Whose Life is it Anyway?

by Sinéad Moriarty

  Thankfully, Mum arrived back before I killed my sister, and took over. She calmed Siobhan, packed a bag for her in the space of two minutes and went with her to the hospital.

  I was told to track down Dad, Liam and Finn and tell them what was going on.

  Eight hours later, at ten past one in the morning of Easter Sunday, Mum, Dad, Finn and I were still waiting for Siobhan’s baby to arrive. All we could hear from the labour room was Siobhan blaming Liam for her pain and suffering. It went on and on until eventually, what seemed like days later, Liam burst out of the room and told us breathlessly, ‘It’s a girl.’

  We were allowed in to see mother and child. Siobhan was lying in the bed looking pretty shell-shocked. For once she seemed at a loss for words. The baby was lying on her chest.

  The minute Dad saw his granddaughter he welled up and proceeded to blow his nose loudly into his hankie while Mum picked up the little red bundle and rocked her like an old pro. ‘Do you want to hold her?’ she asked me.

  I shook my head. The baby had bloody mush on her head and was roaring. I wanted to get away from her.

  Mum offered the baby to Finn, who looked as if he was about to vomit. ‘No way. She’s covered in gunk.’ He squirmed.

  ‘I’d like to hold her,’ said Dad, and once Mum had placed the baby into his arms, I knew that this child was number one in his life. The sliver of opportunity I’d had to be the number-one girl, after Siobhan’s loose behaviour, was officially gone. He positively melted as he gazed down at his granddaughter.

  ‘She’s red hair like her mother, and born on Easter Sunday. Imagine that!’ said Dad, smiling at Siobhan, who had now been completely forgiven. In typical Siobhan style, she had produced a kid with red hair on the day Jesus rose from the dead. I’d no hope.

  ‘Have you decided on a name?’ Mum asked.

  ‘Muireann,’ said Siobhan.

  I groaned. It was just plain cruel to call a child who was going to grow up in North London Muireann. No one would ever be able to pronounce or spell it and she’d hate it.

  ‘Gorgeous,’ said Dad.

  ‘Beautiful,’ said Mum.

  ‘Can we go now?’ asked Finn.

  After a further half-hour of cooing and who-does-she-look-like, we left. On our way out we ran into Liam’s father. Dad bristled.

  ‘Have you seen her?’ Mr O’Loughlin asked.

  ‘Of course, and she’s the most beautiful child you ever saw. The image of her mother,’ said Dad.

  ‘How is Siobhan?’

  ‘She’s worn out, poor thing. I hope you’re not going to upset her. I won’t have it,’ said Dad, threateningly.

  ‘No, not at all. Liam called and, well, I just had to see the little one.’

  ‘Is your wife with you?’ asked Mum.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately she can’t forgive Liam.’

  ‘She’s a fool,’ snapped Dad. ‘Liam’s a lovely lad and you should be proud of him.’

  ‘You’re right, he is. I’ve missed him these last few months. Look, I owe you an apology for the way we handled the situation. I’m not proud of myself and I hope to make it up to you.’

  ‘It’s not us you need to apologize to, it’s your son and our daughter,’ said Mum.

  ‘That’s why I’m here,’ said Mr O’Loughlin. ‘To try to make amends.’

  ‘You’ve a lot of ground to cover,’ said Dad.

  Mr O’Loughlin nodded. Suddenly he seemed smaller, as if he’d shrunk since the last time we saw him. He looked sad too, as if life had got the better of him. Gone was the confident swagger, and his accent was more normal.

  ‘They’ve called her Muireann,’ said Mum.

  ‘What?’ he said, clearly shocked.

  ‘I know, I think it’s rotten too,’ I piped up, delighted that someone else thought it was awful.

  ‘It was my mother’s name,’ said Mr O’Loughlin, choking up.

  21

  Siobhan spent the next two weeks at home, sitting on the couch like the Queen of Sheba while endless relations called in to see the baby and shower her with gifts. They ooohed and aaahed and endless discussions ensued: Muireann’s nose was O’Flaherty but her eyes were more O’Loughlin; her forehead was the image of Dad’s but her chin was definitely like Mum’s side of the family; she had a look of someone who’d been here before…

  ‘She’s like a narky, red-faced alien,’ said Finn, who was fed up listening to baby talk. ‘Every time she does a poo we have to celebrate.’

  ‘I know,’ I agreed, equally sick of hearing about Muireann’s bowel movements. Even Dad was obsessed with them.

  ‘And I hate it when she feeds her. It’s embarrassing. I don’t want to see my sister’s boobs,’ said Finn, who had nearly passed out the first time Siobhan had breastfed. It was way too much information for a fourteen-year-old boy.

  I found it pretty gross myself and would have preferred her to leave the room to feed Muireann. But when I’d said as much, she’d bitten my head off.

  ‘You’re so immature. It’s the most natural thing in the world for a mother to breastfeed her child. Why should I have to hide away just because you have a problem with it?’

  ‘You look like a cow being milked,’ I said. ‘It puts me off my food.’

  She sighed. ‘Some day you’ll stop behaving like a child and grow up.’

  I couldn’t think of a good retort, so I stomped out of the room and slammed the door.

  Then, all of a sudden, overnight, the happy mother and child became the Antichrist and screeching offspring. When Siobhan’s elation wore off, her boobs got red and sore, the visitors stopped coming, Muireann stopped sleeping all the time and reality hit her smack in the face. It wasn’t pretty.

  She snapped at everyone, even Dad, who kept well out of her way. Finn spent all his time playing hurley and Mum seemed able to switch off. She just smiled at Siobhan knowingly when she complained and said, ‘Motherhood isn’t easy, but it’s worth it.’

  But the brunt of Siobhan’s fury was spent on Liam and me. Since Liam was studying all the time, with his exams only six weeks away, I suffered most.

  ‘Niammmmh,’ she’d roar, and I’d have to run in, get pillows for her back, nappies for Muireann, bibs, vests or Babygros. It came to a head one day when she asked me to run down to the chemist and get her nipple cream.

  ‘No,’ I said, putting my foot down. There was no way I could ask the cute guy who worked in the chemist for nipple cream. I had limits.

  ‘Muuuuum,’ she shrieked. Mum popped her head patiently round the door. ‘My nipples are cracked and sore and Niamh won’t get me cream for them.’

  Mum sighed. ‘Niamh, be a pet and run down to the chemist.’

  ‘No!’ I snapped. ‘I will not. I’m sick of being treated like a slave.’

  ‘Come here,’ said Mum, ushering me out of the room. ‘Niamh, I know Siobhan’s a bit difficult at the moment, but she’s in pain. It’s not easy for her.’

  ‘What’s difficult? All she does is sit around giving orders and making my life miserable. I can’t wait to go back to school,’ I said, feeling very sorry for myself that my Easter holidays had been ruined by narky Siobhan and her howling baby.

  ‘Niamh,’ said Mum, in her serious-chat voice, ‘your sister has been through a lot in the last few weeks. While her friends are out having fun, she’s stuck in here trying to learn how to be a mother. Breastfeeding can be painful and a lot of new mums get quite down in the dumps in the first few weeks. You’ll have to bite your tongue and be nice to her. It’s not easy being a mum at seventeen. She’ll never have the freedom you will. Every decision she makes from now on – even the most basic ones, like going for a walk – will have to include Muireann. That’s a frightening prospect for a young girl. Every action you take has repercussions. Remember that.’

  Like I could ever forget! Mum had been saying it to me every day since Siobhan had got pregnant. It was obsessive. I’d come down for breakfast and she’d say, ‘Cornflakes or Weetabix? Car
eful, every decision you make has repercussions.’

  She had a point about Siobhan, though. Even when she went for a shower, she had to get one of us to keep an eye on Muireann. It must be really annoying. And she was crying a lot – Siobhan, not Muireann, although the baby did her fair share too. But still and all I wasn’t going to get her nipple cream.

  ‘Mum,’ I said, using my we’re-all-adults-here voice, ‘I understand what you’re telling me but I still think it’s unfair to ask a fifteen-year-old to go to the chemist and ask for nipple cream. It’s embarrassing.’

  ‘Niamh,’ Mum said, in her I-hear-what-you’re-saying-but-I don’t-really-care voice, ‘Just go and get it. There’s no need to be dramatic. Just ask for Lansinoh cream. Now, off you go. Your poor sister’s in agony.’

  I stormed out of the house and down to the chemist, praying that the good-looking guy wouldn’t be working there. But, of course, he was and he was wearing an amazing blue shirt that matched his eyes. I was puce before I’d even reached the counter.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he asked.

  ‘I’d like some…’ Blank. My mind had gone completely numb. I had no idea what the cream was called. My face was on fire and I was sweating.

  He smiled patiently.

  ‘It’s called Lan-something or Los-something,’ I stammered.

  ‘Maybe if you tell me what it’s for I can look it up,’ he said, being super-efficient as well as gorgeous.

  ‘Well, it’s for my sister, she’s just had a baby and she’s breastfeeding and, uhm, she has, uhm –’ I couldn’t say it. I just couldn’t stand there in front of that handsome twenty-year-old and say ‘nipple’. It wasn’t fair. I shouldn’t have to do this.

  ‘Mastitis?’ he suggested.

  ‘Is that when you’re afraid to go to mass?’ I asked, lamely attempting a joke.

  He had the kindness to laugh.

  ‘No, it’s when the breast becomes inflamed and tender,’ he explained.

  It wasn’t possible to go any redder than I was now. I wished I was mature enough to stand around shooting the breeze about tender breasts, but I wasn’t. It was torture. I took a deep breath. ‘No, it’s not that, it’s her – LANSINOH!’ I shouted joyfully, as I finally remembered the name. Thank God I hadn’t had to say ‘nipple’. I was ecstatic.

  He smiled at me – the way you smile at someone who’s slightly unstable – and handed over the cream. I paid and hightailed it out of the shop.

  When I got home Siobhan was sitting in bed crying, with Muireann howling beside her. I loitered outside while Mum tried to comfort her.

  ‘It’s all right, pet. She’s just hungry. We might give her a bottle to keep her going.’

  ‘But I really wanted to breastfeed. It’s what nature intended,’ wailed Siobhan.

  ‘I know you’re disappointed, but you need to take a break and give your nipples a chance to heal. You can’t breastfeed if you’re in this much pain. It’s not good for you or Muireann.’

  ‘I don’t think I can do it, Mum.’

  ‘It’s only a bottle, pet, it won’t do her any harm.’

  Siobhan shook her head. ‘No, I mean I don’t think I can be a mother. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m scared. What if I drop her or roll over and crush her in my sleep? I don’t like this. I don’t want to be a mum – I want it all to go away. I’m too young,’ she bawled.

  ‘Listen to me,’ said Mum, taking Siobhan’s face in her hands. ‘Everything you’re feeling is normal. All first time mums are scared. I was terrified when I had you. I hadn’t a clue what I was doing. You’ll get better and better at it and in no time it’ll all seem natural. But you need to be patient. I know it’s hard on you but you got yourself into this situation and you have to take responsibility for your actions. You have a beautiful healthy baby girl and you need to focus on that. You’re good at everything you do so you’ll be a wonderful mother. I’m here to help you anytime you need it and so is Niamh. Any time you feel overwhelmed, just tell me. Now, I’m going to let you get some rest and I’ll give this little angel a bottle.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum. Could I have a cup of hot chocolate?’

  ‘Of course you can, pet. I’ll get Niamh to make you one now. I don’t know where she’s got to.’

  ‘I’m here. I’ve got your cream.’ I handed it over sulkily.

  ‘Good girl. Now, will you make your sister a hot chocolate?’ asked Mum.

  ‘Fine, but when I’m back in school you’ll have to find someone else to be your slave,’ I said, glaring at them – Siobhan for being the cause of all this unrest and being so demanding, and Mum for telling her I’d help with Muireann any time she needed it. I was a fifteen-year-old schoolgirl, not a fifty-year-old nanny.

  22

  Thankfully, Siobhan calmed down after a few weeks and seemed a bit happier. She was still hard-going, but at least she didn’t cry all the time and Muireann seemed to cheer up too. Sometimes she was even kind of cute. She started smiling, which made a big difference to her face.

  I decided that the best way to avoid having to do things for Siobhan was to study, and so, for the first time ever, I actually went into my summer exams and knew the answers. My results were good and I have to say it felt pretty great.

  Mum and Dad were thrilled.

  ‘You see? You’re as clever as anyone when you apply yourself. I’m so pleased you’re taking it seriously now. If you keep this up you’ll have no problem getting into college. Well done,’ said Dad, patting me on the back as Siobhan simmered in the background.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, basking in the admiration. ‘Can I go to the disco in the tennis club on Saturday night to celebrate the fact that I’m not thick?’ They had to let me go now. Since Siobhan’s pregnancy I hadn’t been allowed out past nine. I was fast becoming a supreme nerd.

  ‘Under no circumstances are you going to any disco. The problem with youngsters today is that they have too much freedom. That crowd in the tennis club are a wild bunch.’

  ‘They’re not wild, they’re perfectly normal teenagers. I never get to go out and I’m sick of it. I studied really hard, I deserve a break,’ I whined.

  ‘There’s a ceili on in the parish hall. You can go to that. Your uncle Neil is helping organize it so he can keep an eye on you,’ said Dad.

  ‘I wouldn’t be seen dead at a ceili,’ I huffed.

  ‘And what’s wrong with it?’

  ‘It’s for old people who want to listen to Irish music and talk about green fields and sing songs about the Famine. It’s 1986, Dad. I want to go to a disco.’

  ‘Less disco and more respect for your culture is what you need, missy. That’s it. My mind’s made up. You’re going to spend a month back home at Nora’s. You need to get back to your roots.’

  ‘No, Dad, please, not Auntie Nora’s,’ I pleaded, panic-stricken. ‘I’ll go to the ceili, I’ll Irish-dance till my legs fall off, I’ll listen to Foster and Allen. I’ll do anything you want, but please don’t send me there. Mum, help!’ I begged.

  Seeing my desperation – and not being a big fan of Nora’s anyway – Mum stepped in. ‘Now, Mick, Niamh’s going to spend the summer here with the family. We need her to help Siobhan with the baby.’

  ‘No, we don’t,’ said Siobhan, smirking at me. ‘I’m well able to look after Muireann on my own now.’

  ‘It’ll do her good to spend time in Ireland,’ said Dad. ‘She needs to be reminded of where she comes from. She’s too wrapped up in modern mumbo-jumbo. I don’t want her to lose her way like her sister,’ he added.

  Now Siobhan winced.

  ‘Mum!’ I pleaded.

  ‘Fine, if you think Niamh really needs to go back to Ireland, she can go and stay with my mother and father. Nora’s enough on her plate with that big farm to run. I’ll call them now to arrange it. It’s the best solution for everyone,’ she said firmly.

  I wasn’t thrilled about being shunted back to Ireland, but at least I’d have a nice time with Granny and Granddad Byrne. I wouldn�
��t be ridiculed for not knowing how to milk a cow and, hopefully, I wouldn’t be stoned by the local boys because of my accent.

  I followed Mum out to the hall. ‘Thanks for saving me from Nora.’

  ‘You’re welcome but, Niamh, you have to learn not to wind your father up. You should know at this stage not to belittle Irish dancing and music. It’s ignorant. Now, when you go to Dublin you’re to be polite about everything. I don’t want you giving my parents any problems. Am I making myself clear?’

  I nodded. She was crystal clear. I needed to shut up and put up.

  Siobhan came out and handed me Muireann.

  ‘You just told Dad you don’t need me to help with your baby, so you take her right back,’ I said, thrusting my niece back into her mother’s arms.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re getting to go on holidays in Dublin,’ Siobhan snapped.

  ‘You’ve no one to blame but yourself. You said you didn’t need me around.’

  ‘Well, I do and I’m going to tell Dad now.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ said Mum, stepping in. ‘Niamh is going to Dublin. It’ll do her good. It hasn’t been an easy year for her, with all the goings-on here.’

  ‘Dublin?’ said Finn, who appeared from nowhere, hurley stick in hand. ‘Can I come?’

  ‘No, pet. Niamh’s going to have some time to herself,’ said Mum, putting her arm round me for the first time in ages. It felt really nice.

  ∗

  Two weeks later I was having breakfast with Granny and Granddad Byrne. I was in heaven. They’d said I could have bacon butties if I wanted and allowed me to slather them in HP sauce.

  After breakfast Grandad handed me a sheet of paper. I read it:

  Niamh O’Flaherty’s Cultural Awakening

  Over the next three weeks, you’re going to learn all about your culture and heritage from the Famine to the present day. I promise it won’t be dull.

  Today we’re doing a walking tour of Dublin city centre, starting at the GPO. We’ll retrace the steps of the heroes of the 1916 Rising and I’ll tell you how Pearse, Plunkett, MacDonagh, Connolly, Casement and the others changed the face of our country for ever.