The Fall Girl (13 page)

After attaching the carrycot back on to the pram-frame, I wheel him into the centre and head straight for a store where I see baby accessories in the window.

‘Can I help you?' a young woman asks.

‘I'd like to buy a car seat for my baby.'

She escorts me down to the aisle and shows me the range.

There are so many, I can't decide.

‘A boy?' she says.

‘Yes.' How does she know?

‘That eliminates these so,' she says, pointing to two that are pink and purple. ‘How about this green one? It's suitable for newborn to nine months. And it has a padded handle, which makes it easier for you to carry.'

‘Yeah, fine.' It's the blue teddies on his baby-gro; that's how she knows.

The baby starts to cry.

‘Sounds like he's ready for a feed.'

‘He is. Where's the nearest coffee shop?'

‘Next door.'

She offers to hold on to the car seat for me until I've fed the baby and had my coffee.

‘I know what it's like,' she says, swiping my credit card, ‘having to lug a load of stuff around when you have a baby in tow. I've a four-month-old daughter myself. Just back to work after maternity leave, worse luck. Is your baby sleeping the night yet?'

‘Yes,' I say, signing the receipt.

‘You're lucky. I'm still getting up twice a night with my little monkey.'

As she hands me back my credit card, I notice that she's not wearing a wedding ring and wonder if she's raising the child on her own.

‘Do you do all the night feeds?'

‘I have to. I'm a single mum.'

Well, then, if she can do it, so can I.

‘Me too.'

She cranes her neck and looks in at the wailing baby in the pram. ‘Oh, poor babba.'

First I go into the Ladies to rinse out the bottle with hot water.

‘Ssh ssh.' I can't pacify him. My feet are slippery in my sandals. I can smell the perspiration from under my arms.

‘Ssh ssh.' I could just leave him, walk away, get in the car, drive off. Someone would take care of him.

But I can't. I cannot fail. I must succeed. I can and I will take care of this child. Do you hear me, Mother? Are you listening? You didn't think I'd be a good mother; fuck you! Just you wait and see. He's hungry, that's all.

Everyone turns and stares as we enter the coffee shop. A waitress says I can leave the pram in the corner.

‘Can I get you anything?' she asks, pulling out a chair for me.

‘White coffee, please,' I say, sitting down and trying to settle the baby in my arms.

Two old ladies smile at me sympathetically as I struggle to open the second carton of Cow and Gate milk.

‘Will I hold him for ya, sweetheart?' one of them says, tottering over to me and taking him anyway. ‘What's his name?'

‘Joseph,' I say, thinking of my father.

‘Ah, you could steal him, couldn't you?' she says, looking back at her friend.

I did. I did steal him, but I didn't mean to; it just happened.

I become tearful again as I pour in the milk and tighten the cap on the bottle.

‘God bless him,' the woman says, handing him back to me. ‘The old baby blues, is it, love?'

I nod.

‘We've all been through it, sweetheart; it'll pass.' She pulls a tissue from up her sleeve, leaves it on the table and joins her
friend again. I can't pick it up, my hands are busy, so I dab my cheek on my sleeve.

The baby is glugging back the milk, his curious eyes sweeping over every inch of my face.

‘Who's a happy baby now?' the waitress cheeps, smiling at him and putting the coffee down in front of me. ‘Would you like anything to eat with that?'

‘No, thanks; I'm grand.'

The two old ladies natter, smiling over at me every so often and nodding their encouragement. I like the attention, how nice everyone is being to me, the automatic respect I'm getting just because I'm a mother. For the first time in years, I'm visible. I'm inside the circle, not skulking around the outside, afraid to cross the line.

‘Thanks,' I whisper, kissing the baby's forehead. ‘Thanks, Joseph.'

And if he's a boy, so what? Why should I have assumed that he was a girl? I didn't think he was Baby Fall, did I? I just came to the wrong conclusion. But there's no reason why him being a boy should change the situation, is there? He could still have been abandoned. This could still be fate, right?

‘Take care of yourself, sweetheart,' the old woman says as she gets up to leave.

‘Aye, and look after that wee babby,' her friend croaks, leaning on her walking stick.

‘Thanks. I will.' I smile without telling myself to do so.

I check the time; it's ten to five.

Joseph is resting his head on my shoulder now. I'm rubbing his back to relieve his wind. There's a smell of new life off him; it's like breathing in hope.

By the time his bottle is empty, I'm the only customer left and he's falling asleep. As I gather my things to leave, the
waitress wheels the pram over to me and I lay Joseph on my cardigan.

‘The bottle spilled on the sheet.'

‘One of those days, is it? Don't worry, we all have them,' she says, holding the door open for me.

‘What time does the supermarket close at?'

‘Seven o'clock; you've loads of time yet.'

It's a quick, easy scoot around the aisles as I fill the basket on the bottom of the pram with all the things I need. At the checkout, I pack five bags and place them in the basket.

When I go in to collect the car seat, the girl who'd served me earlier tells a young male employee to carry it out to the car for me. He helps me to fold the pram and to secure the car seat with the safety belt. I strap Joseph in. He doesn't stir.

It's the first hotel I come across.

‘A double room with a cot,' I tell the receptionist. ‘My husband will be joining me tomorrow.'

‘Certainly. How many nights?'

‘Just two.'

It's only now I realize that I'm in Kilkenny. There are several leaflets stacked in stands advertising nearby tourist attractions. Casually, I pick up a few and put them in my handbag. Joseph is sleeping in his new seat at my feet. Phones are ringing. Keys are dangling from hooks. A digital clock tells the time in cities all over the world – 13.13 in New York. Lucky numbers.

‘Would you fill this in for me, please?' The receptionist hands me a clipboard and I write in my details on the check-in form.

‘Would you like the porter to take your luggage up to your room?'

‘Yes, thanks. I've a few bags in the boot of the car.'

The porter follows me to the car and carries my shopping and my overnight bag up to my room.

Settled at last, I put the car seat on the floor by the bed, draw the curtains, flop on to the mattress and close my eyes.

In the visitors' room today, a man burst into tears when a young boy walked across the room and hugged him. It's like Mrs Scully said, there's nothing as sad as to see a grown man cry.

It's a year since Aunty Lily's death. Nancy and Mrs Scully, the local postmistress, call to the house one afternoon to talk to my mother about filing an official objection to the planning permission granted for the construction of twenty-four council houses on the outskirts of the village. I'm in the middle of making bread and butter pudding.

‘If it goes ahead,' my mother says, ‘we may kiss goodbye to village life as we know it.'

Mrs Scully suggests that the villagers sign a petition. She'll be able to nab them all when they call in for their pensions and children's allowances.

‘And by the way, Rita,' she says, ‘Herbert's retiring. Didn't you tell me at some stage that Joe had applied for the Crosslea post?'

‘He did when we moved here first. But that's almost ten years ago now.'

‘Well, it'll be up for grabs in August. Wouldn't that be a handy number for him? Sure he could tip home for his breakfast every morning and all.'

‘There'll not be too many tears shed over Herbert's departure,' Nancy says. ‘Talk about a contrary article.'

‘You know, I'd swear he eats a bowl of wasps for his breakfast every morning,' Mrs Scully says. ‘Oh, it'd be lovely to have an agreeable man like Joe about the place. I'm telling you, Rita,' she points her teaspoon at my mother, ‘you got a good one there.'

‘Joe's a brick,' Nancy says, ‘there's no doubt about it. The way he took over the running of the house when you were looking after Lily; you'd not find another man in the country to fill his shoes.'

‘You did as much and more yourself, Nancy,' my mother says, lifting the teapot. ‘Anyone for a hot drop?'

‘Aye, thanks,' Mrs Scully says, holding out her teacup. ‘By the way, I'm very sorry I missed the anniversary Mass last week, Rita. I didn't hear a thing about it till it was all over.'

‘Not to worry,' my mother says.

‘Any word from Xavier at all?' Nancy asks.

‘No.' My mother shakes her head. ‘Not a dickybird.'

‘I can't get over him not keeping in touch,' Nancy says. ‘It maddens me when I think of how much support ye gave him in his hour of need.'

‘Sure, there's not much point in him keeping in touch with us,' my mother says. ‘We only knew each other a lock of months altogether.'

‘All the same,' Nancy says, ‘the odd phone call wouldn't go amiss.'

‘Will you ever forget him the day of the funeral?' Mrs Scully looks from my mother to Nancy. ‘Only for Joe, he'd have
been in on top of poor Lily in her grave.' She sighs and blesses herself. ‘He was a sorry sight.'

‘It doesn't seem like a year ago, does it?' Nancy says, rubbing her knees in a circular motion and gazing at the floor. ‘Where does the time go at all?'

Mrs Scully sips her tea. ‘How are you bearing up yourself, Rita?'

‘Arragh,' my mother says, picking up stray crumbs and flicking them on to her side plate, ‘as well as can be expected, I suppose.'

‘Daddy still cries in the middle of the night,' I say, scooping a handful of raisins from the bag and sprinkling them over a layer of bread soldiers. ‘I heard him.'

Something about the way the three women swish their heads round and stare at me makes me think that they don't believe me.

‘Honest, I did,' I cross my heart, ‘loads of times.'

Mrs Scully pats her chest. ‘God, but there's nothin' as sad as to see a grown man cry.'

The two visitors look into the distance, frowning and shaking their heads. My mother unsettles me with her stony, unwavering gaze.

In bed that night, the crying goes on for longer than usual. I sit at the edge of my bed shivering, my bare feet dangling inches above the floor. For warmth, I tuck my hands into the sleeves of my nightdress as I listen out for the sound of my mother's footsteps on the landing; she's bound to hear him.

After a few minutes, I tell myself that she must be asleep, but in my heart I know that she probably isn't. I tiptoe across my bedroom and stand with my hand on the doorknob. The curtains flicker and a streetlight winks at me as if for good
luck. I don't want my mother to hear the door squeak open, so I pull it towards me inch by inch. My eyes are accustomed to the darkness now and I can see that my father's bedroom door is ajar and that his lamp is on. Feeling like a thief in the night, I skim across the landing and slip through the gap in the door. He's kneeling down, his upper body crouched across the bed, head in his hands, his shoulders shuddering. The blankets on one side of the bed are pulled back.

‘What's wrong, Daddy?' I whisper, touching his shoulder.

He jolts and looks up at me, wiping his shiny face with the back of his hands. ‘What are you doing out of bed at this hour of the night? You should be asleep.'

‘I can't sleep.' I sit on the warm sheet where he'd been lying. ‘I hate it when you cry. It makes me feel … worried.'

‘I think, at nine years of age, you're a bit young to be worrying, love.'

‘Nine and a half.'

He sighs.

‘Are you crying because of Aunty Lily?'

‘You're shaking with the cold, love.' He tugs at the bedclothes and covers my legs. I lie back, resting my head on his pillow and tucking my feet under my bottom.

‘To answer your question – yes, I suppose I am crying for your Aunty Lily … partly anyway,' he says, getting up and sitting on the edge of the bed. ‘But for your mother as well.'

‘Why? She's not sick too, is she?'

‘No, no, love, not at all. Your mother's in perfect health, thank God. It's just that it's heartbreaking to see her so upset.'

‘Oh.'

‘They were very close, your mother and her sister. It's just terrible that things ended the way they did.'

‘Mmm. I think so too, Daddy. I really liked Aunty Lily.'

‘I know you did, and she was very fond of you too.'

‘Yeah,' I say, feeling a little sad myself now.

‘Your mother practically reared her, you know.'

‘Because their mammy died?'

‘Aye.'

‘Who had to do all the cooking and cleaning and stuff ?'

‘Your mother.'

‘
And
looked after Aunty Lily?'

‘Yes.'

‘Janey! What age was she?'

‘Only fourteen. Lily was nine.'

‘Did Mammy not have to go to school?'

‘She stayed in school for a while, but she had to pack it in, in the end.'

‘Why?'

‘Her father's orders.'

‘Did she not want to leave school?'

‘No. She was a very clever girl, your mother. She could have made something of herself if she'd had half a chance.'

‘Did Aunty Lily like school?'