‘Of course I do. I’ve told you that I’m concerned about their age and how we’ll manage with a baby in the house. Admittedly there’s a lot I have kept to myself,’ she conceded. ‘Because ultimately when it comes to this situation, it’s not our decision to make. It never was. Being annoyed with Jodie was never going to change that and, to be honest, if us being annoyed was the reason she decided to end the pregnancy I’d not be much of a fan of us anyway.’
He looked at her, a little shamefaced. ‘I just wanted more for her.’
‘This isn’t the 1800s, or even the 1960s or 1970s. There is no reason that she can’t have more!’ Niamh had said. ‘The timescale may change, or she might take a different route, but it’s not the end of the world.’
‘I suppose,’ he said. ‘There’s no reason she can’t still build her career and go on to have the teaching position of her dreams. Just like her mum.’
That’s when Niamh’s voice had cracked. ‘I think I need to talk to you about that,’ she said.
He’d been so confused as she’d started to outline just how she felt about teaching at the moment. How she felt she was losing herself. Losing her love for the classroom. Losing her love for… well… everything, and she didn’t know how to cope with it all.
‘You should’ve told me sooner,’ he said, pulling her into a tight embrace.
‘You were being a bit of a grumpy shite,’ she sniffed through her tears. ‘I was afraid to open my mouth.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I know I’ve been a bit out of sorts.’
She waited for him to tell her that she was a grumpy shite too, but he didn’t. She’d like to think this was because she really hadn’t been and she was just being extra hard on herself. But of course, she knew she had been on a hair trigger lately. So she apologised anyway.
And for the first time in weeks, she made sure to still be awake when he came to bed because she so desperately needed to feel his arms around her.
36
THESE ARMS OF MINE
Becca
I’m stuck to the sofa, exhaustion having taken over. Between the weekend away and the drama at the hospital, I am completely, and totally, worn out.
I know I should haul myself up, go and wash my face, brush my teeth and slip into my pyjamas and my bed, but my body does not want to comply. So I sit with Daniel and we stare at the cold embers of the fire together, his head resting on my lap.
At least, I think, at least it is a happy kind of exhausted. A relieved kind. I can still hear the thump thump of that little heartbeat that promised so much.
My finger is hovering over my phone as I try to think of what message I could possibly send to Adam to let him know how much I love him and how proud I am of how he supported Jodie this evening. I saw the fear in his face. I knew what was running through his mind, but he had shown maturity and compassion and had done himself proud. My boy – now a man, I realise – is growing up.
My doorbell rings – the noise making both Daniel and me jump. Unlike Daniel, however, I don’t immediately break into a volley of excited barks in response. It’s almost eleven and no one ever calls to my house at this time. Ever. Unless there is some sort of awful emergency. My heart plummets once again, as my brain scans for all possible awful outcomes to find the one I will worry about most until I’m brave enough to open the door and see who it is. I know it can’t be Adam or Jodie. I know they are safe and sleeping at Niamh’s.
Saul is my first thought. Because Saul is a walking disaster. The doctors in A&E used to joke they’d name a bay after him as he was such a frequent flier. Sprained ankles, broken fingers, on one particularly memorable occasion an arm fractured in three places due to his belief he could perform stunts on hisBMXwithout any practice. But no, I remind myself, Saul has just messaged me and he is fine.
Which brings me swiftly to my biggest, most enduring worry – that something has happened to my mother. Could it be the police at my door? Or my brother Ruairi, pale faced and bearing grim tidings? Could it even be Mrs Bishop, who has zipped over here in an Uber to break some awful news?
That, I think, as I get up to walk through to the hall, would just take the bloody biscuit. Just as I find a sense of inner calm and purpose, something huge would come snowballing into my life to knock me for six. But not in one clean sweep, of course. That would be too easy. This would come in stages – one strike just strong enough to almost but not quite knock me off my feet followed by a dirty big hallion of a strike that would floor me like no other. Please God, I beg, please let my mother be okay.
A big part of me wants to ignore the door. I could pretend I didn’t hear it ring. Or tell myself it was just a hallucination. Surely then whatever was waiting for me on the other side would take the hint and simply go away. I’ll go to bed – since I’m already up on my feet I might as well – and when I wake in the morning it will be likeThe Wizard of Ozand today will just have been a dream.
Maybe I’ll be back in the yurt and I can decide to swim in the sea after all and that will change everything. (I’ve no idea why it would change anything, let alone everything, but I’m happy to cling on to whatever hope I can at this stage, if we’re being real.)
There’s a shadow of a person through the glass at the side of the door. It’s definitely too big to be Mrs Bishop. She’s all of five foot on a good day and bird-like in physique. This figure is tall and broad. Definitely man-like. Should I be scared? What if this is some psychopathic serial killer hunting his next victim? Well, God love him if it is, I think. Because I could probably use someone to take out all my frustration and hurt on. This mother-fudger won’t know what’s hit him.
I’m just getting ready to grab the lamp from the hall table to act as a makeshift weapon when the bell rings again, Daniel barks again and I feel my blood pressure start to skyrocket. I do not need this now.
I’m on the very, very verge of going full Hulk when the figure behind the door calls out and I can hear a muffled, yet familiar, voice.
‘Becs! It’s only me. Let me in, will you, it’s bloody Baltic out here!’
Conal.
Conal is here.
