‘Why do you ask that?’ Laura asks, trying not to choke on her words.
‘Mum, I’m not stupid. Things aren’t great. When I thoughtabout it, and talking to my friends, they seem to think that you are going to get divorced.’
‘And what do you feel about that?’ Laura continues to stroke her daughter’s hair.
‘I don’t like it,’ Robyn says, with a slight shake to her voice. ‘But you both deserve to be happy.’
‘You deserve to be happy too,’ Laura says, tears glistening in her eyes as she thinks of just what that word ‘happy’ means. No, happy isn’t sustainable all the time. Life isn’t inherently sunshine and rainbows, but surely it should be more frequent than sadness. Or loneliness when you’re married. Or feeling as if the person who should see you and love you for who you are the most, doesn’t.
‘We all do,’ Robyn says. ‘Even if it means you and Dad splitting up.’
This girl, who at times seems so clueless, appears to have it worked out much more simply than Laura does.
‘Has Dad said anything to you about wanting to split up?’ she asks, immediately feeling guilty. Is she putting her daughter in an awkward position?
Robyn rolls onto her back and looks up at her mother. ‘Mum, he doesn’t have to, does he?’
‘I suppose not,’ Laura admits, and a tear rolls down her cheek, landing with an unceremonious plop on her daughter’s face.
‘There’s no need to cry you know,’ Robyn says. ‘It’s okay. I’ve spoken to my friends. They’ve said I’ll get guilt presents and double Christmas. It will be fine.’
If Laura wasn’t looking at her daughter in that moment, she would just think the same old ditzy girl who has been driving her mad this past week with her teenage selfishness was back. But she saw the look on Robyn’s face. The same ‘be brave’expression her daughter had worn when Kitty died and she had to walk with her mother behind her granny’s coffin. There might be more of Kitty O’Hagan in this girl than Laura had thought.
Still, she thinks, she’s still going to go ahead with her plan to make sure her daughter understands, respects and even adopts more of her granny’s fire – the same fire that is burning bright in Laura now.
‘Next week,’ she says. ‘On Saturday. Don’t make any plans. We’re doing something together. Me and you.’
‘Is it something nice or something that is absolutely zero craic like cleaning? Because I’m going to pull the child-of-divorce card in that case and cry off it.’ Robyn’s humour impresses her mother, as does her maturity. Maybe she isn’t that different to Abby after all.
‘It’s something nice,’ Laura says. ‘I promise. I mean, you’ll have to keep an open mind, but it’s nice. It’s fun even. And I’ll take you to Starbucks after.’
‘It’s a deal,’ Robyn says, rolling back onto her side. She doesn’t jump up and scarper back to her room, as she normally would. She stays with her head on Laura’s knee and lets her mother continue to stroke her hair.
Both of them thinking about the impending changes in their lives.
40
REALLY REALLY
Becca
By the time Conal and I go back into my mother’s room, she and Mrs Bishop are both staring at a phone watching an episode of the daytime soapHope Street.
I can hear the Northern Irish accents of the cast sounding around the room.
Whatever it was they were discussing before has clearly been resolved but when I try to ask a question I get shushed by my mother. It seems that talking while there is drama ongoing in the fictional Port Devine is strictly off limits.
Mrs Bishop does take a moment to take her gaze from the TV to say hello to Conal though, and if I’m not wrong I notice a little blush on her cheeks. I think she might just have a little crush – but she can keep her hands to herself. This man is mine and I am not afraid to fight her for him.
Conal tells her he is delighted to see her and that she always brightens his day. He sure knows how to play to a crowd. Mrs Bishop blushes even more before my mother nudges her, askingher a question about the fictional goings-on onscreen, and she goes back to watching.
It’s clear this is not the time to have the big chat with my mother, but I can’t really put it off all that much longer. If I don’t speak up, the sneaky beggar will be off booking herself into some home somewhere out of some sense of guilt or not wanting to be a burden and I can’t let that happen.
I don’t want to treat her like a child. She of course has the right to have a say in her care, but I want to be able to show her from the off that we have it all in hand and there is no reluctance or resentment in my wish to care for her at home.
The only fly in the ointment, and it might actually be a blessing in disguise, is that the discussion regarding moving in with Conal is indefinitely on hold. I don’t have to worry about hurting his feelings because the decision is outside of my control. And I don’t have to worry about putting myself under pressure when my brain is still having a conniption at the thought of putting all my trust in another relationship – no matter how perfect the man.
I just have to make sure that caring for Mum is organised in such a way that I have free time to be with Conal away from my childhood home. I can’t imagine my mother taking too well to me having overnight guests of the male variety. Roisin Burnside has come a long way in accepting the reality of modern living, but I can’t think of anything less conducive to mutual orgasm than going at it hammer and tongs knowing that your ailing mother might hear your every move and moan in the next room. Nightmares are made of such things.
