Niamh bristles. ‘It’s precisely because of everything that’s going on,’ she says, tersely, trying not to slip into the same Incredible Hulk mode she did with Year 11 earlier. ‘I need a break, Paul. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m struggling at the moment. Between work and the menopause and Jodie…’
‘You don’t think I’m struggling too?’ he asks, sitting forward.
‘I didn’t say that,’ she says, willing herself to stay calm. ‘I just said I need a break. And Becca was offered the chance to bring Laura and me to a retreat this weekend. For free. I’m taking that chance.’
He gives his head a little shake and she imagines giving his entire body a little shake. A sick, heavy feeling of dread nestles in her stomach. This is Paul. Her Paul. And right now – this very second – she could gladly tell him to go and eff himself.
‘Sounds like it’s a done deal then,’ he says, in a tone so defeated Niamh would almost swear she’d dropped a major bomb on him – such as telling him she wanted a divorce, or was having an affair, or was moving to her dream Hag Cottage by the Sea with her wild garden and wilder hair.
‘It is,’ she says, realising she doesn’t even have the energy to tell him what happened today in school. That she had cried in the prep room. That she feels she is losing her mind. That menopause is kicking her square in the vagina, even though she is wearing those blasted patches. That she is angry at just about everyone in her life right now – not least him.
‘Well, I suppose there’s nothing else to say,’ he replies, petulance dripping from every word. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I want to catch up with my programmes.’
He lifts the remote again and points it towards theTV, while Niamh tries to summon the energy to get up, go upstairs, ignore the stench from the swamp of despair and climb under the covers.
16
A VERY PARTICULAR SET OF SKILLS
Becca
‘Well, sure, won’t it be nice to have a wee baby in the family again after all these years? If God is good to me, I’ll live long enough to see it.’
My mother is the antithesis of Simon. She didn’t so much as blink as we told her the news. No, she said it would be ‘nice’ and I saw the tension leave my son’s body in an instant.
Of course, being my mother, she couldn’t get through her response without alluding to her own demise (‘It’s coming, Rebecca. One of these days. You may enjoy me now because this time next year I could be pushing up the daisies!’ is a frequent retort).
‘Of course you’ll live long enough to see it,’ I scold. ‘You’re going nowhere, Mum. Remember, I’ve told you that. You’re here for the duration.’
‘Aye, well. Maybe. We’ll see, won’t we?’ She winks at me and I know she is well aware how her teasing sets me on edge. Still, she can’t stop her cheeky side from escaping every now and again and today she must be feeling extra cheeky.
‘If you’re not careful, I’ll make sure you’re gone myself!’ I tease back.
She smiles. ‘Sure, you know I’m only joking, Rebecca. I’ve no plans on shuffling off this mortal coil any time soon. And sure, hasn’t this just given me the motivation I need to make sure to stick around. Hang on one moment!’ she says, getting up out of her chair and leaving the room.
‘Well, I wasn’t expecting that,’ Adam says.
‘Why? Did you think she’d cast you out? I told you that she loves the bones of you and there is nothing in the world that could change that. You need to start believing me, pet.’
I take his hand and give it a squeeze. ‘Besides, your granny has overseen enough crises in her life to be able to tell what’s a worry and what’s not. She practically carried me through my divorce with your dad. And then losing Grandad…’ Those last words still have the power to stop me in my tracks. Even if only for a moment. Even now, it doesn’t feel real that my father is gone. Adam squeezes my hand and it’s enough to bring me back into the here and now. ‘Anyway, as I was saying. It’s not a tragedy and nor is it a scandal like it would’ve been back in your granny’s day. Have faith in her!’
At that, my mother bustles her way back into her living room with two large shopping bags. I immediately recognise them and can’t help but smile. Sitting back down in her chair, she reaches into the first bag and pulls out a stack of patterns – glossy pages with images of cardigans, jumpers, hats and scarves on the front.
‘Rebecca, you go through those and pull out any of the baby ones for me. I’ll have to get started.’
I do as I’m told and as I’m thumbing my way through the pile, she reaches into the second bag and pulls out a selection of tiny woollen hats, mittens and a couple of blankets. ‘What is it they used to say on theTV? Here’s one I made earlier? Well, here’s a few. I know the colours might not be to your choosing, but sure you let me know what colours you’d like, son, and I’ll get to work.’
She hands over the items, in a variety of colours from baby pink to dark purple, and smiles broadly like a child handing over their artwork after a day at school. Adam starts looking through them.
‘Granny, these are brilliant. Did you knit these yourself?’
My mother’s face clouds over. ‘Indeed I did not knit them myself, Adam. That’s not knitting. It’s crochet and it’s a whole other set of skills.’
I should probably have warned my son that his granny takes the art of crochet very, very seriously indeed. In fact, there’s a touch of the Liam Neeson inTakenmenace about her when she starts to explain the difference between knitting and crochet to anyone who dares mistake the two.
It had always been this way – but since my father died, her fervour over crochet has ratcheted up several gears. There’s not a baby born in the parish who isn’t furnished with a full pram set almost as soon as it is ejected from the womb. And yes, I might be exaggerating – but only slightly.
I should have realised that the news she was to have a great-grandchild would only send this habit into turbo-charged orbit. I hope her crochet hooks can hold out to it.
