Three Wise Men, page 12
‘Mine’s grey already,’ says Eimear, in a clumsy effort to drag the conversation away from babies – they make her think of Jack.
‘Body hair as well?’ enquires Kate.
‘Do you mind!’ Eimear rolls her eyes in pretend-disgust. ‘I just have a few grey hairs under my fringe, nothing my hairdresser can’t handle.’
‘Ah, the tumultuous-tressed Terry from Curl Up and Dye,’ breathes Kate. ‘Tell me, Mulligan, does Terry ever go to the salon in civvies or is it always the full drag-queen spangles and fishnets?’
‘I think I saw him once in jeans,’ she ponders, ‘but they had puce satin kick-pleats. And he was also wearing a gold sequinned belt and matching stilettos. Does that count as dressing down?’
‘I work with someone who remembers him at college when he was Terry Terrible, lead singer in a punk-meets-Goth-meets-missed the boat band,’ volunteers Gloria. ‘She said he was gorgeous.’
‘He’s still gorgeous,’ Eimear promises.
There’s a lull, then Kate wonders aloud what happened to change Mick’s mind about IVF.
‘He wants me back so we’re able to negotiate. I’ve told him it’s the IVF and me, either he takes both or none of us,’ says Gloria.
‘Hey, you’ve learned how to play hardball,’ enthuses Kate.
‘It’s no game,’ Gloria is heated. ‘I want a baby. It’s not like wanting a new coat or a new house, it’s a real need and pain like no other – it’s a bereavement, a cavern, a stomach-churning ache. People seem to assume this is about some selfish urge to replicate yourself but it’s not. I’d adopt a baby tomorrow if I could, except no one wants to give them up for adoption any more. What am I supposed to do? Buy a foreign baby on the black market? This is something I can do right now. This is something I AM doing right now.’
‘Way to go, Glo!’ Kate pretends to wave a football scarf between outstretched arms. ‘I’ve never seen you so assertive, this biological clock of yours is obviously having a positive effect on you.’
‘So, Gloria and Mick and baby make three,’ says Eimear, ‘another of those lucky trios.’
Gloria nods. ‘I always did like odd numbers.’
‘So he’s definitely agreed to go through with it?’
‘Why wouldn’t he?’ Gloria’s adrenaline is pumping. ‘He’s not the one who’ll be shot full of hormones so her ovaries go into overdrive, he’s not the one who’ll have daily injections up the backside and surgical instruments shoved up the fanny, he’s not the one who’ll have to walk around with two or three embryos inside, willing them to cling on – all of them or one of them or any combination you like – pleading and bargaining with God that they’ll survive. Please, God, let them take root and I’ll never ask you for so much as a lost set of keys again. All Mick has to do is jerk off.’
Eimear and Kate are torn between admiration and horror. Kate recovers first.
‘Gloria, your language has taken a turn for the worse since you started reading up on this IVF business,’ she says, sham-severely.
‘It has, hasn’t it,’ replies Gloria, decidedly pleased with herself. ‘But look, I’m the one who has to go through it, not him.’
‘He’ll have to go through it with you,’ Kate points out.
‘A bit of hand-holding,’ she shrugs. ‘It’s hardly in the same category.’
‘I think you’re being a little hard on him,’ Kate disagrees.
Gloria tosses her head.
‘How do you know so much about IVF?’ Eimear asks. ‘You can’t have gleaned all that exquisite detail about injections in the rump from a brochure.’
‘I’ve visited someone who’s been through it three times – a neighbour put me in touch with her.’
‘Great. Don’t her babies make you miserable though – broody?’
Gloria regards Eimear bleakly. ‘She doesn’t have any babies. She had three tries and three failures.’
‘Poor woman,’ murmurs Eimear; dimly she hears something similar from Kate. ‘And …’ she hesitates, on uncertain ground now, ‘are you still going ahead with it, even knowing …’
‘What choice do I have?’ Gloria sounds jaded. ‘It’s maybe no babies one way and definitely no babies the other.’
For a while, they simply sit there. Then Kate stands up and switches on the radio, as John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John insist, ‘You’re the one that I want.’ The three of them adored Grease, they went to see the film four times until pocket money supplies dried up. That was back in the summer of ’78 – they even took to wearing ankle socks but they didn’t catch on in Omagh. Too draughty.
‘My granny used to say St Anthony was the man to get things done so long as you paid for his favours,’ says Kate.
‘I don’t need to pay for sperm, Mick will give me his free,’ replies Gloria.
‘Most men would, they’re remarkably spendthrift with their favours,’ adds Eimear, thinking of Jack. Far from charitably.
‘If you pray to St Anthony and promise him you’ll slip the parish priest a hefty wedge, you’re guaranteed to be stepping out in stretch-waist trousers in no time,’ says Kate.
‘Stretch-waist trousers, life couldn’t be so cruel,’ shudders Gloria.
‘You’ll wear them and be glad of them,’ predicts Kate. ‘I’ve been through pregnancy twice with my sisters, remember.’
‘How much do you think I should promise St Anthony, Kate?’ she asks.
‘How much is your treatment? Offer him a percentage of that, ten per cent or something.’
‘It’s two grand plus the cost of the drugs but you can claim that back from the health board,’ replies Gloria.
‘Ten per cent is two hundred pounds,’ works out Eimear. ‘St Anthony’s rates sound high.’
‘My granny never discussed his charges but I doubt if she ever offered him more than a half-crown,’ says Kate.
‘That’s twelve and a half pence, and there are no half-pennies any more,’ Eimear interprets again. ‘Which will buy a third of a pint of milk or a couple of those winegums you love, Glo. Anyone know how much a pint of milk was when we were seven so we can convert the money?’
‘Don’t be a sap,’ they chorus. ‘Seven-year-olds don’t go round buying pints of milk with their pocket money.’
‘Maybe there’s a halfway point between half a crown and two hundred pounds,’ suggests Gloria.
‘Mind you,’ interjects Kate, ‘my granny probably never asked Anto for anything more than a missing ring. It’s hardly in the same league as providing a baby.’
‘How about thirty pounds, would that do the trick?’ Gloria anxiously scans their faces.
‘That sounds about right,’ Eimear tells her, although she hasn’t a clue.
‘Look at it this way,’ says Kate, ‘you’re spending several thousand pounds, the odd thirty here or there won’t make much odds.’
‘That sounds like you’re telling me I should give him more,’ replies Gloria. ‘Do you think thirty pounds is too stingy?’
‘No, thirty’s a good round number. Although so’s fifty,’ says Kate.
‘Fine, I’ll promise him fifty. You’d make a great fund-raiser, McGlade, the church doesn’t know what it’s lost in you.’
After they’ve waved Kate off Eimear admits: ‘I may have to consider the St Anthony option myself if I’m ever to persuade Jack to come home. Don’t know what I was thinking of kicking him out, it’s a damn sight easier to smash something than to patch it up.’ She sighs and massages the back of her neck. ‘Oh, Glo, I’m going to miss having you around to untidy the place once Mick whisks you off home to your Ranelagh hatchery.’
Gloria takes over the massage operation, the gentle movement of her fingers belying the brusqueness of her tone. ‘Get up the yard, Eimear, I drive you to distraction.’
‘You keep me company.’
‘I can still do that, I’ll be around every night giving you progress checks, you’ll be sick of the sight of me.’
Eimear turns and takes Gloria’s hands in hers.
‘Tell me truly, Glo, does Mick honestly think IVF’s a good idea or is he going with the flow?’
Gloria’s mouth purses over her teeth. ‘You know how men are. He’s not enamoured of the notion but as soon as there’s a baby to show for it he’ll think it was his call all along.’
‘And if he doesn’t?’
‘Then I’ll be a single mother. But at least I’ll be a mother.’
CHAPTER 15
‘Make a wish,’ orders Gloria.
‘I don’t know what to wish for,’ protests Eimear.
‘Don’t tell me you have everything you want in the world, Mulligan,’ Kate raises an eyebrow.
‘Far from it, I can’t boil it down to just one.’
‘But you’re only allowed one wish,’ Gloria reminds her.
‘That’s why I want to get the wording right, maybe edge in two wishes for the price of one.’
‘I’ve already made my wish,’ says Kate.
‘Are you certain-sure you’re allowed to wish here, Gloria?’ checks Eimear.
‘Where else would you wish but on an angel?’ asks Gloria, reasonably enough.
Which is why the friends are standing at the foot of Killiney Hill, on the outskirts of Dublin, stroking one of the wings on the giant angel, and a fine fellow he is. If ever an angel could make your wishes come true it’s the Killiney statue – he’s a bronze, athletic specimen with a bare chest. Not one of your wimpy asexual marble models in a nightie.
Eimear reads the lettering on the base of the statue. ‘Bad news, girls, he’s not an angel at all he’s Daedalus. We’ll all spiral into freefall if we expect him to make our wishes come true.’
‘Good news, bad news, who knows,’ responds Kate. ‘It’s true he fell – but he also flew. I’d as soon take my chances on Daedalus as Raphael.’
Gloria glances back at the road. ‘Bono lives around here somewhere, I bet the angel helped out with a few of his wishes.’
Kate is scornful. ‘You don’t honestly think he came up to the statue and said, “How about a number one hit, big fella? There’ll be something extra on the collection plate for yourself.”’
Gloria adopts a hurt expression. She always was one skin thinner than the others but Eimear’s noticed that she seems to have shed another since her father’s death, you can’t tease her about anything. Kate wanders off to tug at some bushes while they make their wishes.
‘All done?’ she calls back. ‘We’d better start climbing if we want to see the view before it mists over.’
They trail after her, Gloria carrying the rug, Eimear with the nibbles and Kate setting a cracking pace with the wine in her backpack.
‘What did you wish for?’ Gloria asks.
‘You know I can’t tell you, it won’t come true if I do,’ Eimear points out.
Gloria looks crushed.
‘Let’s try guessing what Kate wished for,’ she suggests to distract her. ‘I bet she wants Pearse back, that’s why she’s in such a foul mood. She’s sorry she let him slip through her fingers.’
Gloria gives Eimear a sidelong look. ‘I doubt that she does want Pearse back, I think it’s a dodo between them.’
‘What makes you so sure?’
She hesitates, then laughs and fakes a croaky voice. ‘I’m the old crone of the woods, I know all, I see all.’
‘But do you tell all?’ jokes Eimear.
Gloria returns to her normal voice. ‘My lips are sealed. What did you wish for? I hope you remembered my mother’s advice: “Be careful what you wish for, it might come true.”’
Kate overhears and stumbles, unnerved.
Eimear doesn’t notice, she’s concentrating on her wish: a jumble of winning Jack back and pretending the split never happened and promising not to pay attention to his roving eye if he returns and willing him to lose his flirtatious ways – but then he wouldn’t be Jack, would he, and heavens above, if the angel can make sense of that morass then he must be a supernatural being.
As for Gloria … you don’t need to be a genius to work out what a person is hankering after when they embark on fertility treatment. They’re wishing on the magical doctors, on the enchanted medicine, on the spin of the dice – it’s all down to luck.
At the summit, hearts pumping after the climb, the girls shade their eyes and gaze out at Howth, Ireland’s continental drift, deceptively close across a narrow stretch of water. It’s a Viking name and doesn’t it just sound like one.
‘It’s Viking for port,’ says Eimear.
‘What is?’ asks Kate.
‘Howth.’
Kate giggles. ‘You can just imagine the longships rowing into the headland and all these strapping lads in horned helmets leaping out with their long blond plaits flying. “You have rape, Olaf, I’m on pillage patrol and Erik’s taking care of plunder.” And Olaf going, “Oh no, not rape again, I’m barely recovered from the last session. Can’t I do plunder for a change?’”
Eimear joins in the fun. ‘All the villagers start fleeing and the maidens are saying to each other, “The bad news is, the Vikings are coming.” “What’s the good news?” “The Vikings are coming.”’
‘Good news, bad news, who knows?’ calls Gloria, semi-prone on the ground, where she’s arranging the rug. ‘Chuck us the corkscrew, Kate.’
Wine on a sunny day is a truth drug, Eimear reflects. You start off thinking, ‘I must go easy here,’ but after the first glass you couldn’t care less. Besides, they’re supposed to be bonding, the three wise men as a threesome having fun for a change. Like before.
‘Should you be drinking in your condition?’ asks Kate, refilling Gloria’s glass.
‘What condition would that be: hopeful? Self-deluded? Drugged up to the eyeballs? Anyway I’m having half-half –’ she waves the Ballygowan bottle – ‘so I’m only going to end up half as tipsy as you two.’
‘But you’re twice as susceptible to the demon drink,’ Kate points out, ‘so that makes us even-stevens. And you don’t know what effect your sniffer plus booze might have on your system.’
‘Give her a break, Kate,’ intervenes Eimear. ‘None of us are driving, we’re getting the Dart back into town, and I don’t see what harm a couple of glasses can do the girl. She’s only just started her sniffer, it’s hardly had time to work its way into the pores yet. Here, Glo, dote, have something to soak up the drink.’
‘Gobbles!’ Gloria shrieks, with more enthusiasm than a few olives deserve, commandeering the plastic pot and rolling over with her face towards the sun. If she had a tail it would be wagging.
‘You do have your sniffer with you, don’t you, Glo?’ adds Eimear and Gloria nods sleepily.
She has to carry the sniffer about with her, it’s to be taken every six hours day and night to suppress her hormones. Then they can inject her with a new set of hormones conducive to kicking her ovaries into overdrive. That way she’ll produce ten eggs in the month instead of just one and there’ll be ten chances of an egg being fertilised instead of a solitary one.
‘I’m becoming quite an expert on this IVF lark,’ remarks Eimear.
‘There don’t seem to be many larks about it,’ responds Kate.
They lean back against a rock, eyes closed. After a while, Eimear opens hers, sips and casts a speculative glance at her companion.
‘So, Kate, how’s life treating you?’
‘Can’t complain.’
‘You know how to take it on the chin. Lost your devoted acolyte, Pearse, and you never once whine – it’s simply business as usual.’
‘Pearse and I were a temporary arrangement.’
‘If four years is your idea of a temporary arrangement you have extraordinarily high expectations for permanence.’ Eimear splutters into her wine as a laugh catches in the hollow of her throat.
Kate joins in and a companionable glow spreads between them. Gloria has nodded off – they’re not surprised, she sets her alarm clock for 4 a.m. every night to spray hormone suppressants up her nostrils.
‘After a relationship turns sour, there’s such an overwhelming sense of relief when you’re finally free that it carries you through the times you might be feeling regretful or lonely,’ volunteers Kate.
‘That’s only if you want the relationship to be over, Kate. If someone else makes a unilateral decision and ends it for you then you’re not exactly bathed in blessed relief.’
‘Sorry, Mulligan, that was self-obsessed of me,’ she whispers. ‘How are you holding up? I know I haven’t exactly been a tower of strength for you to lean on but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been thinking of you. And Gloria keeps me posted on your state of, um … on your state.’
‘You were going to say state of mind, weren’t you,’ Eimear tells her. ‘My state of mind’s in a state of chassis. But it’s nothing a good wallop of alcohol can’t straighten out.’ She leans across and opens another bottle.
‘Alcohol never solved anything,’ says Kate and Eimear looks up in surprise, it’s not like her to moralise. ‘But it makes you forget what it was you wanted solving in the first place.’ Kate holds out her own glass with a wry smile.
‘I think we’ve lost Gloria.’ Kate nods across at their dozing friend balancing the olives on her stomach.
‘It’s the dawn chorus alarm calls, she finds it tough getting back to sleep.’
‘I know, I hope it’s worth it.’
‘She and Mick think so, I don’t know who else can judge,’ says Eimear.
‘I’m not sure Mick does but that’s between the two of them, we can only wish them well,’ says Kate.
‘Aren’t you turning mellow in your old age.’
‘It’s the wine, it takes the whine out of life,’ she puns, and they hold their hands across the top of their glasses to contain the plonk while they giggle.
‘Kate.’
‘Mmmm.’
‘I have a theory about you.’
‘Jaysus, a teory, dat’s dangerous territory,’ she says in her desperate version of a Dublin accent. ‘All right, Mulligan, hit me with it.’
Only Kate calls her Mulligan, it strips years off her when she hears the name, it reminds her of her old life. She doesn’t even think of herself as Eimear Mulligan any more, she sloughed it off so easily to become Eimear O’Brien, married to Jack O’Brien, the catch of their generation who slipped through her fingers.
