Rainy Days & Tuesdays

by Claire Allan

  “Pish!” Daisy interjects.

  “No, it’s not pish, Dais. There are days when I get home from work that it’s all I can do to count down to bedtime and then when Jack does go to sleep I lie there, just waiting for him to wake up again – not relaxing. And I dread that, because I’m so fecking tired all the time and all I want is a good night’s sleep. What kind of mother gets pissed off with her own child over wanting some sleep?”

  “Every kind of a mother,” Daisy says. “We’ve all done it, Gracie. It doesn’t make you a bad person. It makes you human.”

  “Then why do I feel so useless? Why do I feel so out of control?” I’m sobbing now, doing my ugly snotters and all.

  And Daisy moves towards me, reaches out and pulls me into a huge bear hug. She strokes my hair like she would one of her charges at Little Tikes and she makes all the right soothing noises. It takes a time for me to realise she is crying too.

  “I didn’t know, Gracie,” she says over and over, “I just didn’t know.”

  ❃ ❃ ❃

  It’s funny how a bathroom floor can become the most comfortable seat in the house. I’m not sure how long Daisy and I sat there, but I know we talked and talked. We also apologised and apologised to each other over and over again. A bit like Aidan, Daisy says she doesn’t really understand what is going on but she will try to be supportive anyway.

  I told her all about Dr Dishy, all about agreeing to Louise’s plan to get my life back on track and how I’m pretty determined to stop playing a victim and to get on with my life. I even told her about my trip to the beach with Jack, our sleepy cuddles and my singing. She looked kind of impressed, and also a little horrified.

  It was gone seven before I lifted myself up off the floor and phoned Mammy to tell her it was okay to bring Jack and Lily around. With Aidan working, Daisy and I decided it would be best if I stayed over at hers. I just didn’t want to be alone, and I wanted to make sure everything really was okay again with me and my best friend.

  And so here I am, lying in the spare room, staring at the eggshell walls, the subtle gold-coloured frames of stones, seashells and flowers, and feeling Jack cuddled on the bed beside me. Tomorrow we’ll go together to Mammy’s for Sunday lunch and then on Monday Daisy will hold my hand when I go back to see the delightful Dr Dishy. She has already been on Amazon, buying up books on depression and says she is determined we will get through this.

  I still feel guilty, though. I should not have said those things. I know Daisy doesn’t love TMF any more. Things have gone so far that she doesn’t even hate him any more – she holds him in total non-regard. But I know, while forgiveness has been achieved, she will never forget those horrible months of betrayal and hurt and, looking at Lily, her innocence so apparent, I can understand why.

  I kiss my boy’s forehead and he sucks that little harder on his dummy, his face looking babyish and far removed from the wee toddler boy he has become. I kiss him and thank my lucky stars that he has never been hurt by anyone who loves him and I thank those same stars for Aidan and his ability to be a great daddy, even when his husband skills are lacking.

  “Mammy’s here,” I whisper in the dark, “and I’m not going anywhere, baby. I’m going to get through this, for you.”

  In the morning we are woken by a four-year-old bundle of mischief jumping on the bed, her dark curls looking almost as mad as my own. “My mummy says we are all friends now, Aunty Grace,” Lily chirps, as Jack rubs the sleep from his eyes.

  “We are, darling, and we’re not going to fall out ever again.”

  “I really, really, really didn’t like it when you were cross with each other,” Lily says. “Mummy was very grumpy and wouldn’t let me phone to speak to Jack.”

  “Mummy and Aunty Grace have just been very silly, darling, but it’s okay now,” I say, tickling her precious little tummy. “Now, Schmoo-face, go and tell your mummy I want a full cooked breakfast!”

  Lily bounds off the bed, closely followed by Jack who is yelping with excitement and shouting “Sausages!” over and over again. I smile, stretch and slip on the robe hanging on the back of the bedroom door, grateful that Daisy keeps an old one in my size and I’m not trying to squeeze into one of her hand-me-downs. I shuffle down the stairs and see the children have run, pyjamas and all, into the back garden while Daisy is cooking up a storm.

  “Cooked breakfast indeed,” she laughs. “You really are pushing your fecking luck! It’s a good thing you have an excuse for needing pampering or you’d have got those eggs smashed on your head.”

  “Dinnae get yer knickers in a twist, lassie,” I counter in my best Scottish accent – which is actually absolutely dreadful – and Daisy bursts out laughing.

  “Blummin’ cheek!” she says.

  I sit down in the armchair, curling my feet under me. “Daisy,” I say.

  “What now? Eggs Benedict, perhaps? Bucks Fizz? Two slices of potato bread?”

  “Love you,” I say.

  “I know, doll, and I love you too. Even if you are a crackpot.”

  Chapter 11

  Today is going to be an interesting day. I’m not sure if it will be good, bad or indifferent but for once I find myself awake long before Jack – just staring out the kitchen window and thinking of what is to come.

  I like the first day of a new issue. When we meet in work we get together with coffee and doughnuts and brainstorm until we have a packed features list. Sinéad tends to get a bit manic and over-excited about the whole thing – which I’m pretty sure is down to the sugar rush of the doughnut she eats before we all arrive. I have a packed schedule myself this month with features on Controlled Crying, preparing for Christmas (I know, it’s only the tail end of July – but this is October’s edition we are talking about) and Halloween.

  And, of course, I can’t forget, this is the start of the great guinea-pig experiment. This time we are serious.

  “Look who I found!” Aidan grins, carrying a sleepy- headed Jack into the room.

  “Morning Stinkers,” I say, kissing him on the cheek and then turning to kiss my husband.

  “You nervous?” Aidan asks as I set out the breakfast bowls and reboil the kettle.

  “Kind of,” I say, “but I’m a little excited too. I’m not sure what way this is going to go and it feels good for once to do something different.”

  “Are you seeing the doctor today?”

  “Yep – four thirty. Daisy is going to come with me and do the whole hand-holding thing.”

  “God, I’m glad you two have made things up,” he says, putting two slices of toast in the toaster. “There is only so much a man can listen to about bags and make-up.”

  I throw a tea towel at him and Jack screams, “Again, again!” and I wonder has it really only been eight days since we were on the verge of meltdown.

  Aidan reaches into a cupboard and pulls out a pink lunch box, with darker pink hearts on it. “I got you this,” he says, “for your new start. I’ve packed it for you already but you are not, repeat not, allowed to look in it until you get to work. Scout’s honour?”

  “Yes, boss,” I say.

  “Do the salute,” he teases, and I do before giving him a hug and setting about getting the troublesome toddler fed and dressed.

  I arrive at the office, my funky new lunch box under my arm, and congratulate myself that I’ve not had a sneaky peek yet. Sitting down at my desk I say my usual greeting to the lovely Dermot (those eyes still get me in a frenzy) and prepare my features list for the big meeting. I’m just about to open the lunch box when Louise breezes over, dressed in a brand-new designer suit with her hair obviously highlighted since Friday.

  “Lovely day, isn’t it?” she quips but doesn’t bother to wait for my reply. “Just wait until you find out what I have lined up for this feature, Grace! You will be a new woman. Just you wait and see! That Adam of yours won’t be able to keep his hands off you.”

  “Actually it’s Aidan and don’t you forget this has to have my say-so,
Louise. I’m not doing this to make an arse of myself.”

  “Of course, of course,” she mutters. “It’s nothing I wouldn’t do myself – well, not much anyway.”

  I am about to interrogate further when Sinéad walks into the office and makes her traditional rallying-of-the- troops announcement.

  “All right, you eejits, my office now!”

  I lift my notepad, walk past Louise and bag myself a comfortable seat on the sofa.

  “Right, folks, let’s get down to business. September was a blinder – well done, all – I hope to see increased sales when we hit the stands on Thursday. But you know the business, we can’t rest on our laurels, so what’ve you got for me?”

  One by one we list our features, either getting the yea or the nay from She Who Must Be Obeyed and then it comes to Louise, who by this stage is almost peeing her designer knickers with excitement.

  “Well, we all know Grace has kindly volunteered herself for a life makeover,” she starts and my colleagues nod and wave. “So I’ve lined a few things up. I mean, first of all, she needs to lose some weight. Seriously, that baby is two now, Grace, no excuses. You’ll be off to see Charlotte at Weightloss Wonders tomorrow night. She is keeping you a seat in the front row. Second of all: well, those clothes – I mean it’s more slummy mummy than yummy mummy. I mean it’s just so not the image we want to put across for our Parenting Editor, now is it, Sinéad?”

  I look to my boss, hoping for a modicum of support and receiving none.

  She merely shrugs her shoulders and says: “Well, everyone loves free clothes, don’t they?”

  Green light for Louise.

  “So in two weeks’ time you have an appointment with Lesley at City Couture for an image overhaul, Grace. We tried to get those Trinny and Susannah ladies but even they admitted some cases are hopeless.”

  Annoyingly she is laughing at her own jokes while everyone else looks on a little embarrassed.

  “Leah at Natural Nails will do the whole manicure- pedicure thing and I have a friend who does that Reiki stuff for the holistic approach. It will be fab. You won’t look back, Grace, honest. Imagine how good it will feel to get rid of those saddlebags and your dowdy clothes and feel like a real woman again!”

  Now, I am fully aware that if Daisy or my mam had offered free clothes and a makeover to me in the confines of a private conversation I would have been jumping up and down and doing an American-style whooping thing. But this is not in the confines of a private conversation – this is in an office – in front of my colleagues and so-called friends – and the red mist is starting to descend again.

  The thing is, though, the red mist is now my friend. It helps me confront those who need confronting, it helps me take control. It is no longer a force to be turned inwards against myself, it is a force to be reckoned with and the Day of Reckoning has just arrived.

  I do my best fake laugh, cross my legs and sit upright in my seat so as to look as though I mean business.

  “Very good,” I say, adding caustically, “for a first attempt. But let’s see how I envisage this. Sure I’ll go along to Weightloss Wonders and City Couture because, yes, I wouldn’t mind shedding a few pounds and getting some free clothes, but I also thought it would be more in the interest of our readers to credit them with just that little bit of intelligence. There’s a wealth of complementary therapies out there designed to help women like me – you know, busy professionals juggling home and work. I thought it might be good to investigate which are worth their weight in salt and which are a load of bollocks. We also know depression is the modern woman’s epidemic so how about we look at that? Because you can’t change someone’s life just by changing how they look. You need to change the inside also – that is what good health is all about, Louise.”

  “Brilliant, Grace, brilliant,” Sinéad smiles. “This is just the kind of stuff we need – keep it coming!”

  Louise uncrosses her legs, sits with her mouth gaping open, all picture and no sound and I start talking about my ideas about proper issues affecting real women.

  “You know what would be fan-bloody-tastic?” Sinéad says, biting into a strawberry doughnut. “If we could get a medical expert on board – someone to talk about it from a professional point of view.”

  “You know,” I say, “I might just know the very man.”

  The others slowly flood out of the office while Sinéad and I keep talking. Louise is sitting in the corner chewing petulantly on her lip and looking if a wasp has just crawled up her arse. I feel fired up and excited about this now, and I feel as if part of the old me – the me I left behind in the labour ward – has come back.

  Walking back to my desk an hour later, I open the lunchbox and find it packed with a variety of healthy snacks. There is an apple, a yoghurt, a banana and a treat- size Mars Bar. (He knows me well enough to know I can’t go cold turkey on chocolate.)

  Hidden at the bottom is an envelope which I open to find a locket I had long forgotten about. Made in silver, with a gold Celtic knot on the front, my parents gave it to me when I graduated from college but now I see it has been cleaned up and, turning it around, I see a new message engraved on the back. “We believe in you.” I open it and it contains two pictures – one of Aidan and one of Jack – and I start to think I believe in myself a little too.

  My phone rings and I pick it up, smiling as I trill my usual introduction down the line for once.

  “So I was wondering,” a wee Scottish voice asks, “just how dishy is Dr Dishy? Are we talking Dr Hilary Jones off the telly or are we talking George Clooney-Lay-Me-Down- And-Give-Me-Mouth-To-Mouth?”

  “I’d say he’s a bit like that foreign one in ER actually.” “And is he single?”

  “I don’t really know. I didn’t much have the chance to ask him between threatening to slit my wrists and begging him not to give me a one-way ticket to the local insane asylum.”

  “Tsk!” Daisy tuts. “Call yourself a friend, pah!”

  “I know, I know,” I grin. “Can you ever forgive me?” “Not sure I can, Gracie my dear, not sure I can, unless of course you make it your mission to find out for me.” “I thought you were sworn off men for life?”

  “No harm in knowing all about the man treating my best friend for her raving loonyness, now is there?”

  “Suppose not,” I say, glad to hear Daisy laughing and joking with me.

  “Meet you are there at 4.15?”

  “It’s a date.”

  “How sad is it that the dates in my life revolve around the local health centre?” she laughs before hanging up.

  Lord only knows what Dr Dishy will make of Daisy when she walks into his office this afternoon – he will start to think I only hang around with crazies and crackpots.

  By four o’clock my stomach is growling a little so I give in to temptation and eat my Mars bar. I don’t follow my usual pattern of inhaling it in two bites – instead I savour its chocolatey goodness, slowly letting the caramel melt on my tongue and I lose myself in the moment.

  I open my eyes and see John looking at me rather strangely.

  “Are you quite all right, Grace?”

  “Just perfect,” I say before grabbing my bag and heading to the door for my threesome with Daisy and Dishy.

  Arriving at the health centre I see my friend has brushed and tousled her hair and has just applied her best new shiny lip-gloss.

  “This is serious, Daisy,” I scold. “You can’t be going in and flirting with him. Remember you are here to hold my hand and not his.”

  “I know hon, I’m sorry. I just wanted to make a bit of an impression.”

  “Daisy, you are beside me. I have been sitting in a baking hot office all day, I’m pretty sure that stain on my trousers is an organic life form of its own making and my foundation has slipped off my face to somewhere near my kneecaps – you are doing pretty damn okay in comparison if you ask me.”

  We walk into the building and I start to feel a little nervous. I realise these people
, these staff, will have seen me a week ago looking like I’d just escaped from the loony-bin, tearstained and shaking. I think they will be judging me now, making up wee stories about my life, looking up my records and pitying the poor child and poor husband I live with.

  “Breathe, Grace! Come on chick, you can do this,” Daisy says, sensing my unease and taking my hand as we move towards the front of the reception queue. I squeeze her hand tightly and she turns to the young girl behind the glass and says: “Grace Adams, an appointment with Dr Di – shit, Grace, what is his name again?”

  I realise I don’t know and my face turns red. “Erm, I’m not sure.”

  “She told me he looks a bit like yer man from ER,” Daisy adds with a wink and the receptionist laughs.

  “That will be Doctor Stevenson, Shaun Stevenson,” she says and directs us down the corridor to the waiting area with a wry smile on her face which lets us know we are far from the only people in Derry to have fallen under his spell.

  I sit down and lift one of those tatty old magazines they leave there to amuse you while you mull over your aches and pains. Today’s choice consists of a Woman’s Weekly circa 2004 and Golfer’s Monthly. No sign of a Northern People anywhere.

  Daisy opts for Golfer’s Monthly – to laugh at the pictures of the jumpers if nothing else, and I settle down to read a feature on a woman whose nipple fell off in the bath after plastic surgery went drastically wrong.

  In the background the radio is playing some insanely cheerful song about sex on the beach or some other such nonsense and all I think about is getting sand up the crack of your arse.

  Occasionally the lights beep above us, calling all the sick people in Derry in for their five minutes of pampering with the doctor. Daisy is talking to herself now, flicking the pages and stifling giggles as the fashion goes from bad to worse.

  “Fecking covers for golf clubs, in case the wee dears get cold, would you believe it?”