to him!

  “It’s not necessary,” he said again, face hot.

  Emily looked at him to make sure he was serious, before putting the money away. “That’s very kind of you.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “So long as you’re sure,” she said earnestly. “I was just thinking earlier, there are so many people out there ready to do you over. I just didn’t want you thinking that me or my mother is one of those people.”

  Mr Chapman had rarely seen an expression of such utter sincerity, and it unnerved him further. And on a solicitor, too.

  “Let’s get on with the examination, shall we?” he said quickly, before she could make him feel any worse. At least no doctors or interns or nurses or anybody else was looking over his shoulder. He would not countenance it after his spectacular humiliation at Emily Collins’ mother’s hand. And that porter, Tommy or something, had had the audacity to tell him that he shouldn’t have parked in a disabled space in the first place. And now he felt bad about that too!

  He cleared his throat loudly. “Any more bleeding?”

  “No.”

  “Any pains?”

  “Just the usual.”

  “Any discharge?”

  “No.”

  “Anything unusual at all?”

  “Well, I have been feeling a bit breathless.”

  Not so breathless that she couldn’t i
nstruct a solicitor, Mr Chapman thought, feeling a bit feistier now.

  “That’s usual. The baby is crowding your internal organs due to its size. And also the extra weight you’re carrying makes your heart and lungs do more work.”

  He reviewed her chart again. Her blood pressure was stable. Her urine had been clear for weeks now. Even the puffiness had gone down. She had colour in her cheeks and the baby was kicking away like a rugby player. Far from this ridiculous campaign increasing her stress levels, he would go so far as to say that she was thriving on it!

  “What do you think?” she asked anxiously.