Feels Like Maybe

by Claire Allan

  Contents

  Chapter 1 Aoife

  Chapter 2 Beth

  Chapter 3 Aoife

  Chapter 4 Beth

  Chapter 5 Aoife

  Chapter 6 Beth

  Chapter 7 Aoife

  Chapter 8 Aoife

  Chapter 9 Beth

  Chapter 10 Aoife

  Chapter 11 Beth

  Chapter 12 Aoife

  Chapter 13 Beth

  Chapter 14 Aoife

  Chapter 15 Aoife

  Chapter 16 Aoife

  Chapter 17 Beth

  Chapter 18 Aoife

  Chapter 19 Aoife

  Chapter 20 Beth

  Chapter 21 Aoife

  Chapter 22 Beth

  Chapter 23 Aoife

  Chapter 24 Aoife

  Chapter 25 Beth

  Chapter 26 Aoife

  Chapter 27 Beth

  Chapter 28 Aoife

  Chapter 29 Beth

  Chapter 30 Aoife

  Chapter 31 Beth

  Chapter 32 Aoife

  Chapter 33 Beth

  Chapter 34 Aoife

  Chapter 35 Beth

  Chapter 36 Aoife

  Chapter 37 Beth

  Chapter 38 Aoife

  Chapter 39 Beth

  Chapter 40 Aoife

  Chapter 41 Beth

  Chapter 42 Aoife

  Chapter 43 Beth

  Chapter 44 Aoife

  Chapter 45 Beth

  Chapter 46 Aoife

  Chapter 47 Beth

  Chapter 48 Aoife

  Chapter 49 Beth

  Chapter 50 Aoife

  Chapter 51 Aoife

  Chapter 52 Aoife

  Chapter 53 Beth

  Chapter 54 Beth

  Rainy Days & Tuesdays Chapter 1

  

  

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names,

  characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the

  author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons,

  living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Ebook Published 2014

  by Poolbeg Press Ltd

  123 Grange Hill, Baldoyle

  Dublin 13, Ireland

  E-mail: poolbeg@poolbeg.com

  www.poolbeg.com

  © Claire Allan 2008

  Copyright for typesetting, layout, design

  © Poolbeg Press Ltd

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  9781781990148

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  www.poolbeg.com

  

  About the author

  Claire Allan was born and raised in Derry, where she still lives with her husband Neil and their four-year-old son Joseph. She is a self confessed homebird and spends more time with her parents than is normal for a grown woman.

  She has worked as a reporter with the Derry Journal since 1999.

  In her (very limited) spare time she loves reading, watching films with happy endings and drinking cold wine with friends.

  Claire remains addicted to buying inexpensive handbags and shoes from Tesco and Next. She is actively seeking a 12 step programme to deal with her chocolate addiction.

  Feels Like Maybe is her second novel. You can visit her website at www.claireallan.com.

  

  Acknowledgements

  There are so many people who need thanking, first and foremost my family. My lovely husband for hand-holding and encouragement, and our gorgeous son Joseph who makes me laugh every day.

  My family, Mum and Dad – this one is for you – and also Lisa, Peter, Emma, my gorgeous Abby and our newest addition due around the same time as this book!

  And also the Davidson, McGuinness and Allan clans – all support much appreciated.

  Many thanks to all those wonderful ladies (and their partners) who spoke so openly to me about their experiences of infertility and allowed me to use their personal experiences to make Beth’s as realistic as possible. Thanks go to Kathryn and her angel Aimee, Jann and Malcolm and their miracles Tallulah and Tabitha, Adele and her girls Eliza and Serena, and Nicola for allowing me to research a very personal subject in a very public way.

  Thanks, as always, to my fabulous agent Ger Nichol for wine, craic and chat and for encouraging me to give Beth her own voice. I would be lost without you and our wee emails.

  I cannot begin to thank Poolbeg enough for making the last year and a half feel like an amazing dream. Niamh, Connor, Kieran, Sarah and especially Paula Campbell, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for believing. I realise each day how very lucky I am to be a part of the team.

  A special thanks to Gaye Shortland who helped make this book the best it could be and for her endless patience.

  To everyone who helped make Rainy Days and Tuesdays a success story.

  Many thanks to Lynda Laffan, formerly of Poolbeg, for being so kind to a first-timer. In particular I have to say thanks to the entire team of Eason, Foyleside. Your warm welcome meant the world. Huge thanks to all the booksellers across the country who welcomed me into their shops and said nice things about my book.

  Thanks must also go to those members of the media who supported me over the last year, with a special mention to Keris and all at Trashionista, Radio Foyle, Lynsey Dolan at Country Mix FM, Catherine and all at Verbal magazine and Sue Leonard.

  Once again thanks to the staff and management of The Derry Journal, especially my colleagues in editorial, for being so supportive. In particular Bernie and Mary – and Mary’s daughter Maeve who asked so nicely if this book could have a Maeve in it!

  Getting published has introduced me to some wonderful writing friends and I want to publicly thank my fellow authors for being there on the end of the phone or the email. In particular I want to thank Sharon Owens for daily (sometimes hourly) support and friendship, Melissa Hill for being my sage of good advice, and the amazingly wonderful ‘Almost Famous Five’ Fionnuala Kearney, Fionnuala McGoldrick, Clodagh Murphy, Emma Heatherington and Trina Rea for too many laughs to mention and a fair deal of hand-holding too.

  I would like to take the credit for the name of this book, and indeed Rainy Days and Tuesdays, but both names were the invention of the lovely Emily Gale who deserves my thanks. I’m thinking of putting you on a retainer.

  Without my “real life” friends though, this book would never have made it to print. So love and chocolate to Erin, Amanda, Lisa, Nora and Catherine. And not to forget, my wonderful VBF Vicki who championed this book from day one. I love you to pieces, missus.

  Finally, to everyone who read and enjoyed RD&T, I hope you enjoy this one too.

  This book is dedicated to

  Mammy and Daddy.

  Thank you for believing.

  x

  

  Chapter 1

  Aoife

  When I die someone will write “Aoife McLaughlin was very good at going it alone” on my headstone. Then again, I will probably have to come back from the dead and write it myself.

  That thought crossed my mind as I took yet another shallow breath and felt yet another contraction rip acr
oss my rounded, swollen belly. It shouldn’t have been like this.

  I should have had a loving husband mopping my brow and encouraging me through every wave of increasing pain. We should have jointly decided on a name and painted a nursery together – pausing only to leaf through the Yellow Pages and order pizzas with tuna and banana on them – and yet, here I was alone in a room where everyone spoke in a different accent to my own and struggled to pronounce my name.

  There was no husband. There wasn’t even a significant other. There was just me and my cervix which, much to my annoyance, was dilating at a painfully slow rate.

  The pain came again and I breathed deeply on the gas and air that was my only salvation. The anaesthetist was busy, or so they had told me, so here I was with not so much as an epidural to make the whole experience more bearable.

  All I had was a radio that was blasting out what seemed like the same four songs on a loop. I swore that if I heard the Outhere Brothers sing “Boom, boom, boom, let me hear ya say weyoh” one more time I was going to boom-fecking-boom the radio out the window.

  A very cheerful midwife by the name of Peggy walked into the room just as the contraction reached its excruciating crescendo. “How are you doing, my lovely?” she asked, looking at the jumble of peaks and troughs on the monitor beside my bed. I wondered did she want the honest answer or the polite answer? Was this similar to when you go to the hairdresser’s and don’t like the disaster they’ve made of your barnet but you feel compelled to give a thumbs-up anyway?

  But I have never been one for bullshit, it was one of the things my clients admired so much about me, so I decided to opt for the honest approach.

  “You mean apart from this baby trying to squeeze its way out of my fandango while I lie here twenty hours into labour with no epidural? Just fucking peachy, thanks!”

  “Oooh, if you’re starting to swear, it must mean Baby is nearly here!” Peggy chirped, disappearing between my splayed legs for a quick look.

  I was tempted to point out I had been swearing for most of the last twenty hours – being Irish it was as in-built in me as breathing. I wasn’t about to stop now when my genitals were being shredded by a supposedly natural force.

  “How far?” I asked, panting as the pain subsided.

  Peggy held up a gloved hand, slightly stained with blood, and I felt a wave of nausea wash over me. Throwing up what was left of my breakfast I swore I would never, ever, believe anything that I saw in the movies again. You didn’t get bloodstained hands in Hollywood.

  “Seven centimetres, my lovely. Shouldn’t be too long now. You should have this little one by morning.”

  I looked at the clock, it was 11.15 p.m. Damn fecking right I would have this baby by morning – even if I had to do the Caesarean myself. Another contraction hit and I sucked hard on the gas and air, sinking my teeth into the plastic mouthpiece, imagining it to be Jake’s undersized penis.

  “Sweet” – gasp – “Jesus” – gasp – “make” – gasp – “this” – gasp – “fucking” – gasp – “stop!”

  Peggy, still smiling despite my clatter of swear-words tapped my knee, as if her gentle tapping held some magic anaesthetic quality.

  “There, there, lovely! It will all be worth it when Baby is here.” She smiled and walked out of the room, leaving me alone to my growing sense of panic.

  Would it be okay when “Baby” – this nameless wriggling creature fighting to get out – was here? Somehow I doubted it. I had made some pretty major mistakes in my life before but this was a fuck-up of immense proportions and as my tummy tightened I knew it was too late to change my mind. What goes up must come down, I thought with a wry smile. I promised myself nothing was ever going up again.

  I started to wonder if the gas and air was working any more. It made me feel woozy, that was for sure, but the pain didn’t seem relieved in any way. What I really needed – really, really needed – was a king-size Nurofen and a bottle of vodka. That had always killed any pain I had before.

  I mean, how much harm could a wee drink of vodka do to the baby now? Surely by the time the alcohol made its way down into my uterus, through the placenta and into the umbilical cord, the baby would be separated from me anyway?

  A cigarette would be good too, or a nice big juicy joint. I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply on the Entenox and imagined I could feel the warmth of sweet smoke fill my lungs. Momentarily there was relief from the pain and then, bam, back at point zero. Tummy tightening. Back aching. Fandango fanning. Baby burrowing its way towards the light. There has got to be a more humane way to bring new life into this world. Beam me up, Scotty, I’m in trouble . . .

  Much as I’m adverse to crying, I started to wail, crying big gulping, snottery tears born of fear, tiredness and pain the like of which I had never known. I’d heard giving birth was at best like having a big poo and at worst like a bad period. What utter shite! I would have cried out for my mother, if she wasn’t the most annoying fecker on the planet – so instead I just cried. Peggy stuck her head back round the corner. “Now what’s the matter, lovely? No need for tears.”

  I tried to tell her what was wrong. How it had all gone horribly pear-shaped and that I had never asked for this – never wanted it. It wasn’t in the game plan. I was doing pretty damn okay before this, thank-you-very-much.

  But all that came out was a muffled scream.

  “I need to push!” I gasped, as soon as the power of speech returned to me.

  It’s hard to explain, but the feeling was beyond my control. I suddenly understood what bearing down meant. Every inch of my body, from the tips of my toes to the split ends of my auburn mop wanted to bear down and to push.

  “No, dearie, you don’t. You’re only seven centimetres,” Peggy replied.

  “Yes, I do. I need to fucking push!”

  “Now, now, lovely. Baby will come when Baby is ready to come.”

  “My name is not fucking ‘Lovely’ it’s Aoife – Eee-fa!” I said, emphasising the pronunciation in the hope she would at last get it right. “And I’m telling you this baby is ready to fucking come now!”

  I grimaced as my body contorted with pain and pressure. This was beyond my control and yet I felt strangely okay about it. This was my body and, by Christ, this was really happening and I was powerless to stop it.

  “I’ll go and get someone to check,” Peggy said, making for the door.

  “No! I need to push now!” I gasped, my body taking over and forcing me to push with every muscle available. “Aaaaarrghhh!” I could feel something move down to my pelvis, could see Peggy’s eyes widen as she rushed to the end of the bed.

  “I can see Baby’s head!” Peggy said.

  I took this as encouragement to keep going, and going, and going.

  It wasn’t so much that I longed to cradle the baby, I just longed for this pain to be over. My tummy tightened and I instinctively pushed again – my exhaustion gone as this primeval force took over.

  “Pant now for me,” Peggy said and I forced myself to stop pushing, to take small gasping breaths, as I felt this new life emerge from me.

  Suddenly, although it had taken twenty-one hours, I felt a surge of relief. The pressure was gone and this little mewling creature was staring at me. The most perfect little girl in the world. I cried again, but this time it was because I knew that no matter how I had planned not to let this happen, I had already fallen madly in love with my daughter. My baby.

  *****

  Ten perfect little fingers, with nails that needed trimming already. Those fragile little hands, curled up close to that button nose. I wondered had I ever felt skin so soft? Rubbing my nose against Maggie’s cheek, I whispered my apologies to her.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t want you before but now that I know you, now that I’ve seen you, I want you more than anything.” No one else could hear our conversation but then it wasn’t for anyone else’s ears. It was our moment alone and I could hardly believe how fulfilled I felt when just an hour ago I had felt
more alone than ever before. I knew, I guessed, that I would never be alone again.

  Peggy came back into the room, smiling now, the look of shock at Maggie’s speedy arrival replaced by her usual calm demeanour.

  “Do you want me to bring the phone in? You can let people know this little poppet is here.”

  I shook my head. There wasn’t really anyone to tell. Beth would find the note in the morning when she returned from her break to Brighton. No one else really mattered, not now anyway.

  “I’m okay, thanks,” I said, never for one second lifting my gaze from my daughter.

  “Well,” said Peggy, “I’ll be outside if you need me.”

  “Yes, thank you. Thank you for everything.”

  “All in a day’s work, lovely, all in a day’s work.”

  Peggy was clearly baffled by my reluctance to announce my new arrival. She had seen enough of me for one day. Letting her see my fandango was one thing, explaining my complicated set of circumstances was another. Some things were private. Exhausted, I placed Maggie in her little plastic crib by the bed and lay down, desperate for sleep but reluctant to let this little one out of my sight. All I could see now was a patch of pink skin, swaddled in blankets with a white hat on her tiny head. I put my hand to my stomach, now a gelatinous mass – like a balloon that has been partially deflated – and wondered had this little creature really been inside me just a few hours ago?

  The name Maggie seemed perfect. I had no idea where it had come from. I hadn’t allowed myself to think of names before, but as soon as I saw all 6lbs and 9oz of my child, a tuft of dark hair and her face set in a determined little stare, I knew that no other name would suit the same.