Girl Descending (Irish Girl, Hospital Romance 2)

by Jenny O'Brien

  Reaching the main street she crossed the road to market quay and the interesting range of artisan food shops dotted up and down its length. They’d arrived late last night and had raided the store cupboard for supper but, as baked beans weren’t the best accompaniment for lobster she’d decided to make some kind of an effort. Throwing vegetables and a turkey breast into the bottom of her basket for tomorrow she added fresh butter and baby new potatoes to accompany the lobster. Ruari had thought to sort out the wine when they arrived and with a token Christmas pudding from his mother still wrapped up in its own muslin bag they were all but sorted.

  She carefully avoided the eyes of anyone who might know her. She wasn’t in the mood for conversation, even if it was well meaning – well-meaning conversations always came with well-meaning questions and those were the ones that hurt the most. She didn’t want to have to explain Ruari. She didn’t want to have to explain her future plans; she had no plans other than getting through the next three days.

  Her basket full she started to make the trek back home, the first spark of a thought pushing out much more depressing ones. She’d climb up the little rickety ladder to the attic and root out the few Christmas decorations still lingering in one of the carefully packed tea chests. It was the least she could do for him. She had a lot of making up to do, and she only had three days in which to do it.

  She walked past the chemist, only to stall. She’d pop in to see if they happened to have some of his favourite aftershave. They weren’t doing presents but she had to give him a gift all the same. He had given her so much already by just being there – a crummy gift wasn’t going to make even an indentation on the depth of gratitude she owed, but at least it would be something. Pushing open the tinsel infested door a smile started to dig itself out from where it had been hiding all these weeks: It felt stiff and unpractised but good all the same. Her eye had snagged on a little poster just visible under the gaudy green strands advertising midnight mass at St John the Baptist’s church and she had just decided to take him.

  Throwing a frown at her winter uniform she resolved there and then to meet him at the door with the cottage emblazoned with Christmas cheer. The smile was back as she worked out which pair of shoes to wear. They had to make her legs go on forever while at the same time meet the strict criteria for Church wear – it was going to be a very difficult decision.

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  Christmas Day

  The plush rabbit stared up at him eyes sharpened with anxiety, or was that just his imagination playing tricks on him? Already this morning he’d rescued two abandoned dummies, a lost shoe and now an accusatory bunny – great!

  Crouching down to brush the sand off the little pink paw he added him to his now bulging backpack to be jostled alongside his mobile and water bottle his joy forgotten. Instead he stared out to sea, still barely distinguishable from the inky blackness of the sky above. He had plenty of time till he had to get back to her. He had plenty of time in which to think, although all he could think about was the blood test looming ahead on the horizon like the grim reaper. He chuckled at the thought, but it was a chuckle at his expense. Grim reaper was exactly right. In two days he’d know if the little speck on the screen had been able to save herself; for of course she was a girl - and in saving herself be able to save them. In two days they’d either try to cobble together the remnants of their relationship or Grainne would walk away.

  The odds were he was about to lose her and there was nothing he could do to change that. He’d nagged. He’d cajoled, but her answer was always the same. She wouldn’t let him pay and she wouldn’t let him stay if she couldn’t have children – stalemate.

  The waiting was unbearable – so much worse than anything that had gone on before. They’d had sixteen days to wait: Sixteen long days and even longer nights. He knew it was interminable for her; at least he had his work. But now with the Christmas holidays well and truly upon them they waited together.

  He’d go back and wake her shortly with a cuppa and a kiss, but that depended on the mood of today. He’d gotten used to her moods over the last couple of months, just like he’d gotten used to the pink. He didn’t like either but he’d quickly discovered acceptance and compromise were all part of loving her. The cushions had come first in a cacophony of colours; rainbow colours and then the rugs to match, or should that be clash?

  They’d quietly, silently, reverently singled out a room for the nursery but it remained determinedly empty – devoid of anything except a feeling of expectancy and hope: A gossamer strand of hope as fragile as a whisper floating on the wind. They worked around each other like two strangers pushed together in a strange land. The laughter had gone – had it ever been there? He couldn’t remember. All that was left was doctor’s appointments, blood tests and ultrasounds. All that remained were nightmares, not dreams.

  He’d sat beside her three weeks to the day clutching her hand while they both clutched at straws, or should that be one straw?

  One straw, one egg – no difference.

  He couldn’t believe their luck, or rather lack of. Pat had taken him aside and promised him a freebee egg insertion if the first attempt failed but there would be no second attempt: One egg – one chance. In IVF terms he knew he had more chance in winning Euro Millions than for a first cycle ever to work, a first cycle with just one egg – no chance!

  Reaching the top of the slipway he emptied his haul onto the ground, careful to arrange his finds in the most visible of positions. He was pretty sure no self-respecting parent would want the dummies but the shoe and the bunny? He picked up the bunny in both hands his mind imaging the screaming red faced infant unable to settle without their beloved toy. Up until a couple of months ago he’d have jogged past it without a thought. In truth he probably wouldn’t even have noticed it, but now? Now everyone he met seemed to be pushing a pram or a buggy – and if they weren’t they were either pregnant or planning to be pregnant including a couple of his students.

  He crossed the road to the cottage, his rucksack flung over one shoulder. Pushing the door open his hand brushed against the holly wreath lovingly marking this home as one celebrating Christmas. That was the first shock of yesterday. He’d returned from his fishing expedition to find a very different Grainne waiting for him. He’d forgotten her smile and the way her hair, once loose floated down her back like a flaming sunset. He’d forgotten the shape of her body hidden as it was by her old tatty dressing gown or proverbial leggings but he hadn’t forgotten just how much he loved her.

  She’d laughed when she’d seen his empty bucket absent of anything fishy like, just as she’d laughed as they’d cobbled together wild herb omelettes from the tatty relics left over in the beleaguered salad garden. He’d tried not the laugh at her shoes, but he couldn’t help himself. They were black, but so high that for the first time they nearly saw eye to eye. She’d matched them with her spray on dress and sexy black lacy tights. Part of him wished she was back in her ugly dressing gown. In fact he was tempted to grab it off the end of her bed and tie it around her waist in an undoable knot - very much in the style of chastity belts of old.

  She’d dragged him down the road like a drunk of stilts, bemoaning her inability to do anything other than totter.

  ‘For God’s sake woman!’ He’d told her, trying not to laugh. ‘You’re on your way to church swearing like a trooper.’

  ‘You try walking in these bloody things - Never again.’ She cried. ‘I’m never going to buy another pair of heels again.’

  ‘Can I have that in writing?’

  He’d ended up scooping her up in his arms and carrying her the last few hundred yards. He wasn’t usually a church goer but he’d made so many exceptions over the last couple of months… one more wasn’t going to hurt.

  And today, Christmas Day - what surprises had she planned for today? Pushing his glasses further up his nose he dropped his rucksack just inside the door the smell of sausages, sizzling on the hob drawing him in towards h
er.

  There she was standing perfectly still staring out of the window watching dawn breaking over the horizon. Something was wrong. He felt it in the way she was standing. He saw it in the tilt of her head. He heard it in the silence of the room, silent apart from the sizzling sausages. No, his eyes flicking to the range: Not sizzling, burnt. His heart tore itself in two as his left hand reached out to turn off the hob. The sausages were lost – he didn’t care about the bloody sausages! All he cared about was standing in front of him, standing further away than she’d ever been.

  For the first time since he’d met her he didn’t know what to do. He had no words to say. He hadn’t thought about that second outcome – defeat. But it seemed suddenly as if they’d both just lost something priceless and he wasn’t talking about the sausages!

  ‘Hello my love, Happy Christmas. I’m sorry, I was going to get you a present yesterday but there was nothing…. There’s a card on the table instead.

  At least she was still talking to him, he thought picking up the envelope and sliding out the bright pink card. It was when she stopped talking that he’d start to wor…. He looked up then. He looked up and saw her smile and he knew. He knew what he’d see when he dropped his eyes from her beautiful smiling face drowning in silent tears. He knew they’d be alright, all three of them.

  The card was not what he’d been expecting. He’d been expecting some bright pink girly Christmas missive chosen for colour over content. He was used to pink by now and if he was going to have a daughter he’d have to get more used to it. But it wasn’t a Christmas card. It was a Happy Father’s Day card.

  Darling Daddy,

  Wishing you a

  Happy Father’s Day.

  Love ‘The Bump’ and Mammy.

  Chapter Thirty Nine

  But it wasn’t just one bump, he recalled standing there with shaking knees and trembling heart. They’d followed all the rules after she’d broken that first unwritten one of Pat’s.

  ‘Wait for the bloody test: Shop bought kits are too unreliable for something like IVF.’

  Two days after the best Christmas ever they’d driven back to Sandy Cove and back to the mire of blood tests confirming what they already knew. They were the luckiest couple in the whole of Ireland. Pat had decided to scan her straight away and, settling her on the trolley Ruari had clutched at her hand with a ruddy great grin on his face only to have it wiped off again by the picture on the screen. He stopped holding onto her hand, allowing it to flop back against her leg with a gentle thud. He stopped bantering with Pat over the state of the rugby season. He even stopped breathing as his eyes raked over his friend’s beaming face.

  It was only a second but a second too long for Grainne who’d assumed the worst. Cradling the now crying woman in his arms he soothed and comforted while Pat stuffed a whole box of loose tissues into her hand while wittered on about the statistical improbability of diamniotic dichorionic twins following IVF.

  ‘Be Jesus boys; do remember that you’re speaking to merely a nurse and not a specialist in gynaecological studies.’ She’d finally said, mopping her face. ‘I haven’t a bleedin clue what you’re going on about apart from the twin bit,’ her gaze meeting his. ‘If you’d told me your sperm was that good I might not have gone through with it – how on earth are we going to cope with twins?’

  ‘We’ll manage just like every other couple does with twins. Just be lucky it’s not tri…’ He paused, his eyes flickering back to the screen. ‘It’s not…?’

  ‘Nah, no such luck, only twins!’ Replied Pat. ‘I couldn’t be happier for you, Roar although it will mean you’re officially grounded.’

  ‘Grounded is exactly where I want to be.’ He said, helping her to wipe the jelly from her stomach, ‘grounded but happy.’

  Over tea and celebratory cake they took turns in explaining how she’d managed to make identical twins from that one tiny little egg, twins that shared the exact same identical profile. It hadn’t been anything to do with Ruari. It had all been down to her.

  They’d decided on a small wedding back in Kinsale. She’d wanted to be married in the same church as her gran and who was he to try and stop her. They had his family and a few close friends there to join them; that was all.

  ‘Alright there mate?’ Mitch’s hand clapping his shoulder brought him back to the present with a bump.

  ‘Only if you’ve got the ring?’ He smiled across at his friend. ‘So any last minute words of wisdom for the bridegroom?’

  ‘Yep, there’s always time to back out.’

  ‘Yeah, right! Have you seen her in a bad mood?’

  ‘They all get in bad moods mate.’ His hand gripped his arm. ‘Don’t look around, she’s here.’

  He heard the rustling just before the music started up and then all he heard was music. He didn’t recognise it by name but knew he’d heard it before – probably at all the weddings he’d attended over the last few months! He’d never thought he’d be standing here getting married when he’d attended Freddie’s wedding a couple of weeks earlier, the one regret of today being her absence.

  ‘So who’s the old bloke walking her down the aisle as proud as punch?’

  ‘Ah, that would be Norm. She asked him to step in for her dad – nice bloke.’ He added, his mind wandering back to the serious question of wedding dresses. He couldn’t care less what she was wearing. As far as he was concerned he’d be happy to marry her in a sack; a nice drawer-string sack with no nasty buttons to conquer. However it mattered to her so it mattered to him. He’d offered to pay any price for the dress of her dreams but she told him she’d already bought the dress of her dreams, she wouldn’t buy another – whatever the price. So the only question left was ‘What the bloody hell had she decided to turn up in?’ As long as it wasn’t pink…

  The music stopped and his heart joined it. She was beautiful, more than beautiful and the dress. He recognised it of course and he smiled, even as he turned his head to wink at Norm. It was amazing what could be achieved with a couple of antique cream lace tablecloths. He squinted behind his frames trying to find the seam, but it was hopeless. The dress moulded her body like a second skin only to flare and whisper around her surprisingly sedate plain satin court shoes. He couldn’t see any buttons anywhere, which was a huge bonus in his book. He cast up a silent prayer of thanks to the designer of the humble zip – God rest his soul whoever he was.

  ‘Ahem’

  His eyes shifted up to her sweet mouth painted a shy shade of pink, his own suddenly dry. She was the most beautiful girl and tonight was going to be the most beautiful night, although part of him was scared at the thought. He hadn’t slept with anyone in over a year and that had been a disaster. What if….

  ‘Ahem’

  What if nothing. He’d spend the rest of his life proving to her just how much she meant to him. He felt a hand on his arm and turning, caught the smiling eye of the priest. He gave him a sheepish smile in return and tuned back into the wedding service.

  ‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered here together…..’

  The End

  Irish Soda Bread

  Dear Reader,

  I hope you enjoyed this, the second in my trilogy. I’ve just published the last in this series ‘Unhappy Ever After Girl’ and have included a snippet on the next page. There will be more in the form of a short story follow-up coming soon.

  With best wishes

  Jenny O’Brien 31st May 2016

  Unhappy Ever After Girl

  The early morning sun, streaming through the stained glass window cast deep shadows over her bent head. But she wasn’t aware of the bright prisms throwing their glorious light over the bench in front just as she wasn’t aware of the biting cold seeping through her thin slippers. She wasn’t aware of anything other than a sudden sense of uncertainty: a sense of uncertainty that was overwhelming just as it was unexplainable.

  She’d spent half her life, or what seemed like half her life sitting in the exact same place bathed in
the reflected light from the sun bouncing off the coloured pains. The window with its bright shiny countryside scene much more comforting to a lonely child than the hidden meanings and church dictates contained in her father’s sermons.

  Lifting her head she read the words etched on the glass, words she’d read a thousand times, words she could quote and requote.

  ‘Loved and loving memory of Mabel Singer, forever walking beside me in both thought and deed.’

  Would Henry love her like that? Would he mourn her loss so much as to erect an edifice to her memory? At the end of time would he step up to the mark, or would he be found wanting?

  She flicked a stray strand of hair from her face, a small smile hovering on her lips. He’d professed his undying love. Surely that had to be more important than sterile lumps of glass? He’d placed the diamond on her finger and, even if it was only a small diamond it still glinted as brightly as her namesake’s memorial.

  But, despite the diamond her mouth wavered and doubt lingered; unwanted and unbidden. It lingered at the edge of his smile, a smile that never quite reached his eyes - just as it lingered in the memory of his overbearing manner. She raised her hand to let the light fall off her ring. The size of the rock was irrelevant.