Grounded

by Wilkinson, Sheena;

  ‘So what’s the craic round here then?’

  ‘What? Look, piss off. Go and annoy somebody your own age.’

  ‘Aren’t you Declan Kelly?’ He doesn’t wait for an answer but his eyes slide towards the other two cans in my left hand. ‘Ah, go on.’

  ‘You can’t have finished that already.’

  He turns the can upside down and shakes it. A few drops fly out, spraying my jeans.

  What the hell. ‘Here you go then.’

  Cian grins again. ‘Cheers.’ When he smiles his face changes more than most people’s do. It’s a narrow, watchful face, the reddish hair giving him that foxy look, or maybe it’s the way he sneaks around scrounging. A skanky little urban fox.

  And something tells me this kid would do anything with anybody for a free drink. And I shouldn’t have given it to him. I haven’t forgotten the first time I saw him even if he has. A voice I don’t want to hear – Seaneen’s? – whispers in my ear. ‘Yeah, Declan, not very responsible, is it? For somebody who’s going to be a dad?’

  ‘Look, wee lad,’ I say. ‘Piss off and get a life. You’re not getting any more. I haven’t got any more.’ I open my own second can and start necking it. The beer hits my stomach with a lovely cold wet slap.

  ‘OK, mate.’ Cian shrugs. ‘The night’s young.’ He swaggers back across the road, and leaps the park fence where it’s broken down. He holds the can up at arm’s length and I’m too far away to see if he spills any when he lands awkwardly. He sits down on a swing and starts drinking, his trainers scuffing at the ground as he makes the swing move.

  And for a horrible second it’s like looking at myself a couple of years ago. I shiver and finish what’s left in my can.

  * * *

  Some pub in town. Too hot, too noisy with bloody Wimbledon on the big screen, too many people bumping into me, but nobody knows me. I perch on my bar stool and try to catch the barman’s eye because my glass is empty. He’s running round like a blue-arsed fly, sweat running down his plump pink face. What is a bluearsed fly anyway?

  My phone vibrates in my jeans pocket. Should have turned it off. I suppose it’ll be Seaneen. I don’t know why she hasn’t tried before. I reach round to prise my phone out and wobble on the stool. The barman frowns at me. I give him a dirty look. Don’t even know what I’m doing here; the place is full of student wankers in rugby shirts. I check the phone but it’s only a message from Colette. Well done! So proud of you!!!! xxx

  She taking the piss or what? I hit the button to turn the phone off and slide it back into my pocket, only it slips and hits the floor and I have to go scrabbling round under the bar stool among all the feet to get it. The sticky floor tilts like that time Gran took me on the boat to Scotland and there was a storm. I stay down, breathing out slowly, letting the floor and the beer inside me settle before I risk standing up.

  What was I …? Something about a boat? No.

  Colette. The phone. What does she mean proud? Then I get it. Oh God. I texted her before. She means Germany.

  So much for drinking to forget. It’s all swishing round inside my brain, melting it.

  I order another pint and a whiskey chaser. An old man’s drink, but the beer’s not really doing its job. Anyway, I feel like an old man in here with all these students celebrating their exams. An old man whose girlfriend’s up the duff.

  * * *

  Plenty of people staggering about pissed, not just me. A girl in high-heeled sandals giggles beside me. She has curly hair like Seaneen’s. ‘Hiya,’ she says. A bottle of something neon-yellow sways in her hands. ‘Oops,’ she says. ‘Have to go to the little ladies’…’ She points and wobbles.

  A minute or an hour later she’s in front of me again. ‘Wanna come to a party?’

  ‘Nah, you’re all right.’

  ‘Ah, come on.’ She leans in close. Her breath smells of curry. She rubs her hand over my hair and kisses me on the mouth. Her mate pulls her away.

  * * *

  Cold air on my face; cold bricks at my back. Going to wait here for a bit, leaning against the wall. Should have had a piss before I left the bar. Don’t fancy the walk home yet. Crowd of kids jostle past, laughing. Their chips smell lovely.

  * * *

  I got myself here so I must know the way home. But I don’t think this is it. Lots of taxis. But no money left. If I keep on walking I’ll sober up. But I don’t want to sober up.

  Force my feet forwards. They’re trying to go sideways. Cars blare at me.

  * * *

  Different road. Quieter. Shops instead of bars. Plenty of places for a wee rest. I piss in an alley. The relief.

  * * *

  I lean on the doorbell. Colette pulls the door open and her mouth goes all stretched with shock.

  ‘Declan! What on earth are you …?’

  I stare at her. Don’t know why I’m here, only that I am here. My legs are rubbery. I sway against the doorframe. It catches my shoulder. ‘Ouch.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Declan!’ She pulls me in, not gently. My legs remember the way to her kitchen but don’t seem able to get any further than the table. Chair. Table. Holding me up between them. I smile at Colette. I love Colette.

  But she’s cross. ‘Where have you been to get in that state? Overdoing the celebrating?’ she asks. She hugs her nightie round her.

  ‘No no no. No celebrating.’

  Colette shakes her head, goes to the sink and pours out a big glass of cold water. She hands it to me. I hate water but I better drink it, she’s that cross. It feels too heavy and cold inside me. Makes me burp.

  Oh God. I yank myself up from the table, clamp hand over mouth, sink too far, not going to make it. Fall back into the chair, bend over, the puke bursts out. Manage not to splash the table. The floor, my jeans – not so lucky.

  I can’t look up and meet Colette’s eyes. Oh God, let me die now.

  2.

  Light splits my head in two. I flick my eyes shut again. Revolting sand-mouthed swallow. I shift my head on the pillow and my stomach reels. If don’t move a single muscle, maybe I’ll sleep it all off. Wake up feeling OK.

  But I can’t sleep away Seaneen being pregnant.

  ‘Declan!’

  I groan. Go away, Mum. I don’t have the energy to say it out loud.

  ‘Declan!’ Louder. ‘You can’t lie there all day.’

  Not Mum’s voice. Oh God. I remember now. I chance opening one eye. Can you die of embarrassment?

  ‘Colette,’ I say. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Hmm. I texted your mum last night so at least she won’t be worried. I didn’t give details.’

  I close the eye again. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I have things to do if you haven’t,’ she says. ‘So if you want a lift home you need to give yourself a shake.’

  ‘I can’t. I’m dying.’

  ‘It’s a hangover. You’ll live.’ I feel something land on the bed and open my eyes to see a pile of clothes – my clothes. Washed and dried. Colette shakes her head at me. ‘I must say, I never thought you’d be so stupid. That kind of behaviour’s not going to do you any good in Germany.’ She half turns to go out.

  ‘Colette, Seaneen’s pregnant.’

  Colette stops dead and swings round. ‘Are you sure?’

  Funny – that’s what I said. I nod and wince.

  She comes over and sits on the bed. ‘Declan,’ she says. ‘Could you not have been more careful?’

  ‘We were. Well, most of the time.’

  ‘What does your mum say?’

  ‘She doesn’t know.’

  ‘Declan.’ She sounds really sad. ‘What about Germany, then?’

  I chew my lip.

  ‘Go and have a shower. I’ve left you out a toothbrush. I’ll go and make some breakfast.’

  I swallow. ‘No breakfast.’

  I drag myself to the bathroom and revive a bit under the shower, though when I bend down to grab the soap I get a head rush and a bit of dry heaving. But I get dressed, trying no
t to think about how my clothes got off me and into the washing machine. Some things it’s as well not to remember. I switch my phone on and as soon as the wee clock icon appears I realise I’m meant to be at work. Shit. I’ve never missed a day. I ring Cam and tell her I’m sick.

  ‘You must have caught that bug from Seaneen,’ she says.

  ‘Sorry to let you down. I’ll be in tomorrow.’

  ‘Don’t rush back. I don’t want to catch it. Might as well get used to you not being around, eh?’

  In the kitchen Colette’s squeezing oranges beside the sink and the sweet tang hits me as soon as I walk in. Sitting at the kitchen table brings back snatches of last night that I wish it wouldn’t. I can hardly look at Colette. When I lived with her that time she didn’t always see me at my best, but nothing on last night’s scale. At least Brian, her boyfriend, doesn’t seem to be around.

  ‘Colette, I’m sorry about last night. I don’t even know why I ended up here.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you did.’ She can’t mean that but the niceness of her saying it makes me suddenly want to cry. I must still be a bit pissed. She passes me over a glass of orange juice. ‘Here.’

  ‘Have you any paracetamol?’

  Being Colette, she has a neat selection of painkillers in a plastic box with flowers on it, instead of a mad jumble of boxes and bottles all tumbling out of a cupboard like me and Mum. I remember that box from when I stayed here. I swallow two and take tiny cautious sips of the orange. Why do I do this to myself? I’ve never been able to drink without suffering. Down in Wicklow some of the lads could drink half the night and be up mucking out at seven, but I found out the hard way that I couldn’t.

  Colette sets a pot of tea down on the table, and then two mugs, and sits down opposite me. ‘OK,’ she says. ‘Are you going to talk to me about this?’

  ‘You said you had things to do.’

  ‘I lied to get you out of bed.’ She pours out two mugs of tea.

  ‘What is there to say?’

  Colette widens her eyes. ‘I’d have thought quite a lot. For a start, how’s Seaneen?’

  I shrug, then have a sudden memory of her saying she’s been sick every morning. Imagine feeling like this every day. ‘She slapped me.’

  ‘Slapped you? For violating her honour? Sorry – that’s not funny.’

  ‘Cause I asked her was it mine.’ I take a slow sip of tea. ‘I know it’s mine. Seaneen wouldn’t – she’s not like that.’

  ‘I know. And I’m sure she’s just as devastated as you.’

  I remember her white face and her tears soaking into my neck. ‘I don’t know.’ I reach out for the mug again and notice with disgust that my hand shakes. How much alcohol did I poison myself with last night? ‘She likes wee kids.’

  ‘Liking them’s not the same as having one when you’re eighteen.’

  ‘What would you say if it was Vicky?’ I ask, pouring some more tea.

  I can see her thinking, Vicky wouldn’t be that stupid. But fair play to her, she doesn’t say it. ‘I don’t know,’ she admits. ‘I mean, she’s off to Cambridge – hopefully. So I suppose … well, I hope she’d have an abortion.’

  I stir my tea even though I don’t take sugar.

  ‘It’s against everything I was brought up to believe in, but’ – Colette shrugs – ‘I think in some cases it’s the best option.’

  ‘Seaneen won’t even think of an abortion. Even when there’s something wrong with the baby she doesn’t believe in it.’

  ‘Pity.’

  ‘Colette!’ But I know if Seaneen phoned me now and said she was going to England to get an abortion I’d be ecstatic.

  Would you though? Your kid?

  But I can’t think of it as my kid. It’s just something that’s going to stop me doing what I want. And it’s not fair.

  ‘People don’t have abortions round our way.’

  Colette defends herself. ‘I know. But I think a lot of these girls would be better off at least considering their options.’

  I don’t like Seaneen being called these girls.

  ‘What age were you when you got pregnant?’

  She gives one of those laughs that people give when something isn’t exactly funny. ‘OK, yes, I was nineteen.’

  ‘Are you saying you should have got rid of Vicky?’

  It only feels safe to say this because Vicky’s away travelling in India or Mexico or wherever with her boyfriend.

  ‘No,’ she says slowly. ‘I can’t say that.’ She gets up and carries the teapot over to the worktop and refills the kettle so I know she’s going to keep me here longer, making me talk. But in a way I don’t mind. Talking to Colette’s always been easier than talking to Mum. She waits for the kettle to boil. ‘I’ve often thought about it,’ she said. ‘What it would have been like if I hadn’t had her. It felt like the end of the world. I was so scared of what everybody would say. Especially with me being at Queen’s and all. I mean, people did get pregnant – it was the nineties, not the dark ages – but nobody thought I would. All those A levels just to push a pram. And Peter’s family …’ She shakes her head. ‘It wasn’t exactly part of their plans for him. I knew what they thought – that I was just this working-class tart from West Belfast who’d trapped him.’

  Trapped. Like I feel.

  ‘But you got married.’

  The kettle clicks and she refills the teapot. ‘I know. I was twenty.’ She shakes her head, as if remembering, and carries the teapot back to the table. ‘It was awful. Peter was doing his finals, and coming home to a baby crying and a wife demented out of her skull.’ She gives another of those funny laughs. ‘Vicky was a very demanding baby.’

  I can believe that.

  ‘His friends would come round, and their girlfriends, and I’d feel so … so left out and dowdy. They’d all be talking about their exams or the gossip and all I’d done all day was look after the baby. My life was just nappies and Teletubbies. I thought my brain would turn to mush.’

  ‘But you were smart! Gran always said you had brains to burn.’

  ‘Not smart enough.’

  ‘Was it all awful?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I remember the bad bits, I suppose. And don’t go telling Vicky all this. It wasn’t her fault.’ She drinks her tea in silence for a minute then looks at me and says, ‘Do you want some toast?’

  I shake my head. I look round her kitchen, which was always my favourite room when I lived here – warm and cheerful and bright, usually with nice smells – and try to imagine her in a poky flat with a squalling brat.

  ‘No,’ she says, as if she’s still turning my last question round in her head. ‘It wasn’t all bad. Peter’s family helped a lot so we hadn’t really any money worries. And we moved into this house when Vicky was two. And we loved each other. At least we did at first. But it wasn’t enough.’ She gives me a straight look. ‘Do you love Seaneen?’

  I hesitate. There’s a wee rough edge on the china handle of my mug and I pick at it with my nail. ‘Yes,’ I say. I couldn’t talk to Mum like this. ‘I mean … I don’t know. I went round to tell her I was going away and then …’

  The cup, the checked tablecloth and the bright walls blur.

  ‘Oh, Declan, love. What a mess. But could you not still go? For a bit? Six months, say? Come back before the baby’s born? At least you’d get some experience.’

  I shake my head. If I went, how could I force myself to come back?

  ‘I wish I could give you some good advice,’ she says. ‘All I can say is – it didn’t work for me and Peter, but he’s a good dad. Always was. Just because he doesn’t live with us doesn’t mean he isn’t part of Vicky’s life.’

  ‘I know but …’ I groan and push my hands up my face.

  ‘Declan, one thing’s for sure. You need to talk to Seaneen. And your mum.’

  ‘She’ll freak.’

  ‘Your mum’s stronger than you think.’

  Mum. Seaneen. Seaneen’s mum. Oh God, Seaneen’s dad. />
  ‘OK.’ I push my chair away from the table. ‘Can you take me now?’

  3.

  Colette turns her blue Golf into the entrance of the estate.

  ‘Just leave me off here,’ I say.

  ‘Sure?’

  I nod. Mum knows I’ve been at Colette’s, but I’m not going to make too big a deal out of it.

  I should go to Seaneen’s first. But I don’t turn down her street, even though my feet aren’t exactly rushing down Tirconnell Parade to my own front door. My hangover’s receded into a manageable tiredness and the sun warms my shoulders under my T-shirt. The street smells of dog shit and exhaust fumes. Stupid to be wasting a summer Saturday here in the city. If I hadn’t made such a dick of myself last night, I could have been pounding round the farm trail on Spirit, letting his speed and power carry me far away from this street and this baby.

  But I would still have had to come home.

  As soon as I push open the living room door I can tell Mum’s waiting for me, rather than just sitting on the sofa. The TV’s on as usual in the corner, but it’s nearly hidden behind the curtain of thick smoke that hangs in the air, and the ashtray on the coffee table in front of her is toppling over with butts. Now she isn’t drinking she does smoke more, but she keeps this fullon chain-smoking for special occasions. She’s in her dressing gown, and she hardly ever does that during the day now. My heart wasn’t dancing for joy anyway and now it plunges right down to my feet.

  ‘So,’ Mum says, not looking round. ‘You remembered where you live.’

  ‘Sorry.’ I try not to cough cause it’ll annoy her but it’s impossible not to in this fug. ‘I’d no money for a taxi and I just sort of ended up … Colette’s was nearer.’ I shrug. ‘I was a bit pissed.’

  ‘Oh aye,’ she says. ‘I bet you were.’ Her voice is hoarse with smoke and tight with bad mood. I don’t bother telling her she’d be a lot more annoyed with me if I had come home last night. I look at the hunch of her shoulders, the determined grip of her fingers round her fag. Is this about more than Colette? Is it Germany? Has she been sitting here smoking herself into a state about me leaving?