City Girl (11 page)

‘You’ll get nowt more till tomorrow evening,’ she declared in a ‘you’ll be sorry’ tone of voice as she self-righteously whipped the tray off the bed.

Marching out of the room, her broad hips swaying from side to side, her brown uniform stretched across their breadth like a wrinkled walnut shell, she managed, in spite of her load, to give the
door a little slam and Devlin, annoyed out of her introspective moodiness, hissed, ‘Up yours too!’ Only the back of the door heard her and Devlin decided she was definitely turning into
a basket case. She pulled on her dressing gown, slipped her feet into her soft furry mules and left her little cell. Walking down to the TV room she was very much aware of the stillness of the
place and her own solitude. The doors to the rooms on the corridor were all firmly closed and Devlin wondered if there were many like her behind them.

The nurse’s station was at the end of the corridor near the stairs and a tall coloured nurse was busy filling in charts. She smiled as Devlin passed and asked if she was looking for
anywhere in particular. She had beautiful liquid gold eyes and after the sullen one’s bad humour Devlin felt warmed by her friendliness.

‘I’m just going to the TV room, I think I’d like to take my mind off tomorrow.’

The nurse’s eyes were sympathetic. ‘It’s at the bottom of the stairs to the right. And Miss Delaney . . .’ Her voice was soft and musical with the lovely lilt of the
Caribbean.

‘Yes,’ Devlin responded, half surprised that she knew her name.

‘If you want to talk about anything I’m on duty till nine. If there’s anything you need to know I’ll be happy to tell you.’

‘Oh thanks! Thanks very much,’ stammered Devlin, embarrassed that this lovely girl with the serene air should know that she was going to abort her baby. The nurse nodded and smiled
again. Shyly Devlin smiled back and descended the stairs. There were only two other women in the TV room, a young Indian girl and a haggard blonde woman. Neither of them acknowledged her.

She watched the antics of celebrities playing charades on the television but she couldn’t concentrate as restlessness surged through her. She picked up a magazine and flicked through the
pages but the print would not stay still and eventually she gave up and just sat and allowed her mind to wander.

What was Lydia doing now? Was she thinking of her at all? And Colin? Did he care that his own child was to die? Had he even spared her a thought? With a start she realized that a nurse was
calling her name.

‘Miss Delaney, the anaesthetist would like to examine you now.’ Glancing at her watch, Devlin was surprised to see that it was almost eight-thirty. She followed the nurse back to her
room and found a tall dark-haired lady waiting for her. Introducing herself as Doctor Harrison, she proceeded to examine Devlin’s chest and lungs, asking her about childhood illnesses and
previous operations as she went along. Devlin answered her automatically. She was beginning to feel unnerved by it all and just wanted to be left alone.

‘Your pulse is racing a little, I think. I’ll give you something to help you sleep and it will also relax you, Devlin. Have you any questions you would like to ask me?’ the
doctor enquired kindly.

Mutely Devlin shook her head. She wanted to ask if it would hurt the foetus but she couldn’t bring herself to.

‘Very well,’ the doctor said briskly, gathering her bag and Devlin’s chart. ‘Nurse will give you something shortly. Good night.’

‘Good night doctor. Thank you,’ Devlin murmured politely. When they had gone she splashed cold water on her face, brushed her teeth and climbed wearily into bed. The hardness of the
hospital bed provided little ease for her tired limbs and she tossed and turned, trying to find a comfortable position. Later she drank a cup of tea and obediently swallowed the medication handed
to her by the nurse. She then lay back against the pillows awaiting instant oblivion.

But when the drug-induced sleep did eventually come, Devlin twisted and turned restlessly, tormented by nightmare images of distorted babies making eerie wailing sounds that terrified her. She
woke and sat up in the darkened room, not knowing where she was, her heart pounding, rivers of sweat between her breasts and down her temples, her mind hazy from the sleeping tablet. Slowly her
breathing returned to normal and she switched on the overhead light and lay back against the crumpled pillows.

A glance at her watch told her it was already five thirty and, slipping out of bed, she tiptoed slowly to the window and lifted the blind. Dawn was just breaking, a pale rose-tinted glow in the
east, lightening the dark shadows of the night. Devlin watched as the glow slowly increased in strength, streaks of gold and pink exploding through the dark cloud until finally, the sun silently,
majestically, rose over the horizon exploding into a brightness that encompassed the whole of the sky. Watching the magnificent orb pouring its rays like molten gold over the earth she knew she
would have to make her decision. What right did she have to deprive the child within her of the chance of ever witnessing a sunrise as beautiful and miraculous such as she had just seen?

A sense of calm and peace descended on Devlin. In the distance she could hear bird-song. Her body relaxed as the tension that had been her companion for so long ebbed away and she stood looking
out over the now tranquil grounds, the grass below her like a luxurious emerald carpet. The hibiscus and roses created a voluptuous profusion of colour as they drank in the sun’s life-giving
rays. As she stood quietly watching day’s triumph over night Devlin knew that no matter what happened in the future, she would have her baby. No matter what Lydia, Colin, and the neighbours
thought.

After a while Devlin got back into bed, leaving her blinds open and listened to the dawn chorus. Idly she picked up the health and beauty magazine she had taken from the TV room. She flicked
through the pages, reading whatever caught her interest until an item near the back of the periodical caught her eye. Sitting bolt upright, she read carefully and then neatly tore the section from
the page.

Devlin smiled. Her mind was bright and clear, she felt strong and purposeful. Washing and dressing rapidly she packed away her overnight things. Already she could hear the noise of the tea
trolleys as breakfasts were pushed along the corridors to the faceless ones behind closed doors. Quietly, she opened her door and walked towards the nurse’s station. The nurse, relaxing after
her night shift, looked up in surprise. Before she could speak, Devlin said with authority, ‘I’m not having an abortion. Please give my apologies to the gynaecologist and Mrs Harrison
for any inconvenience I may have caused. The bill for my stay has already been taken care of. Good morning.’ She didn’t wait for a response but walked swiftly down the stairs and out
the front door into the sunlight.

Breathing deeply she stood on the steps for a few moments before striding briskly down the flower-edged drive, her long blond hair lifting behind her in the early morning breeze. Her aches and
pains were gone, her nausea had disappeared, she was ravenously hungry and ready for a hearty breakfast. Rashers, sausages, eggs, pudding, fried bread. She could almost taste it.

Without looking back she walked rapidly and purposefully through the large gates hoping she wouldn’t have difficulty finding a taxi. Already there was plenty of traffic on the road to the
city and it wasn’t long until she was sitting in the comfort of a roomy cab. ‘The London Tara please,’ Devlin instructed crisply, giving the driver the address of the Aer
Lingus-owned hotel where she always stayed when she was in London. The Tara did the best breakfasts in England and she would shortly be tucking into one of them. Her stomach gurgled, reminding her
how hungry she was. Of course she was eating for two now. Sitting back, she smiled and stretched. Her decision was made; it was time to think of the future and the first thing on her agenda was
breakfast.

Six

Caroline Stacey stepped gingerly on the weighing scales in the corner of her bedroom, took a deep breath and looked down. She did a double take. Nine stone five! She’d
lost almost four pounds this week so far. She hugged herself with delight. Just wait until Martin O’Brien saw her in her jeans, the smart alec creep.

She hated Martin O’Brien with a deep and burning hatred. Were the gates of heaven to be closed in her face she could never forgive him for the pain, hurt and awful humiliation he had
caused her.

Her face burned at the memory of the contemptuously cruel words he had spoken to his friend, almost a year ago, not knowing that Caroline could hear. ‘A big lump of lard,’ he had
called her. And worse, he had stood her up on the night of her Debs Ball, leaving her sobbing in an enormous sack of a dress which the dressmaker, lying in her teeth, had told her ‘flattered
her curves.’ Caroline, whose self-esteem was almost non-existent, had pathetically believed her, trying not to see the ungainly bulky figure that filled the mirror. She had pretended she was
losing weight; her waist had certainly gone in.

Nine o’clock arrived. Martin should have been there at eight and she knew in her heart that he was not going to come. She avoided the pitying yet ashamed looks her two brothers were giving
her. Thank God her father was teaching a night class in the local comprehensive. At least she didn’t have to listen to him. It had been bad enough having to get Declan, her brother, to ask
one of his friends to go to her Debs with her.

‘Aw feckin hell, Caroline! Do I have to? All me mates’ll give me an awful slaggin,’ he had growled in irritation.

‘Please Declan,’ she pleaded, in despair at the thought of being the only girl in her class not to have someone to go to her Debs with. Why couldn’t she be like the other
girls, so confident and self-assured, never tongue-tied with boys. Some of them had even slept with their boyfriends. Caroline had envied them so badly . . . she had never even been kissed. But the
worst of the whole affair had been the week after the Debs she had not attended. She had been shopping in town, getting some of the weekly groceries. Hot, tired, she had lugged her parcels up the
stairs of the bus, in the hopes of finding a seat on the upper deck. There was just one, near the front and she sank wearily into it, only to discover in horror that Martin O’Brien, stander
up of fat debs, was in the seat in front. He was chatting to a friend and did not see her.

Even now, nearly a year later on, stones lighter and no longer a schoolgirl but a third level student, Caroline felt a rush of blood to her cheeks as she remembered Martin’s jeering
comment to his friend who had accused him of chickening out of bringing her to the dance.

‘Christ, would you be seen dead with that big lump of lard?’

Caroline would never ever forget the cringing sickening moment that she had heard herself being so cruelly described. Beetroot red, she had got off the bus a stop before the terminus, so she
wouldn’t have to face them, and taken the long way to her house. Heavy-hearted, lard-laden, she had trudged home, locked herself in the bedroom, stripped naked and looked at herself in the
mirror.

Oh Divine Mother, what a sight she had been! Wads of fat bulging everywhere like great rolls of suet, white and yes, lardy looking. Pulling on her large passion-killer of a flannelette
nightdress she had gotten into bed at five o’ clock in the evening, much to the dismay of her father and two brothers who arrived home shortly afterwards for their evening meal.

Caroline smiled at the memory. Putting on her robe she slipped quietly out of the bedroom, noting with satisfaction that her friend Devlin was still asleep in the other bed. She would bring her
up her breakfast in bed for a treat. If it wasn’t for Devlin, she’d never have come this far.

Briskly, she placed strips of bacon, sausages, and tomatoes on the grill, enough for one. In times gone by, she too would have indulged in a large fry-up for breakfast. Now she settled for
grapefruit and a slice of brown bread. Those cruel words and her friendship with Devlin had been a turning point of sorts, she mused, as she sat waiting for the breakfast to cook. Over the last
year her life had certainly changed for the better. Her hands slid down over the outline of her figure. God, she had been so fat! Ever since her mother died four years before, she’d been
fat.

Caroline’s mother had died when she was fourteen and it was since then that she had slowly, steadily and unrelentingly eaten her way through her grief. The youngest child and only girl in
the family, she was dominated by the three males in the house, her father Tony, a maths lecturer, and Declan and Damien, her two brothers. Until her mother died she had been happy enough. Shy and
quiet, Caroline adored her vivacious good-natured mother who was always there for her, who always made a fuss of her little achievements and who made her feel important and cherished. When Caroline
had got her first period, she had been so proud because her mother had said encouragingly, ‘Now you’re a woman, honey, and we have even more in common.’ Caroline had felt ten foot
tall. Her mother was treating her almost like an adult and they were starting to have such fun. The day she had gone to have her first bra fitted they had had such a laugh. Eva Stacey was a big
woman and the fitting cubicle was a rather delicate hardboard affair. As Caroline struggled with unfamiliar hooks and straps, Eva had leaned against the cubicle, causing it to sway unsteadily.
Horror-stricken, Eva and Caroline stared at each other before succumbing to a fit of the giggles that could be heard throughout the lingerie department. The saleswoman had not been amused. Eva
loved town and shopping and each Saturday, mother and daughter would sally forth to hit the shops. On Sundays they’d go to the open-air markets.

Her mother was Caroline’s best friend and when she died suddenly of a heart attack at the age of fifty-one, Caroline had been devastated. Her rock, her pillar of strength, was gone and she
had never felt so alone in her life. Her father, grief-stricken, had just given up on life as his world collapsed around him. He was so caught up in his own grief that he hadn’t seen what her
mother’s death had done to Caroline. He hadn’t seen her increasing unhappiness, her total lack of self-confidence. All he knew was that he had a good daughter who took care of the
house, fed himself and the boys and didn’t go out dancing and boozing like some of the young rossies he taught. It never occurred to him that maybe his daughter might have liked to go out
dancing now and again, that she might have liked some life of her own like her brothers. As long as his dinner was put in front of him and he could go for his pint at nine and then come back home
and do his crossword, he was content.