by Anne Donovan
Da – I’m trying tae tell you somethin.
Well tell me after ‘Countdown”s finished. Ah don’t try tae tell you things when they daft cartoons are on.
Da, it’s important.
He reached for the remote, turned doon the volume, his eyes still on the screen.
Whit is it, hen?
Mona’s expectin.
Whit, a baby?
Naw, Da, a horse. Of course, a baby.
Jeezo, when?
September.
Christ.
Is that all you’ve got tae say, Da?
What d’you expect me tae say? She’s barely fifteen year auld. If yer mammy was here.
Well, she’s no.
Aye she’s no. If she was this’d never of happened. Fiona, what’re we gonnae dae?
I managed tae get Rona on her ain in the kitchen. What the hell’s gaun on? How come Mona couldnae tell him hersel?
She couldnae.
Could you no have tellt me first – mibbe we could of broken it to him gently?
Just thought I’d get it over quicker when yous’re baith here. Anyway, you’re hardly ever around. And when you are you’re stuck in that room, moonin over yer art stuff.
She was right of course. A crap sister, how come I hadnae seen what was so obviously gonnae happen.
Anyway, where is Mona?
Out with Declan, shopping.
By the time Mona came hame Da had went out. I hoped it wasnae tae the pub, all we needed noo was for him tae start drinking again. And I done my sensible big sister act, all the while wondering how I could be such a total hypocrite after what I’d done mysel.
How could you dae this, Mona?
Same way everybody does.
Don’t be like that – could you no have used contraceptives?
Pope says you shouldnae.
Pope says you shouldnae be having sex. Mona, you’re only fifteen. And so’s Declan. Yous’re still at school.
No for long. Anyway, ah hate school.
That’s no the point.
So what is the point, Fiona? You tell me – what is the point?
I’m just trying tae get you to be serious about this.
You’re trying tae get me to be serious? Ah’m the one that’s pregnant. Ah’m the one gettin the morning sickness. Ah’m the one that’s gonnae have the baby and look after it.
Aye but will you, Mona? You couldnae look after a cat you’re so bloody irresponsible. A baby would get in the way of your beauty routines and your cartoon watching and your line dancing.
You’re so fucking smug and superior, Fiona, always have been. What d’you take responsibility for round here? You just come and go whenever it suits you and moan at everyone else for no keeping the place as tidy as you like it. And who are you to look doon on me for line dancing? How come chuckin bits of auld dolls about is mair important than dancing? Me and Rona are the Glasgow and West of Scotland under-16 champions. But to you that’s nothing compared to all your artyfarty friends. If we were bloody ballet dancers it’d be different.
She stomped out the kitchen and slammed the living room door. A few minutes later I heard the familiar opening tune of Tom and Jerry.
Between the school, the social worker and the ante-natal classes, Mona’s pregnancy took up a lot of time. Da, of course, copped out, so I talked to the Guidance teacher about Mona’s exams, took Mona tae her checkups and made cups of tea for Miss Starkey, who came tae inspect the flat and decide if it was a suitable environment to bring up this wean. I couldnae figure out how someone who looked about twelve was qualified to know, but she ticked lots of boxes on her form and nodded sympathetically when my da, eyes filling with tears, sais, If only her mammy was here.
I bit my tongue. I wanted to say if her mammy had been here this wouldnae of happened, but what was the use. Mona seemed to be neither up nor doon about being pregnant. As the weeks progressed the gap between her microscopic skirt and her crop top got bigger but she rejected all Janice’s attempts tae pass on her auld maternity clothes. Gross, she said, tossing them back in the plastic bag. The only preparations for pregnancy she seemed tae make was eating mair crisps than usual and wandering round the toon looking at baby clothes with Rona and Declan.
On one of her visits Miss Starkey followed me intae the kitchen where I was making the tea. Just wanted a quiet word. D’you think Mona is in denial?
Through in the living room, Mona, Rona and Declan were clocked on the couch, roaring and giggling while Tom chased Jerry round the screen. Mona was bigger noo and had started tae wear longer stretchy tee shirts which clung tae her bump.
What makes you think that?
The doctor had gied me a booklet about miscarriage and there was a section called ‘Emotional Effects’. Talked about how the couple had experienced the joy of achieving a pregnancy and anticipating the arrival of a baby. Hardly.
There was a list of all the emotions you might feel. Grief, inadequacy, failure, helplessness, guilt. Tick, tick, tick them all.
Then the green-eyed monster. How you might feel upset at the sight of pregnant women in the street, TV programmes about babies. Doesnae mention looking at your sister’s scan photie, seeing the blurred image of something that looked like a wee monkey staring out at you. Our baby would of been born sometime in May – around the 20th by the doctor’s estimate. The book said that the due date was often a difficult time for the couple and it might help to mark it in some way. The couple, of course, would be supporting each other in their grief.
I hadnae heard a word fae Amrik since he’d went tae London. I didnae miss him, no the normal way you miss someone when they’re away, like I miss Patric – daeing things thegether, the stuff we’d talk about. What I really missed was the times I’d stood in the darkness at the back of a room, listening to something that moved me beyond everything else.
I’d got used tae seeing Mrs Kaur’s blue mini parked outside the house on Wednesdays. The Scrabble club met at the community centre on Mondays, and a small group played at her house on Fridays but that wasnae enough for my da so Mrs Kaur’d taken to coming round tae ours. Sometimes she was by hersel and sometimes she brung Mrs Grant, a large lady whose hair was a different colour every time you seen her.
The Wednesdays seemed to be a kind of tutorial for my da. They set up camp in the kitchen while the twins and Declan watched DVDs in the living room. When I got back fae Art School I’d make tea for them. Usually they’d be discussing tactics or suggesting how my da could use his letters.
See, Mr O’Connell, if you place ‘perish’ here, you can make ‘he’ with the first letter of ‘exhale’ and also make ‘dam’ into ‘damp’. And you’d get an extra 7 … 9 … 14 points.
Ah’d never of thought of that.
It’s just practice.
Maist of the time they were that absorbed in what they were daeing they never seemed tae notice me floating in and out the room. When Mrs Grant wasnae there, I’d overhear the odd shred of conversation that wasnae about Scrabble.
Is Mona keeping well?
Aye, she’s grand. He sighed. Ach. I just wish … if they could of just waited.
It is difficult sometimes, the young ones. You bring them up with religion, values, hope that will see them through, but the world is very different nowadays.
You’re right there. How’s yours gettin on?
Amrik – how would I know? He calls me every now and again, tells me he’s fine. Jaswinder, of course, is a good boy. I don’t worry about him as much as his brother. But that Aberdeen – it’s freezing. And I don’t know if he is really happy there.
She swopped her letters round on the rack, frowning.
Does he no like the course?
At first I thought it would be good for him to get away. But now I am not so sure. At least you have your daughters round you, Mr O’Connell. That is a comfort.
MAY WAS THE hottest on record for twenty years. Workers escaped at lunchtime fae offices and shops – all they needed was a wall ta
e perch on or a hankysized bit of grass and there they were with sandwiches or ice-creams, faces turnt tae the heat. Mona and Rona dogged school in the afternoons and went tae the park where students lay wi their books over their faces, kidding on they were studying. Folk smiled at you in the street. Everyone was happy, making the maist of it.
Except me. I spent the whole of May in a high-windaed room in the Art School, working on my end of term piece. There was nae way I could of worked at hame; even without the chaos of the twins and my da, I needed space. In my mind I’d a kind of hauf-vision, ideas and images floating about, and I tried different ways to put them thegether. I’d cut out photies of pregnant so-called celebrities fae the twins’ magazines. Some were tasteful posed shots, on the beach with a fading sunset silhouetting the bump; others, less tastefully, slumped on deck-chairs with unshaven oxters exposed, a peelywally bump like a beer belly. I thought about making a collage wi them but it seemed too obvious. I still had all the Barbie bits but I didnae know what to dae with them either. And I’d a pile of nappies, real cloth wans I’d got fae Janice. They were meant for Mona, but I didnae think she’d be that ecologically aware, and anyhow, I could gie them back later.
Then there were the pregnancy tests. All basically the same, an absorbent bit you pee on and a windae that tells you if you’re pregnant. But some have two windaes, others three, some have the control windae on the left, others the right, some are pink and some blue. I took them out the box and counted them. Seven. A nice biblical number but no enough. What would it be like if you had tae try for years like some women? They were expensive – did they buy a job lot on the internet? I’d probably need at least another six tae finish what I had in mind, and my student discount at the Art Store wasnae a whole lot of use. I put my stuff in my locker and heided aff tae Savers.
In the windae was a poster that screamed in big letters, ‘May 20th – Red Letter Day – 20 percent off all stock today’. I’d been so caught up in what I was daeing that I’d never realised the date. As I filled my basket with pregnancy tests and walked to the checkout, I felt ridiculous. I wanted tae take them and chuck them all over the shop, gie them out tae folk in the street, saying Have a nice day.
After I’d paid, instead of going back to the Art School, I heided round the corner to where there’s a big red brick chapel. Inside was dark and cool, empty apart fae a couple of auld wifies wi rosaries. I walked round the outer aisles which had wee chapels placed at intervals. Elaborately carved, tacky, auld-fashioned statues of saints raising their eyes heavenwards – intended as an expression of piety nae doubt but they looked as if somebody had farted in their presence. Eventually I came tae one of St Francis of Assisi, dressed in brown robes, thin haund wi bones sticking out, raised in blessing. A softer face with sad eyes looking straight at me. I put twenty pence in the metal slot, opened the Ikea poly bag of tealights and lit one, as slowly and thoughtfully as I could. I knelt on the hard marble step in fronty the statue and looked at the face of the saint, then intae the candle-flame. I tried tae imagine what this day might of been like if things had been different, envisaged mysel haudin a baby in my airms, surrounded by my family. I could see them all clearly: Da, Mona and Rona, Patric and Janice. The only face I couldnae visualise was Amrik’s. He just wasnae there. And neither was the baby. I could see the sleepsuit, the shawl, feel the weight in my airms but couldnae make out a face, imagine its eyes or nose or mouth. I knelt for ages, no praying, just visualising the scene. I wisht I could of cried, but felt empty, no the physical emptiness of longing for a baby – a different kind of emptiness.
A green plastic washing line pegged out with photies of pregnant celebrities, interspersed with nappies on which were scribbled in blue or pink felties, ‘It’s a boy’ or ‘It’s a girl’. The nappy in the centre had two scrawls side by side, ‘It’s a bo …’ and ‘It’s a gi …’, the words trailing aff intae a drip as though the pens had given out. Under the washing line, on its side, was a bucket with nappies, bits of Barbies and auld pregnancy tests spilling out. Some of the Barbies had the flexible bits of the tests, the bits you pee on, stuck in their mouths or between their legs. I’d knitted wee hats for the dolls, like the kind premature babies get, but left the knitting tae unravel so there was a tangle of pastel wool all over the flair. Inbetween the bits of doll, wool and tests I’d spilled talc, scattered torn-up vouchers for baby products and instruction leaflets for pregnancy tests.
The title was ‘Oh Yes You Are, Oh No You’re Not’.
I deliberately didnae tell my da or the twins the dates of the show, but of course Janice always knows these things and mentioned it when she was round, trying yet again to get Mona to take some of her baby things.
I don’t want anythin till after the baby’s born. It’s bad luck.
Suit yourself. But there’s a Moses basket and a baby sling all waiting for you.
A baby sling? I’m no using wanny them. I want a pram. A real pram, no a buggy.
You’ll need a pram too. But a sling’s dead handy for carrying the baby round with you – even in the house when they’re girny.
Mona gied Janice wanny her ‘in your dreams’ looks and returned to the article she was reading, about being a sun goddess.
Janice turned tae me. I thought I’d go and see your show on Thursday after work, Fiona.
Is it this week, hen? said my da. You never tellt us.
Mibbe we could all go on Thursday, said Janice. It’s late-night shopping. We could see the show, then Mona and me could go and get a few things for the baby. Then we can go for a pizza. At the words pizza, Mona smiled.
* * *
Janice called the day after the show.
Got time for a coffee, Fiona? I’m in town on a course today and I’ll be finished about four. Meet you in Giardini’s?
Cool.
How was your course?
Janice made a face. Boring, they always are. And then when you go back to work things’ve piled up on your desk. Still, it’s nice to get a day in town, specially on a Friday.
I nodded, stirred the froth on the top of my coffee, wondered when she was gonnae say what she’d brought me here for. Janice was so like my mammy sometimes. She had this way of starting softly, as if she was spreading rose petals for you to walk over, then two sentences in, she shoved the whole lot out the way and the path was clear for the real issue.
Fiona, your installation, your work …
Yeah.
You’re an artist and I’m not …
rose petals, smooth as silk
and I don’t mean to draw simplistic parallels between a work of art and the artist’s life.
the scent rising, the smoothness caressing your feet.
But
one toe touches hard gravel
Deep breath. Those eyes, brown like my mammy’s, turn to me.
Mona’s baby is really getting to you, isn’t it, Fiona?
jaggy sharpness spikes the soles.
I don’t like to analyse my work.
I’m sorry, Fiona. I really don’t want to invade your privacy, but I felt very disturbed by it. And I know that’s what you meant and good art is disturbing and all that, but it wasnae the art that disturbed me. It was what I felt from you.
I didnae know what tae say. As usual. My life seemed to be full of folk wanting me to say things, talk about my feelings. Nice, kind, sensible folk. The doctor, Janice. If I wanted, the nae-doubt nice, kind sensible counsellor.
I was lucky. This is what they keep telling you is good. Talk. Let it out. Every time there’s a disaster or an accident they get teams of counsellors on the job, letting folk talk about it. That was what was so bad about the auld days, they say. After the war all these men who came back, never able to talk about it. Stiff upper lips. And that leads tae all kinds of trauma.
I wish I’d lived then – no I don’t mean that – it’s just, I don’t want tae talk.
Janice is looking at me, kind sensible Janice, who’s known me since I was born, who loves
me, loved Mammy, who’s trained tae understaund these things. Christ if I was one of her clients, nae doubt I’d be pouring out my soul. But here I am, sitting in a café, spooning the remains of the froth intae my mouth, unable to say a word about anything that matters.
Look, if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine. Or mibbe you’d rather talk to someone outside the family. But please, Fiona, if you ever do, you know I’m always here for you.
I know.
Declan had got a book of baby names out the library and he and the twins were falling about laughing over it.
How about Boniface?
If it takes after its ma it’ll be moanyface.
Very funny.
Hey Fiona, guess what your name means? Comely, fair.
Aye, right. What are you thinking about calling the baby anyway?
If it’s a boy, Connor, and if it’s a wee lassie either Siobhan or Grace.
I hope it’s a girl, then. Connor O’Connell?
The baby’s name won’t be O’Connell – it’ll be Connor Anderson.
You don’t have to give the baby Declan’s name.
He’s the father. You’re no gonnae gie us wanny they feminist rants, are you Fiona? I’ve heard it all fae Janice.
Well, it’s true. It’s dead sexist that folk assume a baby has to have the father’s name.
Yeah and look at Janice’s poor wean wi a double-barrelled surname naebody can spell.
You could give the baby your name.
My name’ll be the same as Declan’s soon enough.
You’re changing your name tae Declan’s?
We’ll be gettin married.
You still don’t have tae change your name. Anyway, you’re no even sixteen.
I will be in December.
You’re no serious, Mona.
Course. Once the baby’s born and I’m sixteen, we’ll get hitched. A lovely white wedding and I’ll be Mrs Declan Anderson. It’s nice tae be traditional.
I don’t want to shatter your illusions, but it’s traditional tae wait till after the white wedding afore you have the baby.
After they went out I sat doon on the settee. They’d left the book of baby names lying, spine bent backwards. I started tae flick through, no really expecting to find it, but there was a section on Asian names. Amrik: God’s nectar. That figured. Sweet as honey. But don’t try tae live on it.