I knocked on the glass of the front door and a slender, beardy type tiptoed over and held a finger to his lips. ‘It’s the story of Famous Seamus. How he won the love of the doctor’s daughter.’
Emily, Helen, Anna and I exchanged baffled looks, followed him in and took our place on the floor. Straight away, I was worried. Mum’s accent was more Irish than I’d ever heard it before and the ‘Musha’ and ‘Wisha’ hit rate per sentence was alarmingly high.
‘… Wisha, me prime boy Seamus could do it all. Reversing tractors, making reeks, and as for the dancing! Musha, he was the tidiest dancer you ever saw, he could dance on a plate…’
I was mortified, she was making such a show of herself. But a glance at the assembled faces gave me pause for thought: they were spellbound. Every person there was angled towards her as though she was a magnet and they were iron filings. You could have heard a pin drop.
‘He could jive, he could line dance, he could do an eight-hand reel. But he had brains too, musha, brains to burn! Great, he was, at the book-learning…’
‘“Book learning”?’ Emily whispered. ‘What is she like?’
‘Sshhh,’ a poster girl for tie-dyeing hissed fiercely at her.
‘… he’d the heart of every woman in Ireland broke. Every mother in the townland had her eye on him.’ A professionally timed beat. ‘And not just for their daughters!’
Much laughter ensued and I took advantage of the disturbance to make wind-it-up gestures at her. She saw and acknowledged. Mind you, she looked disappointed.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she cut across the laughter, ‘ladies and gentlemen. As you can see, my daughters have arrived and want to take me away to the Viper Room.’
Instantly, several heads snapped around and glowered.
‘So reluctantly I have to take my leave of ye.’
‘“Ye”?’ Helen questioned. ‘“Ye”?’
‘Couldn’tja wait five minutes?’ a large pony-tailed man turned to us and asked aggressively. ‘We wanna hear the end of the story.’
‘Yeah,’ someone else called. ‘Let Johnny Depp wait.’
How was it we were getting the blame? ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Makes no odds to us.’
‘Wisha,’ Mum acted coy. ‘I’d no idea ye were enjoying it so much. Sure, if ye insist…’
‘WE INSIST!’ the room erupted, then one of her front-row acolytes touched her gently and said, ‘Carry on, Mammy Walsh.’
Mammy Walsh carried on for quite some time, and by the time they finally let her go, she was floating on air and so was Dad. Unfortunately, things got a little ugly out on the street when she discovered that she wasn’t really going to the Viper Room, that it had only been a ruse – agreed upon by herself, we had to remind her – to get her out.
‘I want to go to the Viper Room.’ She sounded like a spoilt child.
‘You can’t, you’re too old!’ Helen said.
‘You said it was oldies’ night.’
‘It was a joke. And we’re knackered, our jet lag has caught up with us, we’re going home to bed.
Mum turned an Et Tu, Brute? look on Emily and me. ‘I’ve a screenplay to write,’ Emily said nervously. ‘I need my zeds.’
‘And I’m helping her. ‘Night all, see you tomorrow.’
Emily and I hurried into the house and closed the door behind us, but from the street we could still hear her plaintively insisting, ‘But I’m on my holidays. You lot are no fun.’
40
The holiday that was supposed to do Garv and me the world of good did the exact opposite. We returned frayed and shrouded in a dreadful suspicion that everything we did together would go wrong, that we were travelling on a non-stop, one-way ticket to disasterville, and that the more we struggled to extricate ourselves, the more trapped we’d become.
The atmosphere remained strained on our return and once or twice I caught Garv looking my way, with blame in his eyes. But about ten days after we got back, we had an appointment with Dr Collins, my gynaecologist, where we tried once again to find a reason why I’d miscarried twice. It was in that room that the final prop was removed for Garv and me. I can pinpoint, almost to the second, the exact moment that my marriage keeled over and died.
However, often when fatal things are happening, you don’t know at the time that they’re fatal. You get an inkling that they’re Not Good, that they Haven’t Helped, but only the passage of time will reveal just how bad they are.
I blame routines. Routines mask disaster. You think if you’re getting up in the morning, putting on clean clothes, going to work, eating from time to time and watching East-Enders that everything’s under control. And we were doing all that, but dragging the weight of our moribund relationship with us.
After the first miscarriage, we’d both been eager to try again immediately. We’d had a lot of hope that a new pregnancy would erase our sadness. This time was different. I think I was afraid of getting pregnant again, in case I miscarried once more. But nevertheless, I consulted my temperature thing daily, and Garv and I dutifully had sex if the signs were auspicious. Until one day something that had never before happened, happened. We were in bed and Garv was about to enter me, when I noticed that he was having trouble. His erection had gone a bit bendy and flippy.
‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.
‘It’s just a bit…’ he said, trying again to hit the target.
But he hadn’t a hope, and before my eyes it got softer, softer, softer, shrinking in seconds from a hard baton to a shy marshmallow.
‘Sorry,’ he said, rolling away from me and staring at nothing. ‘It must be the drink.’
‘You only had two pints. It’s me, you don’t fancy me any more.’
‘It’s not you, of course I fancy you.’
He rolled back to me and we lay wrapped around each other, rigid in our separate miseries.
The next time we tried, it happened again and Garv was wretched. I knew, from Cosmopolitan and sessions with my girlfriends, that this was the worst thing that could happen to a man, that he felt his very manhood was failing him. But I didn’t have what it took to provide comfort. I was wound too tightly around myself; sore that he’d rejected me and angry at his uselessness – how could we ever have a baby with this carry on?
Emily, Helen, Anna and I exchanged baffled looks, followed him in and took our place on the floor. Straight away, I was worried. Mum’s accent was more Irish than I’d ever heard it before and the ‘Musha’ and ‘Wisha’ hit rate per sentence was alarmingly high.
‘… Wisha, me prime boy Seamus could do it all. Reversing tractors, making reeks, and as for the dancing! Musha, he was the tidiest dancer you ever saw, he could dance on a plate…’
I was mortified, she was making such a show of herself. But a glance at the assembled faces gave me pause for thought: they were spellbound. Every person there was angled towards her as though she was a magnet and they were iron filings. You could have heard a pin drop.
‘He could jive, he could line dance, he could do an eight-hand reel. But he had brains too, musha, brains to burn! Great, he was, at the book-learning…’
‘“Book learning”?’ Emily whispered. ‘What is she like?’
‘Sshhh,’ a poster girl for tie-dyeing hissed fiercely at her.
‘… he’d the heart of every woman in Ireland broke. Every mother in the townland had her eye on him.’ A professionally timed beat. ‘And not just for their daughters!’
Much laughter ensued and I took advantage of the disturbance to make wind-it-up gestures at her. She saw and acknowledged. Mind you, she looked disappointed.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she cut across the laughter, ‘ladies and gentlemen. As you can see, my daughters have arrived and want to take me away to the Viper Room.’
Instantly, several heads snapped around and glowered.
‘So reluctantly I have to take my leave of ye.’
‘“Ye”?’ Helen questioned. ‘“Ye”?’
‘Couldn’tja wait five minutes?’ a large pony-tailed man turned to us and asked aggressively. ‘We wanna hear the end of the story.’
‘Yeah,’ someone else called. ‘Let Johnny Depp wait.’
How was it we were getting the blame? ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Makes no odds to us.’
‘Wisha,’ Mum acted coy. ‘I’d no idea ye were enjoying it so much. Sure, if ye insist…’
‘WE INSIST!’ the room erupted, then one of her front-row acolytes touched her gently and said, ‘Carry on, Mammy Walsh.’
Mammy Walsh carried on for quite some time, and by the time they finally let her go, she was floating on air and so was Dad. Unfortunately, things got a little ugly out on the street when she discovered that she wasn’t really going to the Viper Room, that it had only been a ruse – agreed upon by herself, we had to remind her – to get her out.
‘I want to go to the Viper Room.’ She sounded like a spoilt child.
‘You can’t, you’re too old!’ Helen said.
‘You said it was oldies’ night.’
‘It was a joke. And we’re knackered, our jet lag has caught up with us, we’re going home to bed.
Mum turned an Et Tu, Brute? look on Emily and me. ‘I’ve a screenplay to write,’ Emily said nervously. ‘I need my zeds.’
‘And I’m helping her. ‘Night all, see you tomorrow.’
Emily and I hurried into the house and closed the door behind us, but from the street we could still hear her plaintively insisting, ‘But I’m on my holidays. You lot are no fun.’
40
The holiday that was supposed to do Garv and me the world of good did the exact opposite. We returned frayed and shrouded in a dreadful suspicion that everything we did together would go wrong, that we were travelling on a non-stop, one-way ticket to disasterville, and that the more we struggled to extricate ourselves, the more trapped we’d become.
The atmosphere remained strained on our return and once or twice I caught Garv looking my way, with blame in his eyes. But about ten days after we got back, we had an appointment with Dr Collins, my gynaecologist, where we tried once again to find a reason why I’d miscarried twice. It was in that room that the final prop was removed for Garv and me. I can pinpoint, almost to the second, the exact moment that my marriage keeled over and died.
However, often when fatal things are happening, you don’t know at the time that they’re fatal. You get an inkling that they’re Not Good, that they Haven’t Helped, but only the passage of time will reveal just how bad they are.
I blame routines. Routines mask disaster. You think if you’re getting up in the morning, putting on clean clothes, going to work, eating from time to time and watching East-Enders that everything’s under control. And we were doing all that, but dragging the weight of our moribund relationship with us.
After the first miscarriage, we’d both been eager to try again immediately. We’d had a lot of hope that a new pregnancy would erase our sadness. This time was different. I think I was afraid of getting pregnant again, in case I miscarried once more. But nevertheless, I consulted my temperature thing daily, and Garv and I dutifully had sex if the signs were auspicious. Until one day something that had never before happened, happened. We were in bed and Garv was about to enter me, when I noticed that he was having trouble. His erection had gone a bit bendy and flippy.
‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.
‘It’s just a bit…’ he said, trying again to hit the target.
But he hadn’t a hope, and before my eyes it got softer, softer, softer, shrinking in seconds from a hard baton to a shy marshmallow.
‘Sorry,’ he said, rolling away from me and staring at nothing. ‘It must be the drink.’
‘You only had two pints. It’s me, you don’t fancy me any more.’
‘It’s not you, of course I fancy you.’
He rolled back to me and we lay wrapped around each other, rigid in our separate miseries.
The next time we tried, it happened again and Garv was wretched. I knew, from Cosmopolitan and sessions with my girlfriends, that this was the worst thing that could happen to a man, that he felt his very manhood was failing him. But I didn’t have what it took to provide comfort. I was wound too tightly around myself; sore that he’d rejected me and angry at his uselessness – how could we ever have a baby with this carry on?
