Jenny Q, Stitched Up

by Pauline McLynn

  We’re running low on bicarbonate of soda, so one of us will have to go to the shopping centre for more. We have a system in the Gang when something needs to be done that no one wants to do, like whose turn it is to make the coffee. On a count of three we all point at the person who should go and the person with the most points at them is chosen. Today, even I point at me because I know the others will, as it’s still payola for not telling Dix about Teen Factor X.

  I’m not expecting more MAJOR incidents in my life, because surely I have exhausted all avenues of excitement with fainting at a national event and so on, but things happen, I’ve learned that much. I am rounding the corner at speed into the shopping centre when I see Mike Hussy, but I’m going at such a lick I can’t stop. We nearly collide and are then left staring into each other’s face, a nasty experience for both of us if his face is anything to go by. He’s got a black eye and his arm is in a sling, which is surprising. I don’t remember him being the one flung into oncoming traffic the day he attempted to murder Teddy, intentionally or otherwise.

  ‘Jennifer Quinn,’ he says, and it’s true, because I am. So, first strike to Hussy.

  ‘Mike,’ I say, equally factually.

  Evens.

  Then we just stand there staring at one another. There’s not a lot more to say or do.

  ‘I still don’t like you,’ he tells me. ‘But you shopping me to Mr Bradley was good.’

  I am probably doing my impression of a puzzled goldfish but I say, ‘Glad to be of help,’ with a dollop of irony added in, I hope, because the last thing I really want is to be helping this twerp.

  ‘Mum finally kicked my dad out,’ he says.

  I really don’t know why he’s telling me this. I don’t want to know about his life, I don’t like him.

  ‘Well, not before …’ He shrugs and makes to go.

  And then something occurs to me as I look at him limp away and it’s as if time stills all around me.

  Oh. My. Actual.

  I take in his injuries again and I think: ‘His dad beat him.’

  That’s so wrong. Actually, it’s criminal. It kind of explains stuff about Mike, though. I am shocked and I feel really gutted for having had any part in it.

  ‘See you when you’re back at school,’ I say to his back.

  He turns round, so I give him a half-smile. He sort of smiles back, and says, ‘Guess so, Ginger.’

  GINGER?!?! Oh, that hurts.

  Friends vs Fiends

  Friendship is a strange thing. I wonder where it comes from. Why do we need friends when we have family? Or maybe I should ask, why don’t family do as friends? Of course, you can be friends with your family, but it’s a different kind of thing, isn’t it? You have family from the start that you’re born into, from when you can’t remember because you’re too tiny. But you make friends along the way.

  I’m sitting with Dixie at Knit ’n’ Knatter, and Uggs hasn’t yet arrived. She’s doing her cushion cover and she goes, ‘Jen …’ and something in her tone makes me fear the worst.

  ‘Dix …’ I say, with trepidation.

  ‘You know the Teen Factor X stuff?’

  Oh NO, not that, I so don’t want to talk about that.* It was weeks ago now. But I’m expecting to be taken to task about what I did, so I brace myself.

  ‘Yeah …’

  ‘I know why you didn’t tell me.’

  ‘Oh! Yeah?’

  ‘I understand why you couldn’t.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yeah. I would have made fun of you. But not because I don’t think you could have done it, more cos that’s what I do, that’s what I do when I don’t know what to do. I’m not very imaginative.’

  ‘Wow,’ I say.

  ‘I know!’ she says. ‘This is me being nearly as mature as Uggs is!’

  We both cover our ears and shriek, ‘AAAAGGGHHHH!’ to maturity and how it might have infected us.

  ‘We’re THIRTEEN,’ I squeal. ‘TOO SOON.’

  Which is when Uggs walks in. And without thinking, or asking why, he just joins in, puts his hands over his ears and goes, ‘AAAAAGGGHHHH!’ as well.

  You have loyalty to family but also to friends. That’s what I was lacking when I hid my plans from Dixie. But it’s good that she could see why. I probably should have trusted her, though. I was a coward. We’ve both learned a lot about ourselves from this, I think.

  She’s still going to mock me but at least now I know it’s meant with love, and a lot of carelessness. And she knows I’m over-sensitive and an eejit. Friends are just fiends with ‘r’ thrown into the mix – it’s a fine line between the two if you don’t respect that, I ponder to myself.

  Heroes

  Mike Hussy is back to school after his suspension. The place held its breath on the morning of his return but he toed the line. Then, when the teachers stopped watching him so closely, he let loose again. He’s not physically pushing people around any more = good, but he’s still giving people mega-verbals = non-good. All is not as bad as it used to be, so it’s all degrees of improvement and a long way to go to perfection* but, hey, that’s life.

  One atrocious habit he’s got into is referring to me as ‘the ginger nut’. I am dealing with this through the medium of ignoring it. I pretend it never happened. It’s only a matter of time, though, before it gets heard and sticks and then I will be proper cross, but I don’t know what to do about it. I want to shout, ‘SHUT THE FRONT DOOR’ at him, but that would draw attention to the nickname, which is the last thing I want. This is v v vexing and not LOL at all.

  Thankfully, everyone is in a fever of excitement about Teen Factor X because Oakdale’s finest will be on TV. It’s all anyone can talk about, so they’re distracted from Mike Hussy and ginger nuts. The Slinkies are total (and official) groupies now to Ten Guitars and the envy of every female in the neighbourhood. I’m family to one of the group and that makes me an honorary groupie, so hurrah for that. I feel part of the adventure and that’s great because it involves v little participation† on my part. I simply add a lot of enthusiasm.

  People are treating Delia with a bit of awe too. No one knew she could be funny, though I think she’s getting a bit cheesed off with nerds going, ‘Tell us a joke, Delia.’ She says she doesn’t ‘do’ jokes, which is way cool and v up to the minute comedy-wise. Lots of people think it might just be a spoof that a quiet girl in our class is going to be on the show. When she’s not in her stand-up character, Delia is forgettable and odd. I think she likes it that way.

  Everything’s barrelling along at a slick pace. Best of all is we’re taking orders for DA BOMB and, because a Slinky mum is having a birthday and has ordered fifty mini bombs to give to her guests, we are finally making our money back. PHEW!

  Mum’s bump is HUGE now too. Her latest jars of pickles have whole tomatoes and bits of cauliflower in them and look even more like samples from a laboratory. Gran keeps asking if she’s having twins and Mum says no and Gran says maybe one is hiding behind the other when the scans are taken. This is a v worrying idea. I have come to terms with the notion of having one baby arriving into our world, NOT two – that would be like an invasion by a tiny, crying, pooping army.

  I’m more nervous than I should be about seeing the Dublin trials of Teen Factor X on TV. Basically, I am still v worried that the show might have some footage of me keeling over that’s usable without my permission and that it’ll SO be recognizable as me that I will JUST DIE or have to run away from home and, in fact, Ireland. It’s not like I can earn a living from busking on the streets of Europe or America, seeing as I seem to have a fear of performing solo. I can barely eat a second Kit Kat before the Quinns gather to see Dermot in glory on our nation’s screens.

  It’s weird watching something that I remember. I’m there again but I’m not‡ and I’m hoping I won’t relive all the horror of the day. There’s the long line of hopefuls weaving down the streets, shots of screaming teens and then suddenly Gypsy is on the screen, barking, and we
give a big cheer. Dixie is speaking to the camera (another cheer) and then Delia is saying funny words, and Uggs and Maya are grinning loons, and if you look v v closely at the foot area of the guy holding the tuba you just MIGHT recognize my floaty skirt.

  No one here at home notices it but I get a text from Dixie: I c ur on tv!

  I go: my bum is big in that skirt. And she sends: HUMUNGUS!

  We see some losers being a bit tragic, including a kid my age singing well off-keyб and I cringe a lot for her. She puts in a hundred notes where one would do, the sort of thing Mariah Carey can just about get away with. She is convinced she’s fabuloso and argues her case when she’s told she is not getting a call back.

  ‘You could easily do that,’ Gran says, and I kind of fob it off with a moody shrug, but not too much because I don’t want this to be a discussion. For all I know, Gran is referring to the arguing and not the so-called singing. Luckily for me, just then, our ten teenage heroes enter the room on-screen, armed with guitars, and we give a huge whoopy cheer. Dermo is morto.

  ‘Ooh, don’t you look handsome,’ Mum says.

  ‘Big nose,’ I say, though not with a mean tone.

  ‘No, it’s not,’ Mum says.

  ‘Yeah, it is,’ I say and he thumps me with a cushion. I can tell he’s thrilled with how he and all the guys look.

  It’s magic to see them on television. They play really well and there are lots of shots of Stevie Lee looking totally lush.§ Then there’s loads of praise from the judges and Ten Guitars go through and we all punch the air at the same time as the lads do on TV. It’s strange to see Dermot here in the lounge and there on the box. MAD!

  Delia is up next and she’s great and the Quinns laugh a lot at her and when she goes through we punch the air again. Then there’s some stuff that makes my heart freeze over. The presenter says it doesn’t go so well for everyone and there are some shots of a kerfuffle and the camera jostles to see someone being carried out, but the Fainter isn’t seen. Then we see the judges laughing so hard they have tears in their eyes and Nicki says, ‘That poor little girl. And she looked so cute with her lovely red hair, then all of a sudden she was totally conked out.’

  RED hair? Ah, here now! ‘Strawberry blonde!!’ I want to shout, but I can’t without giving myself away.

  And it wasn’t THAT funny, thank you very much.

  ‘Aw, the poor little thing,’ Mum says.**

  This is galling but at least my cover isn’t blown, so I’ll have to put up with such slurs as being referred to as ginger and a titch.

  The excitement must be catching, too much for Mum, because she’s looking very pale. Then Dad gets concerned. She’s clenching her eyes shut in pain.

  ‘What’s wrong, Vic?’ Dad asks.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she whispers, and she looks afraid.

  Time slows to a full stop. We’re all trying to figure out what’s going on, especially Mum. Finally she says, ‘It’s the baby,’ and we all try to look like we have a plan of action. We don’t. We’re just moving about for the sake of it, as if that will help. But what no one wants to say is that Bumpy Quinn isn’t due yet. Our baby is coming way too early.

  Then Dad snaps to and takes charge.

  ‘I’ll get the car,’ he says. ‘Help Vic out,’ he instructs Gran and Dermot.

  ‘Should we not call an ambulance?’ Gran says.

  ‘No time,’ Dad says.

  I gather bags and keys and so on, not really knowing what we need for this unexpected journey. I follow, feeling useless. Mum is put gently into the front seat, Dad gets behind the wheel and the rest of the Quinns pile into the back.

  Mum keeps saying, ‘Sorry, Dermot, I don’t mean to ruin your night. You were so good. Well done.’ It’s almost like a mantra, a verse to keep her going.

  It’s too early for her to be having the baby and we’re all terrified, you can practically taste it in the air as we rush to the hospital and all silently, fervently, pray our prayers.

  Emergency

  Gran leaps out of the car* and rushes to get a wheelchair and help. Dad tells Dermot to park the car – I didn’t even know my brother could drive. Mum is rushed up to the maternity ward with Dad and we’re left in the Accident and Emergency surrounded by patients on trolleys and slumped in chairs, some groaning and some bleeding. There is a strong whiff of disinfectant, and a feeling of chaos in the place, and a lot of other stuff I don’t want to think about or identify.

  Gran consults with some nurses then ushers us to the stairs, saying that the lifts are for patients and medical staff and not day-trippers like us. The family waiting room is on the maternity level, four floors up, so that’s eight flights of stairs and it takes us quite a while to huff and puff up. I’m sure Gran has done this deliberately to keep us occupied and also out of the way while more important matters are being dealt with.

  We find Dad pacing the corridor and he says Mum is with the nurse. Then a doctor comes and she and Dad both disappear through a door. It’s agony not knowing what’s going on and I want to cry, but we have to be strong for Mum, and for one another, now.

  What if something is wrong with our baby? It’s terrifying to think of that. What if Mum is in danger? I have never been so scared in my life. Time passes more slowly than it ever has before, slower than very slow motion, yet my heart is beating faster than it ever has and I am gasping for breath but trying not to show it. I notice that Dermot’s hands are shaking and Gran’s eyes look very moist.

  Dad comes back and says the baby is in distress so they’re preparing Mum for an operation to deliver the baby by Caesarean section. We can go and see her now for a minute before she goes to theatre.

  Mum is in the last bed in a ward full of women. She looks pale and scared but she forces herself to smile at us.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘It’ll all be OK. The little varmint is coming early and out through the sun roof, no less.’

  I think they might have given her something already because she’s sort of slurring her words and if this wasn’t such a serious situation, that would be almost funny.

  She clutches Gran’s hand and Gran goes, ‘You’ll be fine, darling, and so will baby.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Mum whispers.

  I realize I love Bumpy Quinn and I want to meet Bumpy in person and for everything to be all right. My heart might break right now at the thought that anything could go wrong.

  This is the most frightening time of my life. I want to help but I don’t know what would be good to do and what would be disastrous. Everything is so quiet you can practically hear the hum of our panic. I don’t know why, but I start to sing. It’s ‘I’d Do Anything’, a number from Oliver! that Mum and I often change the words to. This time I sing it for real and do her part too.

  Mum smiles and I think she looks a bit less worried. Dermot and Gran look impressed and I don’t even care that all the women in the ward are staring at me. When I finish they even applaud me!†

  As Mum is being wheeled away, she says, ‘I’ll be back for another of those as soon as I can, Jen.’

  I feel like I’ve done something good, something useful, but it doesn’t ease the awful worry.

  Then, the agonizing wait begins. It feels like hours but, in fact, Baby Harry is born twenty minutes later. He is put in an incubator because he is early and so small – only five pounds, Gran says, and I think she means two and a bit kilos. We are allowed to look at him through a glass partition and he is the most beautiful baby I have ever seen. I know everyone says that about their baby but Harry really, really is GORGEOUS.

  He’s curled up in a little ball with his fists pressed against his face, sleeping off his dramatic arrival into the world. He has dark hair and I am relieved we don’t have another strawberry blonde in the family. Dad puts his hand beside the baby so we can see just how small he is. That’s my baby brother right there. I want to run through every room in the hospital and tell everyone I meet about Harry Quinn, who has already made a big mark on the
world, our world, my world.

  We go and see Mum and there are hugs and tears and we all tell her how well she’s done. Harry is healthy and strong, Dad says, and he’ll be out of the incubator and ready to go home before we know it. SO, there’s shopping to be done, because he’s here sooner than expected and we are sooo not prepared.

  I can’t wait to get him home and hold him. And make sure that Gypsy doesn’t think he’s her new plaything.

  I text Uggs and Dixie: baby harry arrived early i.e. tonight!

  Dix goes: NO WAY – HRA!

  Uggs: WOW! CONGRATS.

  Just when I think there’ll be no message from Gypsy I get: WOOF!‡

  Dermot looks at the floor, red-faced. ‘Harry must have hated Ten Guitars if his response was to get born early.’

  ‘Or maybe the opposite,’ Mum says. ‘He might have got fed up of waiting to get out and about and start being a star like his big brother and sister.’

  Then it hits home – I’m still the only Quinn girl! Smiley face.

  Yule Do

  Christmas in our house smells of baby and plum pudding. Mum didn’t get a chance to do proper nesting, as she calls it, before Harry arrived, so she’s making up for it now. She and Harry spent a few weeks in the hospital while they checked he was OK and let him grow a little bit more. Now Mum’s gone v v domestic. There are happy consequences to this, one of which is brilliant dinners in the evenings.* Harry’s being breastfed,† so whatever Mum eats is filtered through her for him. He still appreciates a Kit Kat, though what he deposits in his nappies converts them into weapons of mass destruction.

  I am actually quite good at changing him now, though he did pee straight into my face early on while I was between nappies. Everyone thought that was hilarious. I’m just glad my mouth was shut at the time.

  Ten Guitars have adopted Harry as their mascot and they visit him all the time because they say he brings them good luck. They’ve gone through to the next round of Teen Factor X and they say it’s all because Harry took such an interest in them that he came out early to support them. Which means I am seeing a lot of SLB. That’s great but it means my nerves are constantly shredded at the thought that he might appear at any moment.