Whose Life is it Anyway? (17 page)

My mother handed the presents – our presents – to Brian and Sally, who were clearly embarrassed, while Auntie Sheila oohed and aahed and said how marvellous it was and how we shouldn’t spoil them and how generous we were and how good we were and how she hoped we didn’t think that they had come here today expecting presents. It was enough of a gift not to have to spend Christmas alone with ‘him inside’ and how she had hoped and prayed that, for once, they’d have a peaceful Christmas but he’d started again two days ago and – She began to cry and my mother asked us kids to go into the playroom and play.

Children play. Teenagers shuffle around feeling awkward, which was what we did. Well, all of us except Siobhan, who lay on the couch like a beached whale. Liam sat beside her looking a bit lost. Christmas Day in his house probably didn’t seem so bad after all.

Finn broke the silence by asking if they’d seen the new
Back to the Future
movie. Sally said she didn’t go to the cinema and Brian said he’d been supposed to see it two days ago but his father had got drunk, started a fight and been arrested, so he’d gone with his mother to bail him out.

That was a conversation stopper, I can tell you. We shuffled around some more until Siobhan piped up that Uncle Pat had better get a grip on himself because our father wouldn’t be able to pay for him to dry out any more as he had to help her and Liam buy a house once the baby was born.

‘Shut up,’ I hissed. I couldn’t believe she’d said that. The cousins were shocked and embarrassed. ‘Don’t mind her. It’s her hormones. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.’ I blushed at my sister’s insensitivity.

‘My mum said your baby will go to hell because it’s a sin to have sex before marriage,’ said Sally, clearly not as meek and mild as we’d thought.

‘How dare you say that? Your dad’s just a sad old piss-head who bleeds everyone around him dry. If anyone’s going to hell it’s him,’ said the future mother.

‘I hope he does,’ said Brian, quietly. ‘The sooner the better.’

‘That’s your dad you’re talking about,’ said Finn.

‘Has your dad ever turned up to a hurley match drunk out of his head and pissed behind a tree?’

Finn looked appalled. Christmas was beginning to seem more like Hallowe’en. Thankfully, before Brian could tell us a few more horror stories about his dad, Mum popped her head round the door. ‘It’s very quiet in here. Everything all right?’

We nodded, but she sensed the tension and ushered us all into the lounge. Uncle Pat was having a ‘rest’ upstairs – I prayed not in my bed – so we sat in front of a roaring log fire and watched
It’s a Wonderful Life
for the zillionth time. I sank back in the couch, flooded with relief at not having to make conversation any more. Some things were better left unsaid. Even the fact that Siobhan had eaten all the strawberry, coffee and orange Quality Streets didn’t bother me. I had a father who peed in the bathroom. Life was good.

20

After Christmas, Siobhan went from big to absolutely huge. She had to wear tent-type dresses and moaned about her back being sore. Even Mum got fed up and told her that pregnancy wasn’t an illness, it was a natural condition, to stop complaining and get on with it.

‘But you don’t understand, I’m in agony,’ she whinged as Nuala came in and put the kettle on.

‘I had three children, Siobhan. I understand perfectly,’ said Mum.

‘Stop your groaning. You’re young and healthy,’ said Auntie Nuala. ‘Think of those poor pregnant African women walking twenty miles for water and giving birth on the side of a road.’

Siobhan glared at her and waddled out of the room.

‘She’s a regular ray of sunshine,’ said Auntie Nuala.

‘Ah, leave the poor thing alone, she’s just big and uncomfortable,’ said Mum. ‘Besides, she’s bored here all day long. She misses her schoolfriends.’

‘You should never have allowed her leave.’

‘I couldn’t send her in there with a big pregnant belly on her. It wouldn’t have been fair. Besides, with the baby due in March she wouldn’t have been able to sit the exams anyway. She can go back and finish next year, if she wants to.’

‘You should make her go back or she’ll end up a frustrated housewife like the two of us.’ Auntie Nuala sighed.

‘Are you frustrated?’ I asked.

‘No, we’re not,’ said Mum, giving Auntie Nuala a stern look.

‘Well, I am,’ Auntie Nuala said. ‘I wish I’d studied harder, gone to university and had a career.’

‘What would you like to have been?’

‘A lawyer, I think,’ said Auntie Nuala, smiling. ‘I’d have made a very good one.’

‘You’re good at talking, all right,’ said Mum.

‘And you’re very persuasive,’ I added.

‘Oh, well, ’twasn’t to be. I was barefoot and pregnant at twenty. What do you want to be?’ Auntie Nuala asked me.

‘I used to want to be an air-stewardess but now I think that’s kind of crap. I’m thinking of being a beautician.’

Mum choked on her tea. ‘Over my dead body will you be painting people’s toenails. Your father’s paying a fortune for a private education and you’ll not waste it on that rubbish.’

‘Why don’t you be a doctor?’ asked Auntie Nuala.

‘I hate science and I’m crap at it.’

‘OK, an accountant, then.’

‘I’m even worse at maths.’

‘What about a lawyer? You’ve the gift of the gab,’ said Mum.

I shrugged. ‘It seems kind of boring.’

‘OK, let’s try a different tack. What are you good at?’ asked Auntie Nuala.

‘English and tennis.’

‘Well, it’s a bit late for Wimbledon so what about journalism?’

I’d never thought of being a journalist. It sounded like a great idea. I could write about pop bands and work for
Just Seventeen
. It’d be fantastic.

‘Thanks, Auntie Nuala, that’s exactly what I’ll do.’ I beamed.

‘It’s no profession for a girl.’ Mum sniffed. ‘They’re a rough lot, those journalists. You’re going to university, young lady, and while you’re there you can figure out what it is you want to be. But whatever happens, you’re not going to mess up like Siobhan. So put your head down and work on your maths and science. Do you hear me?’

‘Loud and clear,’ I muttered, as Auntie Nuala winked at me.

A few weeks later I was making myself a sandwich when I heard Siobhan shouting my name. Assuming she was being her usual dramatic self, I ignored her and continued to pile HP sauce on to the bread… until I heard a bloodcurdling howl. I dropped the knife and ran into her room.

‘Are you deaf?’ she roared. ‘I’ve been calling you for the last ten minutes.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘My waters have broken.’

I stared at her blankly. She might as well have been talking Swahili.

‘Don’t just stand there! Get Mum! The baby’s coming.’

‘She’s gone out.’

‘What? Where?’

‘To have her hair done.’

‘Jesus Christ! Well, call an ambulance –
DO SOMETHING
!’ she screamed, as water trickled down her leg on to the carpet.

I ran in and dialled 999. Then I boiled some water, ripped up a sheet and went back to her.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ she snapped. ‘And why have you cut up that sheet? It’s one of my favourites.’

‘They do it in the movies when someone’s having a baby. The doctor always says, “Get me some hot water and sheets.”’

‘What for?’

I shrugged. ‘They never show you what happens next – you just hear the baby crying and it’s all over.’

‘How long did the ambulance say it’d take?’

‘Ten minutes.’

‘Aaaarggh – I don’t think I can wait that long. I’m going to die – the baby’s going to die. I’m in agony,’ she said, doubling over.

I began to panic. What if she had the baby there on the floor? What was I supposed to do with the sheets and the hot water? I got up to ring Dad’s office, but Siobhan grabbed my arm. ‘Don’t leave me – I’m scared,’ she said, beginning to cry.

‘It’s OK, Siobhan, you’ll be fine,’ I said, trying to reassure her.

‘What the hell do you know – with your sheets and boiling water? I want Mum.’

‘I’ll ring the hairdresser.’

‘
No
– the baby’s coming!
Oh my God
– it’s coming out. Help!’

Jesus, please don’t come now, I prayed. I haven’t a clue what I’m doing. Stay in there! Was I going to have to look up my sister’s fanny? If I saw the head could I push it back in until the ambulance arrived?

Siobhan screeched again and began to roll around on the floor. ‘I want Liam! I want Mum! I want Dad! Why the hell are you the only one in?’

‘I wanted to go out, but Mum made me stay here in case anything happened,’ I snapped. I’d rather be in double maths right now, I thought, fuming.

‘Oh, the pain – it’s excruciating. Do something!’

‘Like what?’

‘Wipe my brow.’

I put a corner of the sheet into the water and wiped.

‘Ooow! You stupid cow, you burnt me!’

Fuck fuck fuck
. Where was everyone? Before Siobhan had a chance to abuse me again I heard a siren.

I charged out to open the door for the ambulance men, who rushed in to my screaming sister. They had a midwife with them who checked Siobhan, then told her firmly to calm down. ‘You’ve only just started labour, love. You’ve a long way to go. You need to stop shouting and conserve some energy for later. You’re not even one centimetre dilated.’

‘Give me something for the pain,’ she begged.

‘Too early for that. You’ll have to grin and bear it for a bit longer,’ said the midwife.

As they were putting her into the back of the ambulance she barked orders to me: ‘… and don’t forget to pack my favourite pillow and my new pink pyjamas and bring me some magazines and…’

Thankfully, Mum arrived back before I killed my sister, and took over. She calmed Siobhan, packed a bag for her in the space of two minutes and went with her to the hospital.

I was told to track down Dad, Liam and Finn and tell them what was going on.

Eight hours later, at ten past one in the morning of Easter Sunday, Mum, Dad, Finn and I were still waiting for Siobhan’s baby to arrive. All we could hear from the labour room was Siobhan blaming Liam for her pain and suffering. It went on and on until eventually, what seemed like days later, Liam burst out of the room and told us breathlessly, ‘It’s a girl.’

We were allowed in to see mother and child. Siobhan was lying in the bed looking pretty shell-shocked. For once she seemed at a loss for words. The baby was lying on her chest.

The minute Dad saw his granddaughter he welled up and proceeded to blow his nose loudly into his hankie while Mum picked up the little red bundle and rocked her like an old pro. ‘Do you want to hold her?’ she asked me.

I shook my head. The baby had bloody mush on her head and was roaring. I wanted to get away from her.

Mum offered the baby to Finn, who looked as if he was about to vomit. ‘No way. She’s covered in gunk.’ He squirmed.

‘I’d like to hold her,’ said Dad, and once Mum had placed the baby into his arms, I knew that this child was number one in his life. The sliver of opportunity I’d had to be the number-one girl, after Siobhan’s loose behaviour, was officially gone. He positively melted as he gazed down at his granddaughter.

‘She’s red hair like her mother, and born on Easter Sunday. Imagine that!’ said Dad, smiling at Siobhan, who had now been completely forgiven. In typical Siobhan style, she had produced a kid with red hair on the day Jesus rose from the dead. I’d no hope.

‘Have you decided on a name?’ Mum asked.

‘Muireann,’ said Siobhan.

I groaned. It was just plain cruel to call a child who was going to grow up in North London Muireann. No one would ever be able to pronounce or spell it and she’d hate it.

‘Gorgeous,’ said Dad.

‘Beautiful,’ said Mum.

‘Can we go now?’ asked Finn.

After a further half-hour of cooing and who-does-she-look-like, we left. On our way out we ran into Liam’s father. Dad bristled.

‘Have you seen her?’ Mr O’Loughlin asked.

‘Of course, and she’s the most beautiful child you ever saw. The image of her mother,’ said Dad.

‘How is Siobhan?’

‘She’s worn out, poor thing. I hope you’re not going to upset her. I won’t have it,’ said Dad, threateningly.

‘No, not at all. Liam called and, well, I just had to see the little one.’

‘Is your wife with you?’ asked Mum.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately she can’t forgive Liam.’

‘She’s a fool,’ snapped Dad. ‘Liam’s a lovely lad and you should be proud of him.’

‘You’re right, he is. I’ve missed him these last few months. Look, I owe you an apology for the way we handled the situation. I’m not proud of myself and I hope to make it up to you.’

‘It’s not us you need to apologize to, it’s your son and our daughter,’ said Mum.

‘That’s why I’m here,’ said Mr O’Loughlin. ‘To try to make amends.’

‘You’ve a lot of ground to cover,’ said Dad.

Mr O’Loughlin nodded. Suddenly he seemed smaller, as if he’d shrunk since the last time we saw him. He looked sad too, as if life had got the better of him. Gone was the confident swagger, and his accent was more normal.

‘They’ve called her Muireann,’ said Mum.

‘What?’ he said, clearly shocked.

‘I know, I think it’s rotten too,’ I piped up, delighted that someone else thought it was awful.

‘It was my mother’s name,’ said Mr O’Loughlin, choking up.

21

Siobhan spent the next two weeks at home, sitting on the couch like the Queen of Sheba while endless relations called in to see the baby and shower her with gifts. They ooohed and aaahed and endless discussions ensued: Muireann’s nose was O’Flaherty but her eyes were more O’Loughlin; her forehead was the image of Dad’s but her chin was definitely like Mum’s side of the family; she had a look of someone who’d been here before…

‘She’s like a narky, red-faced alien,’ said Finn, who was fed up listening to baby talk. ‘Every time she does a poo we have to celebrate.’

‘I know,’ I agreed, equally sick of hearing about Muireann’s bowel movements. Even Dad was obsessed with them.