Rainy Days & Tuesdays Page 9

  When we are finished, and he tells me he loves me, I let him – but more than that I let myself believe him.

  Chapter 10

  I wake in the morning to Jack’s usual medley of songs. Today we are being treated to the CBeebies overture – shouted and not sung at the top of his lungs. Looking at the clock I see it has gone nine and I can hardly believe it. Aidan stirs beside me, turning and putting his arm around me, pulling me back into bed as I’m just about to go and rescue the wee munchkin from his cot.

  “He’s grand for the moment,” Aidan says, “So stay here, give me a cuddle and tell me you love me.”

  “I love you,” I say grinning.

  “Enough for a second performance?” he laughs, moving closer as I wriggle away from him.

  “Not with Jack awake next door,” I answer, shocking myself by feeling remarkably in the mood for the suggested encore.

  “I’ll try and get home early tonight,” he says, stretching out in the bed.

  “Won’t it be really busy?”

  “Well, it will be, but there are certain perks in being manager, aren’t there?” he grins.

  “Manager!?” I squeal.

  “Yep, Matt was true to his word. I’ve got my promotion and he says if this works out I could get the lead job in the new place.”

  I lean over and kiss my husband full on the lips, ignoring his stinking morning breath. “I’m so proud of you,” I grin, and then I go and get Jack just to boast to him about how clever his daddy is.

  When we are dressed I phone my parents to tell them the good news. They are delighted, and actually quite relieved. They’ve always worried slightly about the fact the financial burden in our house has fallen on my shoulders for the majority of our married life. Daddy in particular is old school – a man should be the provider – and I know he was secretly disappointed I went back to work after Jack was born. No amount of protestation on my part that I actually wanted to return to work cut it with Daddy who just rolled his eyes a lot and offered up a few more prayers.

  “We’ll have to go down there some night for a few drinks,” Mammy said.

  “As long as you don’t bring Himself,” I laugh, immediately knowing that my kind, lovely daddy would hate to spend more than two seconds inside Jackson’s, a bar famed for its cocktails, dancing on top of the bar and loud music. It was our answer to Coyote Ugly – known locally as Buck Ugly – and not the place for a good Catholic like my dad.

  Mammy on the other hand would have a ball. After a few vodkas I would be fighting to keep her off the bar and that was what I loved about her – she knew just how to enjoy herself. Sometimes when she was lost in singing, dancing and woohooing with her friends I would see that same innocence in her that I saw in Jack at the beach. She simply didn’t give a damn. Perhaps that was the product of the hurt of her past, or the privilege of age but whatever it was I hoped it was one trait I would inherit when I hit my late fifties.

  “Meet me here later,” she said. “We’ll go and get him a wee present to say congratulations.”

  “Sounds like a plan, Mammy,” I say, before hanging up and getting myself ready.

  I strap Jack into his buggy and we walk the short distance to my parents’ house. Aidan sometimes gets frustrated that we live so close to the in-laws, but then I remind him that if we didn’t I would just annoy him all the more instead of clearing round there for a cuppa.

  As the day is so nice Mammy and I decide to walk into town. I know the two-mile walk will most likely kill me so before we leave I jokingly remind Daddy where my will is kept. He rolls his eyes to heaven and gives me a hug, offering to hang on to Jack while we do our shopping. I decline – mostly because if the exertion of the walk does get too much I like the fact I could use the buggy to hold me up. I might even turf Jack out and climb in myself. “How are you feeling anyway, love?” Mammy asks as we set out.

  “Jeez, you don’t waste any time, do you?” I laugh.

  “At my age you can’t be wasting time,” she retorts, and I dig her in the arm.

  “By the way you’re talking you’d think you were a hundred and two! You’re barely out of nappies!” I laugh.

  “You’ve got that all wrong, love. It won’t be that long until I’m back in them again, but enough of changing the subject – how are you?”

  I try to think about things. “Physically I feel pretty yucky. I’m tired and nauseous and no, before you get any notions, I’m not pregnant.”

  Mammy rolls her eyes.

  “Mentally, I’m okay. I’m up and down – that is probably the best way to put it.”

  I don’t want to talk about this now. I think in the last week I’m all talked out – well, at least until Monday when I have my check-up with Dr Dishy. I know he will expect me to do some more chatting then.

  “Look, I know you are probably getting fed up talking about this now,” she says (what is it about mothers that they can read your mind?), “but promise me if you do need to talk you will come to me – and don’t be fecking running away with yourself again.”

  “I promise,” I say and we walk on, stopping only to comment on the lorries, buses, cars and diggers for Jack.

  By the time we have reached the Craigavon Bridge my legs are starting to ache and my excess weight is leading to a certain puddle of sweat forming between my gargantuan bazookas. I know it’s only a five-minute walk until we reach Foyleside so I take a deep breath and push the buggy onwards. Jack is in a frenzy of excitement because he can see a boat and I’m trying to talk with him while concentrating on breathing the best I can.

  “So how are things with Daisy?” Mammy asks.

  “Not now, Mother,” I say, my face growing redder with exertion.

  “Well, I just wondered. Do you need me to knock your two heads together again?”

  “Seriously, Mammy, not now!” I puff. “Let’s just get into town – get a cold drink – and get something nice for Aidan. I saw some cufflinks – in Debenhams – which would be perfect.”

  “Don’t change the subject, Grace,” Mammy says in her stern voice.

  “I’m not changing the subject,” I puff, “I’m avoiding it. I’m hot, I’m bothered and I need to pee – this is not the time to talk.”

  “You two are like big children!” Mammy says, taking the buggy from me and hurtling on at the speed of light, leaving me to feel like a big, fat useless lump of a thing trailing behind.

  “Would you ever just stop?” I shout, stopping her in her tracks.

  She turns and looks at me with the face of a wounded animal.

  “I just don’t want to talk about it because she still isn’t speaking to me. She has no intention of speaking to me and I doubt any amount of head-knocking will change that and I just don’t want to think about it for today, okay?”

  “Grace, you can’t just bury your head in the sand and pretend it isn’t happening!”

  “That’s the point though, Mammy, isn’t it? I’m not pretending it isn’t happening. I’m right slap-bang in the fecking middle of it – all too aware that it is happening and I don’t see how talking about it right now is going to help.” “Don’t get snippy with me, young lady,” Mammy says. “I’m not,” I say, almost crying now. “Can we not just have a nice day without thinking about these things?”

  Mammy makes a noise that is somewhere between a sniff and a grunt (a snunt, perhaps?) and we walk on in silence. The tears are pricking in my eyes and I feel like a chastised schoolgirl, not the twenty-nine-year-old sensible mum of one with a good job and a nice line in prescription drugs.

  We are almost at Brooke Perk, our favourite coffee spot, when Mammy turns to me and says: “I saw Daisy yesterday. She called round for tea and, you know what, I didn’t think I could ever meet a more pigheaded person than you – but, lordy, she is a right one!”

  I’m dying to ask her why Daisy visited. I’m dying to ask what was said and a part of me, the same part that was made to feel like the child back on the bridge, is internally rehearsi
ng my ‘She’s my mammy not yours, Daisy, so you can’t be coming over for tea any more’ speech.

  I realise for the first time I’m a wee bit pissed off. How dare Daisy go and see my parents when she doesn’t even have the decency to open the door to me? What makes her think it can all go on as normal when she is effectively cutting me out of her life?

  Why, and this is the clincher, has she not realised that I need a friend now and not some judgemental old baggage who holds all my faults up to my face and makes me accept them whether or not I’m ready to?

  I suppose that is the thing with Daisy. She knows me – she knows every thought that goes through my head and she isn’t afraid to give me a good arse-kicking when I need it – but this time, this time the arse-kicking is uncalled for. I didn’t need my arse kicked this time – I needed a hug.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” I say, rushing to the toilet. I expect to cry, but instead I’m bloody angry, more angry than I have ever been in my life.

  How dare she? When I helped her out when she was down and lonely and welcomed her into my family? How dare she close the door on me? How dare she stop me from seeing Lily? I didn’t wrong Daisy – I made a choice – a stupid one admittedly, but it was mine to make, and how dare she stand in judgement of me over it? I storm out of the loos, scaring the holy bejaysus out of a wee woman just heading in for a pee, and head towards my mother.

  “Phone Daisy,” I say. “Tell her you are taking care of Lily. We are going to talk whether madam likes it or not.” “Okay,” she replies, knowing better than to answer me back when I’m in one of these moods.

  I’m showing the same resilience now that I did when I ordered her never to go near that school again to deal with the bullies and a thought flashes across my mind that in this instance Daisy has been a bully too.

  We finish our tea, barely speaking except to chastise Jack for playing his latest game of crush-the-bickie-into- the-floor and then Herself makes the phone call and, thankfully, Daisy knows better than to answer back to Mammy. The scene is set, arrangements made, and we are ready for the showdown. Batten down the hatches, people. This could be interesting.

  As I’ve already explained, Daisy sauntered into my office one day looking for a feature to be done on Little Tikes. I was still Health and Beauty Editor but, given my increasing girth and obvious impending mummyhood, Sinéad was foisting some of the parenting features onto me. Good research, she called it.

  On the day Daisy arrived I was feeling a little sorry for myself. The baby had been kicking like a good ‘un all night, necessitating at least a million trips to the loo, and I had dreadful heartburn. I always got grouchy on the days I had to drink any of those vile antacid medicines – they are indeed the devil’s pish.

  Swigging some back and grimacing to try and stop myself throwing up, I looked up and saw this wee Scottish whirlwind standing in front of me.

  “Daisy Cassidy,” she said, stretching out her hand and shaking mine. “Vile, stinking stuff, isn’t it? I would nearly rather throw up and drink that back down instead.”

  I had the good grace to laugh.

  Daisy started to explain to me about Little Tikes and how she wanted to up its profile, and in doing that she also started spilling out details of her life and what had brought her to Derry. I was a little taken aback to say the least. I wasn’t used to such honesty – more to having to pull teeth to get a story.

  It soon dawned on me that this bubbly, confident woman was really a wee bag of nerves and uncertainties underneath, so I decided I liked her. I liked that she was vulnerable. I couldn’t be dealing with people who had no chinks in their armour – they tended not to like me and to make it their mission to hunt out my chinks and attack them.

  While we worked on the feature we met for lunch and I discovered that we had quite a lot in common actually. We had the same taste in books, shoes and bags but more than that we shared the same sense of gallows humour. As the weeks passed, and we kept talking even though the feature was long put to bed, I realised I could be myself with Daisy and she wasn’t repulsed or disgusted.

  So she, and Lily, became part of our family. Mammy and Daddy welcomed her like the second child they had never been blessed with and Aidan quite liked the person I was when she was around. (He swears it wasn’t just her impressive cleavage that attracted him.)

  When Jack was born, and Daisy was the first person to rush to my bedside, champagne smuggled in her fake Prada bag, I knew I had finally found a friend. In the two and half years since we met we have only had one falling out: the aforementioned TMF incident. At that time I was gracious enough to fully understand why Daisy was doing her mentalist routine because of it, and I spent a good fortnight scraping and bowing before we were back on track. While it hadn’t been my fault, I had been caught up in the whirlwind as much as Daisy.

  But not now. Now I’m angry, and determined that if anyone is going to do any scraping and bowing it isn’t going to be me. No, sirree. My arse-kissing days are over.

  Once Jack and Lily are safely ensconced in my parents’ backyard (the paddling pool brought out as a special treat), I make my way to Daisy’s house. I won’t be knocking at the door this time and giving her the chance to ignore me. I have a key and I’ll be using it. The garden is as lovely as always, but the big red door doesn’t look quite so welcoming any more – in fact it looks downright scary. I take a deep breath and a couple of drops of the Bach’s Rescue Remedy I now keep in my bag. Putting my key in the door, I turn the lock and walk in. The house is deathly silent, bar the ticking of a big grandfather clock which stands at the bottom of the stairs. I walk through to the kitchen and see that the French doors are open and Daisy is sitting at her wrought-iron garden table, glass of wine in one hand and cigarette in the other. (Daisy only ever smokes if she is really, really drunk or really, really stressed. I start to wonder which one she is today.)

  “Grab a glass,” she says curtly and I follow her instructions, all the while cursing myself for not being a grown-up and telling her to feck off. I pour the cool Sauvignon Blanc out and take a sip. It tastes bitter, suiting the mood, so I put it down and stare out across the garden to the trees and planters at the far end.

  “You’ve no right to be angry with me, Daisy,” I start. “I didn’t do anything to you. This for once is not about you so I don’t know why the feck you are getting so high and mighty about it.”

  “You could have told me,” she says.

  “I would have, if I’d known myself, but it’s not really something you pencil into the diary. Friday, get eyebrows waxed – Saturday, take Jack swimming – Sunday, flip your lid.”

  “Very fucking funny!” she snarls.

  “I’m not trying to be funny. I’m trying to make you see that this is about me and how I feel and I can’t always be thinking of other people all the time.”

  “Well, you certainly weren’t thinking of anyone but yourself last Sunday!”

  “I know that, but excuse me for having a day to myself. We can’t all be perfect. We can’t all keep going no matter what happens.”

  “But what has happened, Grace?” she says, raising her voice just that little bit too much. “What is so shit about your life? You have a job, a husband, a home, a baby. You have everything you ever wanted, so what exactly do you have to be so bloody miserable about?”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, “that my husband hasn’t run off on me and left me to fend for me and my child alone. I’m sorry that I have a house and a job and I’m sorry if despite that I still feel crap. Perhaps this is exactly why I didn’t tell you, Dais, because if I did you would have reminded me I’ve no right to be pissed off. Jack’s dad isn’t some wanker who fucked up our lives but that doesn’t mean my life is bloody perfect, does it? You are not the only one ever to feel down or get hurt.”

  I realise almost as soon as the words come out that I’ve gone too far. I see the hurt in Daisy’s eyes. Immediately I want to unsay all those things, to wind back to the clock and not
say those things I knew would cut Daisy to the bone. I don’t like confrontation, even when I’m only defending myself.

  I feel sick. I run to the bathroom and throw up, until my eyes are streaming and my stomach hurts.

  I rest my head against the cool white tiles and try to regain my breath. Looking up, I see Daisy standing at the door, holding a glass of water in her hand. She pushes it towards me and sits down on the ground beside the bath.

  “I’m sorry,” I say meekly. “I went too far.”

  “Have you stopped chundering now, do you think?” Daisy asks.

  “I think so. It’s these tablets – they don’t half make me queasy.”

  “Tablets?” She raises an eyebrow.

  “The ones the doctor gave me – antidepressants.” “I didn’t know you were on tablets.”

  “You didn’t ask, Dais,” I say wearily. “You just shut the door.” And I feel tears prick in my eyes. “Did you think I was making it up? Did you think I ran away that day just because I fancied getting the mini-bar all to myself?”

  She shrugs her shoulders.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t know what is going on with me. I’ve not felt great for a long time but I’ve realised I was hiding it away and then I went home at night and sat alone in the house. I was letting it all eat away at me and I was becoming a bitter, horrible person.” I’ve started to cry. “And I know, believe me, that I have so much more to be grateful about than most. I have my house, my husband, my baby, my family and you, but for some reason that has stopped being enough and I wish that it was. I wish that I could be content and happy to be who I am but I’m not. When I look in the mirror I see everything I hate and I hear these wee voices telling me over and over again that I’m useless. I’m fat, I’m ugly, I have no style, no sense of fashion and I’m not even a good mother.”