‘What’s the group?’ he asks, and I’m starting to think that something is completely off with this man. I’m not sure he has blinked in the entire time he has been here. My face starts to heat up and I’m not sure if it is with embarrassment or just another hot flush.
‘It’s for women,’ Niamh interjects. ‘In their forties. You know, lots of talk about menopause, and periods and vulval atrophy.’ It’s a bold move – one that relies on most men preferring to be anywhere else than near a discussion about periods. Of course, non-blinking Roy Cropper might just be the kind of man who gets off on talk of atrophied vulvas. He might be Derry’s own answer to Ed Gein for all I know…
‘Tea and biscuits,’ he says, and it’s more of a statement than a question. He looks around the room with his unblinking eyes until he spots the table by the wall, laid out with coffee cups and plates of freshly baked shortbread.
‘For the group,’ Niamh says, her tone now just hovering on the line between businesslike and scary science teacher.
He nods, turns on his heel and walks to the table, where he helps himself to two shortbread biscuits, which he carries not to the wide-open public space but to the edge of our reserved area. I am sure he would have taken a cup of tea or coffee had it been available, but the café has not yet brought them out.
Niamh moves to confront him, but I grab her hand. ‘I’d nearly be afraid to rattle his cage too much. Let him have his biscuits. Hopefully he’ll clear off after that.’
She doesn’t look impressed. ‘Well, he better, because if he doesn’t then I’ll have to remove him myself.’
‘Hang on there, Phil Mitchell,’ Laura says and laughs. ‘Hopefully we don’t have to go that far.’
‘Maybe we won’t want to,’ I say with a grimace. ‘The way things stand, he might be our only taker.’
At that, the door swings open again and Deirdre walks in and seems to have brought a couple of friends with her. I should’ve known I could rely on her. We’d all known she was a good sort from the first time we met in the bustling dining room of our Goddess retreat. She’d been incredibly brave, coming to the retreat on her own but was clearly in need of a friend, or three. We’d all agreed she was, as we say in Derry, ‘dead on’ and had quickly invited her to join us for the rest of the retreat sessions. This club has been set up thanks to her encouragement and so I am delighted to see her happy and welcoming smile across the room.
‘The cavalry’s arrived!’ she chirps with a smile, immediately crossing the room to first pull Laura, then Niamh, then me into a hug. ‘This is really exciting. I’ve been buzzing about it all day. Fair play to you, Becca, for getting it off the ground. You’re some woman for one woman and all that.’
I do my best to brush off the compliment, the Irish person inme finding it exceptionally difficult to accept words of praise or encouragement.
‘Stop it!’ Deirdre chides. ‘You’re allowed the odd moment of pride in yourself, you know!’
I’m not sure that’s true, I think, remembering when my cranky Primary 5 teacher told the whole class that pride was a sin and we should never express our delight at our own achievements for fear of spending an eternity burning in hell. Is it any wonder we are all a bit touched in the head in this country?
The two women who followed her in are standing, looking a little nervous, behind her. ‘Oh,’ Deirdre says. ‘This is my friend, Paula. She’s fifty-one but I didn’t think that would be a problem.’
‘Hey!’ says Paula, a very smiley woman with rosy cheeks and a mop of curly red hair. ‘No need to tell the world all my secrets!’
‘You’re very welcome here, Paula,’ I say, determined that she is made to feel as comfortable as possible. ‘It’s not all that far away for me – you can give me the heads-up on what horrors await.’
‘And spoil the surprise? Not a bit!’ She laughs.
‘I’m… I’m Nuala,’ the petite whisp of a woman who stands behind her says, stepping sideways and out of Paula’s shadow. ‘I saw your article inNorthern People. Is it okay if I join in?’
I think for a second of the man currently munching his way through the shortbread biscuits, scattering crumbs everywhere with abandon, and how he just marched in, took a seat and isn’t one bit bothered that this might not be the right place for him. And then these women – these lovely, friendly women – are almost apologetic for attending a meeting designed for them. If you ever want to know the difference between the sexes – it is thus. Suitably qualified women apologise for their existence in a space. Men who, frankly, don’t even know how to blink, take a seat as if they own the place.
‘Of course you’re very welcome,’ I say, with perhaps a little too much enthusiasm. She’s the only one here who didn’t already know me, or wasn’t dragged along by a person who does. Apart from Roy Cropper, of course, but I’m pretty sure for the purposes of this story he does not count.
‘We have badges,’ Laura says brightly, pointing towards the bowl on the table. ‘It’s going to be a great night!’
2
GIRLS’ NIGHT IN
Becca
Last night, I think, was just the opener for the real challenge. In the end we had seven women attend – and that’s not including me, Laura or Niamh. So really, it was ten. I did go home with forty-one badges in my bag, including my own. It would’ve been forty but Roy Cropper decided he was having one of those as well. ‘I’m forty-eight,’ he told me, and I know we are not supposed to judge people by their appearances but if he really is forty-eight then that poor soul clearly had a very tough paper round as a child.
Either that or I am absolutely deluding myself that I can look in any way fresh and youthful. I’d put Roy at sixty-five if he’s a day. He was delighted toddling off with himself and a doggy bag of shortbread after staying for the full length of the slightly awkward meeting.
I’d come home feeling deflated, and wondering if I’m just kidding myself that there’s a demand for a club like this in the first place. Maybe Niamh is right – all my menopausal sistas aretoo tired from doingeverythingto be gallivanting to a café midweek to talk about oestrogen depletion. Not that we intend the club to be about oestrogen depletion – of course – but more a place where we can have a bit of craic, try new things and remember the old adage that life begins at forty. Or something.
It doesn’t feel very begin-y to me right now. I am bone tired and desperate for a long, deep sleep, preferably with no night sweats or early-hours insomnia. But it’s not going to happen – not the long sleep bit anyway – because tonight I have the company of a younger, more lively woman who seems determined to party the night away.
With her parents away for the night I’d cheerfully agreed to babysit beautiful Clara. She sleeps over at my house two or three nights a week, but usually both her father – my own now twenty-year-old baby – and her mother – Jodie, who happens to be Niamh’s eldest child – are here to do the heavy lifting. They are great parents, both of them having taken to it much easier than Niamh and I could have hoped for. Tonight, though, they are getting a much-needed night off on my insistence. They deserve the chance to remember they really are just two kids themselves who deserve to have a bit of fun. But right now, it is baby Clara who is looking to have some fun of her own.
