‘Duh!’ Niamh says. ‘They come from Smurf Village, which is in the Smurf Forest. Call yourself a fan!’ She rolls her eyes in mock disgust then laughs.
‘I know that!’ I protest. ‘That’s not what I meant though. I meant… how they come about? Like if Smurfette is the only girl Smurf, who births them? She’s a young Smurf – certainly younger than Papa Smurf. So she can’t have birthed them all. And even if she did, that would mean either her “papa” or one of her own children would have to have impregnated her… unless… this is some kind of Smurf miracle and the Smurf Angel Gabriel came down from on high and?—’
‘I beg you please don’t continue with this story. I’m not sure I’ve ever been more disturbed in my life. I knew you’d a sick mind.’ She smiles.
‘I’m just curious!’
‘Do you not remember? The Smurfs are delivered to the Smurf Village by a stork. No immaculate conception needed,’ Deirdre chimes in.
‘You deserve a prize for remembering that,’ Laura says. ‘There’s days I swear I can’t remember my own name.’
‘You and me both.’ Deirdre laughs, and she and Laura walk ahead, falling into their own conversation.
Now it’s just Niamh and me. Maybe it’s time to really check in with her.
‘So what about you, Niamh? A penny for yours? If you don’t mind me saying, you’ve really not been yourself lately.’
‘I’m fine,’ she says, but it’s clear she’s not fine. My even asking the question has brought the shutters down. I can sense a full change in her demeanour.
‘Niamh, we can’t support you if you don’t tell us.’ I try and say it as gently as I can, and bearing in mind all Laura’s wise words at the bonfire last night, but I feel so frustrated with her.
If things have been going wrong for her, why hasn’t she spoken to me about it? We tell each other everything. Or at least, I thought we did.
There’s a pause before she replies. ‘It was just a long week at work. And you know, with everything else with the kids. And it’s January and theSADis at me like a bastard. Combined with this perimenopause horror show… But I’m fine. I’m honestly fine.’
She sounds as if she is trying to convince herself. I have to tread carefully here because I know that, for all her over-sharing and boisterousness, Niamh can be quite a private person. Especially when it comes to things she finds more challenging. In fact, she can even be an occasionally prickly person if she feels she’s being pushed.
‘At least the winter solstice has passed. The days are starting to get longer once again. The end is definitely in sight for these bleak long nights,’ I offer.
‘Aye. I imagine my form will be better come March, or maybe April,’ she says and walks on a few steps ahead of me, signalling the conversation is over even though I don’t think we’re any further forward, not at all. Even though there is the chatter of the women around us, there is no escaping the depth of the awkward silence between us.
As if it can sense the darkness of our mood, the sky seems to cloud over – heavy, dark clouds gathering above us.
We walk on for another couple of minutes, me trying to match Niamh’s pace as she angry stomps towards the site of natural beauty that is normally so peaceful and serene.
Until she stops, suddenly, and turns back to look at me. ‘Actually, you know what? If you want the truth, I am… fed up. To the very back teeth. And it’s not just all those things I’ve just listed, or that I need someone to look at myHRTdose – although I do very much want that to be looked at because what the actual fuck, Becca? How do women go through this every day and just keep going as if their body and mind isn’t trying to kill them or strip whatever sanity they have left from their bones? I am constantly stuck in my own head, thinking about, you know, everything. How it’s all changing. How Paul is being a grumpy shite and I don’t know how to get through to him.’ She starts walking again and I set off alongside her, determined to keep up and to listen and be a good friend.
‘You know what the pair of us are like,’ she says of her marriage as she walks. ‘We balance each other out. If one of us is down, the other does the lifting. We’ve managed to maintain a pretty healthy balance doing just that. But when both of us are down it’s just… pure shite if I’m being honest. Neither of us seems to be in the right place to lift each other up much. In fact, if anything, he’s just irritating the life out of me at the moment. I’d go as far as to say I don’t bloody like him at the moment. What if we’re going to fall apart?’ I can see her start to well up, but she roughly wipes her eyes and just walks faster.
I feel uncomfortable when Niamh expresses any discontent in her marriage. Not that it happens very often. But she and Paul are my living proof that good, strong marriages exist still in this day and age. And in my generation. The generation the world tells us is all too happy to call it a day on their lifelong commitment and head for the divorce courts. Like Simon and I did. Even if that was not a quick or easy decision to make.
Niamh and Paul have not only always been miles away from the divorce courts, but also very obviously still very much in love with each other. They are everything Simon and I were not. And I need them to still be that.
‘Don’t look at me that way,’ Niamh chides. ‘I can read you like a book, Becca Burnside. I’m not saying I’ve fallen out of love with him. Or I want to run away with a younger man – although, if that fella fromBridgertonwas available…’
‘Which one?’ I ask, in a very pathetic attempt to lighten the mood because, if I’m being honest, I have no idea what to say to her.
‘Oh, God… does it matter? Any of them would do. Except maybe Colin,’ she says, her expression perfectly serious. ‘But anyway… I’m not saying it’s all over, just that he is so infuriating at the moment. He’s so concerned about Jodie and worried she’s throwing away her young and free years that, well, it makes me wonder, does he regret settling down? With me? We were still young. Not as young as Jodie and Adam, obviously, but young all the same. I’m not sure what had us in such a rush to grab hold of as many responsibilities as possible.’
She looks so sad that I do the only thing I can think of to do, which is to immediately pull her into a hug. Thankfully she lets me and doesn’t push me to the ground for aggressively hugging her too tight.
‘He loves you, Niamh,’ I say. ‘I think it’s just… well… men don’t really get it. Do they? This whole menopause thing and how it effs with our emotions and our very sense of sanity. And I don’t want to generalise,’ I begin, knowing full well I am absolutely about to walk headfirst into a massive generalisation, ‘but men tend to not think before they speak. I’m not saying they lack empathy, but they absolutely and definitely lack the ability to read the room at times. Of course, I’m no expert, being a single woman who hasn’t lived with a man in a decade.’
‘Your boys are men!’ Niamh protests.
‘They don’t count. They are duty bound to listen to me as their mother. I mean, they don’t always do it but…’
‘No, I understand. And yeah, I think there’s some truth in that, but I also wonder if it’s just that I have become some sort of ginormous bitch or something? My patience is definitely not what it used to be.’
