Three Wise Men, page 10
‘A neighbour commiserated with my mother about it, as it happens. The poor woman was mortified, being approached by a venomous old biddy agog to discuss the contents of her son’s testicles. So if it travelled all the way back up to Omagh then you can be sure tongues have been wagging freely in Dublin. And you’re the only one who knew about the sperm test so it’s a dead cert it went from you to Eimear and then she broadcast it on the RTE news bulletin.’
‘Mick,’ says Gloria as patiently as she can manage, ‘you know very well your sperm count was checked and found to be normal.’
The outrage level continues to soar.
‘I know that and you know that but someone’s got hold of the wrong end of the stick and my reputation is being smeared to hell and back and Eimear’s the odds-on favourite. Now that her marriage is over she’s trying to put the evil eye on yours.’
Gloria inhales deeply. ‘Mick, you’re being unjust – and what’s more you’re straying completely off the point. Now can you turn your attention to deciding if our marriage is worth enough to you – if I’m worth enough to you – to have a baby. That is,’ she corrects herself, ‘to allow medical science to help us have the baby I thought we both wanted.’
‘And if there’s no baby there’s no marriage, right?’ He folds his arms.
‘If you must put it that way.’
As he rocks back and forth on his sofa, Gloria is distracted by the sight of his stomach, still a pudding-sized hillock above his trouserband but no longer the mountain range it once was. Come to think of it, there are no fleshy gaps between his shirt buttons. Good God, has he lost weight? And how could he manage that when she’s certain he’s been living on takeaways since she left him? She realises she’s just accused him of changing the subject but she can’t help herself.
‘Mick, are you on a diet?’ she demands.
He looks smug. ‘No, the weight’s been peeling off me since you stormed off into the night. Granted, I don’t have as much of an appetite as I used to, I have a lot on my mind.’ He looks sanctimonious. ‘I may need to buy some new trousers soon.’ Sanctimony turns to triumph. ‘A size down,’ he adds, in case she hasn’t grasped the significance.
‘I’m delighted for you, you look grand on it,’ she tells him, ignoring the spasm of fury that all her efforts to persuade him to go to a gym or eat the odd salad failed but as soon as she’s not around to cajole there’s a visible difference.
‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘I wish I could say the same for you but you look pale and tired.’
‘I’m not sleeping so well,’ she admits.
‘Eimear wouldn’t be the easiest flatmate either, she’s too particular. Take a look at this place’ – his eyes wander critically around the pastel living room – ‘it’s like a showpiece. There’s no unbuttoning your waistband and getting comfortable in a house like this. It’s a wonder she didn’t tell you to keep me in the kitchen.’
‘Mick,’ she says, ‘I really think we should leave Eimear and her house rules out of this. The bottom line is I want a baby, I need one, and IVF is our only chance. I’m ready to go for it, are you willing?’
Infuriatingly, Mick avoids a straight answer. ‘What about adoption? That’s an option we haven’t discussed.’
She screeches: ‘We’re not talking about adoption here, we’re talking about fertility treatment.’
‘Maybe we should be talking about adoption, it sounds a lot more straightforward than messing with your hormones.’
Through gritted teeth she enunciates: ‘Mick, I have nothing against adoption, certainly it’s something we should investigate, but right now we’re discussing fertility treatment and that’s a mammoth issue on its own without tacking adoption on to the end of it. I’m not ruling out adoption, but I also want to try for a baby of my own, and I need your co-operation for that.’
Gloria slumps back, exhausted.
Mick demands: ‘What if you have the treatment and there’s still no baby. Does that mean you’ll head off again, that you’ll decide the marriage is over a second time? What guarantees do I have?’
She’s smouldering. ‘There you go with your speciality, being negative, you’re so cautious I want to shake you. There are no guarantees, just hopes. Have you never heard of nothing ventured nothing gained? This is ridiculous, we can’t even talk about a baby without being at each other’s throats. It’s definitely all over as we are now, but there’s a chance we can work our differences out with a baby.’
‘So you’re prepared to use a child as a pawn? That’s despicable.’
‘I didn’t mean it that way.’
Gloria inhales and exhales slowly, willing herself to calm down.
She continues: ‘Look, we’ve known each other more than half our lives, we believe we can be happy together – we were once.’
Mick pounces. ‘Exactly, so let’s work at being happy again and leave this baby business alone until we’re sure of the basics.’
‘Sweet Lord but you could teach Hamlet a trick or two about procrastination. I don’t have time to leave it alone, I’m thirty-three this year. Your chances of this treatment working are better the younger you are. I’m old already, my womb and ovaries are ageing every day. My mother had me when she was twenty-five, my granny had her when she was twenty-two. Even if I get pregnant first time I’ll be in my thirty-fourth year before I have a baby, I’ll be ancient among all the other mothers in the labour ward.’
Mick puts his arms on her shoulders and gently shakes her. ‘Get a grip, Glo, women have babies into their forties these days. You’re young still, another six months or even a year won’t make much difference.’
She pushes him away. ‘It might, I can’t take that chance. I need to feel I’m doing everything I can right now.’ Her voice rises, she’s becoming hysterical. ‘Why are you against me, why do I feel I’m the only one in this relationship who wants a baby?’ Tears prickle against her eyelids and she turns her head so Mick won’t see them and accuse her of being unstable or over-emotional or any of the other techniques he uses to end discussions he’s uncomfortable with. She jabs a finger into the hollow at each side of the upper bridge of her nose, a trick to thwart the tear ducts.
Mick’s voice sounds calm now that she’s the one getting upset. ‘Stop being so confrontational, Gloria, you know I’d like to be a father too. But launching head-first into IVF treatment in these circumstances is not just wrong, it’s dangerous. You’re not thinking clearly, you’re overwrought. Come home, let’s glue our lives back together and then we’ll see where we are.’
Her voice trembles despite her best efforts. ‘I’ve told you my condition for returning home, I’m not changing my mind. Either we go together to this open meeting for infertile couples at the hospital next week or I’ll post my wedding ring through the letterbox.’
‘That sounds suspiciously like an ultimatum, Gloria.’
‘That’s because it is an ultimatum, Mick.’
His face leaving the room is streaked with sorrow.
As the door closes, Gloria loses the slim control she has over her emotions and liquid spills down her cheeks in hot, damp trails, dangling along the chin line before plopping on to her shirt.
When Eimear returns, her face is blotchy but she’s cried out – curled up on the sofa and staring vacantly at the door handle.
‘Is it safe to come in?’ Eimear calls from the hall. ‘Are hostilities in progress or has a peace deal been hammered out?’
Her light-hearted tone turns to surprise. ‘You’re sitting in the dark, Glo,’ she exclaims, ‘the curtains aren’t even drawn.’
Eimear switches on a lamp and Gloria shrinks from the beam.
‘Gloria, what’s happened to you? I knew I shouldn’t have gone out, I should’ve waited upstairs in case you needed me.’
‘I’m grand, Eimear, I probably look worse than I am. I’ve just been moping, I meant to wash my face before you landed home but I didn’t manage it.’
Eimear looks at her steadily, then gives her a hug, murmuring, ‘Poor little Gloria’; Gloria leans against her inhaling Oscar de la Renta. They rest quietly, arms wrapped around each other, then Eimear disengages, pats her shoulder and says, ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’
Gloria feels a pathetic urge to pad after her, not to let her out of her sight, but she remains on the sofa listening to the kitchen sounds.
Eimear emerges from the back of the house with a pot of tea and a plate of Jaffa Cakes. She feels her spirits rise – there are few crises which cannot be addressed with Jaffa Cakes, they took the three of them through wobbly exam results, wobbly bank balances, wobbly love lives. Gloria decimates two in rapid succession before she’s able for conversation.
‘Big crowd at the gallery?’ she asks casually.
Eimear looks mildly surprised at this conversational gambit, she’s expecting the dirt to be dished on Mick but Gloria’s not ready for that.
‘So-so. Actually, I only stayed a few minutes, then I sloped off to see an Al Pacino film at The Screen. Knocking on a bit but he’s still undeniably gorgeous in a short sort of a way, he rolled his eyes a lot and chased taller women.’
‘He wouldn’t have to chase me too hard,’ Gloria manages half-heartedly.
‘Me neither. I’d develop a sprain.’
Eimear watches Gloria out of the corner of her eye.
‘Mick called around,’ Gloria says finally.
‘I gathered as much.’
‘We had our usual shouting match. Your neighbours must be cursing us.’
‘They’ve had it too quiet since Jack moved out; they probably miss the pair of us barging at each other.’ She shrugs. ‘Isn’t it better than Fair City and they don’t have to put up with advert breaks.’
Eimear passes the biscuits and asks: ‘Did you raise the fertility treatment with Mick?’
‘I did.’
‘And he wasn’t enamoured of the idea?’
‘That’s putting it mildly. I’m a blackmailer, I’m neurotic, I’m using him as a sperm bank, I’m a silly moo who should come straight home and put all this nonsense behind me. I’m everything except the truth, which is a woman who desperately wants a baby with her husband.’
‘So he said no?’ Eimear lays a sympathetic hand on her arm.
‘To tell you the truth I’m not sure what his answer is. He argued the bit with me and he flounced out but he didn’t say no exactly. I’m sure I would have remembered an uncompromising no. All that stays with me is the hatred and the accusations. Maybe he wants to think it over, he has until next week. I suppose I’ll just have to sit it out and wait to hear from him – or not.’
‘There’s hope then,’ presses Eimear.
‘I suppose,’ Gloria concedes.
‘He’ll calm down and see sense, you can be certain he will. Sure hasn’t he been devoted to you for centuries, he’ll not give you up without a fight.’
‘It’s the fighting that wrecks me,’ she tells Eimear. ‘Every last inch of me is exhausted, I want peace and quiet for a change. Life doesn’t have to be full-scale war, other people seem able to settle their differences amicably – maybe there’s something in the chemistry between Mick and me that makes us essentially incompatible. We’re fine as long as everything runs smoothly but toss a problem or two underfoot and we start floundering.’
‘Gloria, you’re exaggerating,’ says Eimear. ‘You’re feeling depressed and everything appears bleak. You and Mick have been disgustingly blissful for years and years, the rest of us have been consumed with envy at the pair of you, and believe me you will know joy again. It’s only natural that a couple who’ve had their hopes of parenthood thwarted should come a little unstitched at the seams but you’ll work it out for the best, honestly.’
‘Do you really think so?’ she asks doubtfully.
‘I don’t think, I know,’ insists Eimear. ‘I have this theory that everyone has a certain amount of bad luck to wade through in life; some people seem to encounter it in one fell swoop and other people have it spaced out. Maybe you’re in the swoop category, this could be all your bad luck lumped together and you’ll have no more to worry about.’
It’s an explanation that appeals to Gloria. A reluctant smile flashes across her face, followed by the irresistible impulse to say her party piece: ‘Good luck, bad luck, who knows?’
Eimear grabs her with a laugh, almost sending a teacup clattering – which would have upset her far more than Gloria – and as she straightens the clock chimes 1 a.m.
Eimear yawns. ‘Time for bed, said Zebedee. You have the bathroom first, Gloria. I’ll carry this tray through to the kitchen.’
Gloria is on the top stair when the phone rings. She peers over the banister as Eimear answers it – a call so late can only mean trouble.
‘It’s for you.’ Eimear sounds scared. ‘It’s Mick.’
CHAPTER 13
Mick’s been drinking and his words are slurred. Gloria’s instinct is to tell him to ring again at a more civilised time and replace the receiver forcefully (Eimear doesn’t like it slammed). But before she severs the connection, Mick’s disjointed string of words rearrange themselves into a cohesive sentence.
‘Gloria, it’s your father. He died half an hour ago. Your brother’s just phoned here looking for you. He was in a call box and didn’t have much change so I said I’d get you to ring him.’
‘Stop your nonsense, how can Daddy be dead, he isn’t even sick. Away to your bed and sleep it off.’
‘Gloria, I know I’ve been drinking but I’m not drunk and I’m not hallucinating. I have a phone number for you, it’s the hospital pay phone. Rudy’s there now waiting to hear from you. Your father collapsed on his way to bed, your mother called an ambulance but he was dead on arrival. They believe it may have been a heart attack.’
As Gloria dials and waits for the phone to peal out in a corridor of Omagh’s hospital, she’s still expecting her brother to answer and say: ‘He’s fine, he took a bit of a dizzy turn and they’re keeping him in for tests.’
Eimear hovers anxiously but Gloria doesn’t speak to her, she’s too preoccupied with the drumming in her chest and eardrums.
The receiver is lifted on the sixth ring.
‘Is that you, Glo? I was outside having a fag.’
‘Never mind the fags, Rudy, what’s happened to Daddy?’
‘Did Mick not tell you – he’s dead, Gloria.’
His voice sounds reedy, the Tyrone accent heightened by emotion. Dead becomes two syllables, each as ugly as the other. Rudolph chatters on.
‘There were only the two of them in the house. He was watching some sports highlights on television, then he and Mammy said the Rosary, she asked him if he wanted tea and he said no, he didn’t want to be getting up for the bathroom in the night. He stopped the cuckoo clock so it wouldn’t disturb him and headed for bed – Mammy told him she’d sit up and finish her library book, she only had a chapter left.’
He pauses for breath, shallow gulps; Gloria waits with preternatural calm while he continues: ‘Mammy hadn’t read more than a few lines when she heard a crash, she sprang into the hall and saw Daddy had fallen, he was holding on to the banister, slumped three stairs from the top of the landing. She ran up to him, he seemed to be having difficulty breathing and she panicked when she saw his face: it was like parchment.
‘She phoned an ambulance and rushed back to his side. Then she held his hand and talked to him, about the weather, about the Maeve Binchy novel she was reading, about the bulbs she had ready for planting in the garden. She thought she ought to whisper an act of contrition in his ear on his behalf and just as she finished she heard the ambulance siren. She had the front door open before they were parked and while they were taking him out she rang me to meet her at the hospital. By the time I arrived it was all over.’
‘Where’s Mammy now?’ asks Gloria.
‘She won’t leave him, she’s sitting by his bedside, she never takes her eyes off his face.’
‘She isn’t on her own, is she?’
‘No, Noreen’s with her,’ Rudy reassures her. ‘I’m still trying to track down Marlene in London, I’ve rung everyone I can think of and I’ve left a message on her answerphone. I had trouble enough catching up with you.’
Noreen is Rudy’s wife, she and her mother-in-law are great friends and Gloria’s fond of her. Still, it’s galling to think she’s comforting her mother when Gloria’s 112 miles away.
‘I’ll be straight up, I’ll pack a bag,’ she promises rashly, forgetting that she left Mick with the car as well as the house and all its contents when she walked out.
‘Gloria, it’s a three and a half hour drive, you’d be better off with a good night’s sleep. Come up in the morning.’
‘What sleep are any of us likely to get this night? I’ll see you in a few hours – I’ll make straight for the hospital.’
‘We may have taken Mammy home to bed by then.’
‘If you’re not there I’ll know where to find you but I want to see Daddy first.’
‘Whatever you think best – and, Glo, drive carefully.’
‘I’ll run you up,’ offers Eimear, as she turns away from the phone. ‘It won’t be the most comfortable journey in my old Beetle but at least we’ll get you there.’
Gloria is too grateful to demur; the alternative is to swing by Ranelagh and liberate Mick’s car.
‘I’ll throw a few changes of clothes in a bag,’ she tells Eimear, already halfway up the stairs.
The phone rings again and Eimear answers it. Gloria hears her speaking and the tinkle of the disconnection as she roots for anti-perspirant in the bathroom.
‘That was Mick, he offered to drive you up tomorrow.’ Eimear materialises at the door. ‘He’s over the limit or he’d do it tonight.’
Over the limit’s an understatement, Gloria thinks, but she’s too distracted to do other than shake her head and say, ‘I’d prefer to go tonight.’
She can find nothing – where’s her sponge bag? Never mind, she shoves everything into a plastic carrier. A bottle of mouthwash clatters into the bath as she ransacks the shelves.
