She was drinking a lot of milk. She was eating oranges. She kept reminding herself to go to a chemist’s and get vitamin pills. She was eating All-Bran four times a week.
—What’s tha’ stuff like, Sharon? Jimmy Sr asked her one morning she’d the time to eat her breakfast sitting down.
—Horrible, said Sharon.
—Does it work?
—Sort of, yeah.
—Ah well, that’s the main thing, isn’t it?—You don’t need it, sure yeh don’t?
He was talking under the table to Larrygogan.
She kept eating the celery and the carrots. The right food was hard and boring and it took ages to eat but Sharon thought she was doing things the right way, and that pleased her. And excited her. She felt as if she was getting ready, packing to go somewhere—for good. And that frightened her a bit.
She felt her stomach. It was harder and curved, becoming like a shell or a wall.
She’d definitely have to tell the girls.
It was Tuesday morning. It was raining. There was war going on downstairs in the kitchen.
Linda and Tracy put the table between themselves and their mother.
—What’s wrong now? Jimmy Sr wanted to know. —Can a man not eat his bit o’ breakfast in peace?
—It’s stupid, Ma, said Linda.
—Yeah, said Tracy.
—Mammy! said Veronica.
—Mammy, said Linda.—It’s stupid.
—I don’t care, said Veronica.—I spent hours making those skirts for you two little rips—
—They’re stupid, said Linda.
She hadn’t meant to say that. She knew she’d made a mistake but she hated those skirts, especially her own one.
Veronica roared.
—Aaah!
The hours she’d wasted; cutting, clipping, sewing, making mistakes, starting again.
Jimmy Sr threw his knife and fork onto the plate.
—Wha’ kind of a fuckin’ house is this at all? he asked the table.
He looked at Veronica. She was deciding if she’d throw the marmalade at the twins.
—A man gets up in the mornin‘, said Jimmy Sr.—an’ —an’—
—Oh shut up, said Veronica.
—I will not shut up, said Jimmy Sr.—A man gets up—
—Hi-dee-hi, campers, Jimmy Jr greeted them all when he came into the kitchen.
—Fuck off, Jimmy Sr shouted.
Jimmy Jr looked down at Jimmy Sr.
—Do yeh not love me annymore, Daddy?
—Yeh sarcastic little prick, yeh, said Jimmy Sr.—If—
—Stop that language, said Veronica.
—I’m only startin’, said Jimmy Sr.
—Miss O’Keefe said yeh should be ashamed of yourself, Linda told Jimmy Sr.
This interested Jimmy Sr.
—What? said Veronica.
Darren came in and sat down and started eating Sugar-Puffs.
—They’re ours, said Tracy.
—So? said Darren.
—When did, eh, Miss O‘Keefe say tha’ to yis? Jimmy Sr asked.
—Last week.
—Yeah, said Tracy.
—WHY did she say it? Veronica asked.
—Yeh took the words righ’ ou’ of me mouth, said Jimmy Sr.
—When Tracy said wha’ you said, Linda told him.
—You said it as well! said Tracy.
—I did not!
—Girls, girls, said Jimmy Sr.—Wha’ happened? Exactly. He looked at Veronica. She looked away.
—She told everyone to say wha’ our mammies an’ our daddies said to each other tha’ mornin’.
—Oh my God! said Veronica.
Jimmy Jr started laughing. Darren was listening now as well.
—An’ it was real borin’ cos they were all sayin’ things like Good mornin’ dear an’ Give us the milk.—An’ Tracy said wha’ you said to Mammy.
She looked at Tracy. Tracy was going to kill her.
Veronica sat down.
—An’ would yeh by any chance remember wha’ I said to your mammy? Jimmy Sr asked.
—Yeah.
—Well? What was it?
—Yeh pointed ou’ the window—at the rainin’—
She pointed at the window.
—An’ then yeh said—
Jimmy Jr laughed. He remembered.
—Go on, said Jimmy Sr.
—You said It looks like another fuck of a day.
Jimmy Jr howled. So did Darren. Jimmy Sr tried not to.
Veronica put her hands to her face and slowly dragged her fingers down over her cheeks. Her mouth was open.
—Oh sweet Jesus, she said then, to no one.
Sharon came in.
—Hiyis, said Sharon.—What’re yis laughin’ at?
—There’s Sharon, said Jimmy Sr.—How are yeh, Sharon?
—Grand.
—Good.—Good.
He started laughing.
—Serves her righ’, the nosey brasser.
Jimmy Jr, Darren and the twins laughed. Jimmy Sr grinned at Veronica.
—Listen, he said to the twins.—If she asks yis again today tell her—
—No!
That was Veronica.
The Rabbittes laughed.
—What’re yis laughin’ at? Sharon still wanted to know.
—You, said Jimmy Jr.
Sharon gave him a dig.
—Mammy, you can give the skirts to the poor people, said Linda.
This tickled Jimmy Sr.
—What’s this? said Jimmy Jr.
—None o’ your business, said Jimmy Sr.
—What poor people? said Veronica.
—The Ethiopians, said Jimmy Jr.
Linda and Tracy giggled.
—I think that’s a lovely idea, Linda, said Jimmy Sr. —Fair play to yeh.
—Stop encouraging them, said Veronica.
—Stop? said Jimmy Sr, shocked.—Well now, I hope Miss O‘Keefe doesn’t hear abou’ this. My God, wha’. The twins’s mother won’t let them show a bit o’ charity to those less fortunate than—
—Stop that!
Darren was in stitches. He loved it when his da talked like that.
—I’m sure there’s a couple o’ piccaninnies—
—Daddy!
The boys laughed, cheering on Jimmy Sr. The twins were still giggling, and looking at their mammy.
—in a refugee camp somewhere that’d love a couple o’ red lurex majorette’s dresses. An’ the sticks as well.
—You’re not fit to be a father, said Veronica.
—Not now maybe, Jimmy Sr admitted.
He patted his gut.
—I used to be though, wha’.
He winked at Veronica. She growled at him. Jimmy Sr looked at the boys and raised his eyes to heaven.
—Women, wha’.
He lowered the last of his tea. Then he heard something, a scraping noise.
—What’s tha’?
—Larrygogan, said Tracy.—He wants to come in.
Linda opened the door. Larrygogan, even smaller than usual because his hair was stuck down by the rain, was standing on the step.
—Come on, Larrygogan, said Linda.
Larrygogan couldn’t make it. He fell back twice. They laughed.
—The poor little sappo, said Jimmy Sr.
Linda picked him up and carried him in and put him down on the floor. He skidded a bit on the lino, then shook himself and fell over.
Then he barked.
The Rabbittes roared laughing. Jimmy Sr copied Larrygogan.
—Yip! Yip!
He looked at his watch.
—Oh good shite!
He was up, and grabbed his sandwiches.
—Are yeh righ‘, Sharon?—Wha’ are they, he asked Veronica.
—Corned beef.
—Yippee.—Good luck now. See yeh tonigh’.
He wondered if he should kiss Veronica on the cheek or something because they were both in a good mood at the same time. But
no, he decided, not with the boys there. They’d slag him.
—Da, can I’ve a bike for me birth’y? Darren asked him.
—Yeh can in your hole, said Jimmy Sr.
—Ah, Da!
—Forget it, Sunshine.
Jimmy Sr waited for Sharon to go out into the hall first.
—Good girl.
He followed her.
—Hang on a sec, he said, at the front door.
He gave Sharon the keys of the van.
—Let yourself in.
Les thought it was a heart attack. He tried to scream, but he couldn’t.
Jimmy Sr’s hand was clamped tight over Les’s face. He waited till Les was awake and knew what was happening.
—That’s the front o’ me hand, Jimmy Sr told Les.
He pushed Les’s head deeper into the pillow.
—If yeh don’t get up for your breakfast tomorrow like I told yeh you’ll get the back of it. D’yeh follow?
Jimmy Sr took his hand off Les’s face.
—Now get up, yeh lazy get, an’ don’t be upsettin’ your mother.
He stopped at the door.
-1 want to talk to you tonigh‘, righ’.
Downstairs, Jimmy Jr and Darren heard a snort. They looked and saw their mother crying. It was terrible. She was wiping tears from her eyes before they could get to her cheeks.
But she wasn’t crying. She was laughing. She tried to explain why.
—They’re not—
She started laughing again.
—They’re not corned beef at all.
A giggle ran through her, and out.
—They’re Easy Slices.
They didn’t know what she was on about but they laughed with her anyway.
Sharon was in bed. She’d decided: tomorrow. She’d been half-thinking of doing it tonight but then Jackie had come in with the big news: she’d broken it off with Greg. So they’d had to spend the rest of the night slagging Jackie and tearing Greg apart. It’d been brilliant crack.
So Jackie would be there when she told them all tomorrow. That was good because the two of them always defended one another when the slagging got a bit serious. She was going to tell the rest of the family first, after the tea —that would be easy—and then the girls, later in the Hikers.
That was it, decided. But she wasn’t a bit sleepy now. She had been when she got into bed but once she’d made up her mind she was wide awake again.
What was she going to tell them; how much? Only that she was pregnant. But what was going to happen after that, and what they were going to ask and say, and think; that’s what was worrying her.
—Go on, Sharon, tell us. Who was it?
There was no way she was going to tell them that. If they ever found out—God, she’d kill herself if that happened, she really would. She couldn’t think of a good enough lie to tell them, one that would stop them from asking more questions. She could say she didn’t know who he was but they wouldn’t believe her. Or if they did, if Sharon told them she’d been so pissed she couldn’t remember, they’d help her remember and they wouldn’t give up till they’d found someone.—Was it him, Sharon, was it? And if Sharon said, No, it wasn’t him, they’d say,—How d’yeh know if yeh can’t remember? It must’ve been him then.
She’d just have to tell them that she wasn’t going to tell them.
But they’d still try and find out.
She didn’t blame them. She’d have been the same. It was going to be terrible though. She wouldn’t be able to really relax with them any more.
—There’s Keith Farrelly.
—Yeah.
—He’s a ride, isn’t he?
—He’s alrigh’.
—D’yeh not like him?
—He’s alrigh’.
—I thought that yeh liked him.
—Fuck off, will yeh. It wasn’t him.
It was going to be fuckin’ terrible.
She felt a bit lonely now. She’d have loved someone to talk to, to talk to nonstop for about an hour, to tell everything to. But—and she was realizing this now really —there was no one like that. She’d loads of friends but she only really knew them in a gang.
It hadn’t been like that in school. Jackie had been her best friend for years but now that was only because she saw her more often than the others, not because she knew her better. She’d never have been able to tell Jackie all about what had happened. They’d often talked about fellas; what he did and how he did it and that sort of thing, but that had only been for a laugh; messing. They hadn’t spoken seriously about anything to do with sex since—since Sharon had her first period. Or they’d pretended it wasn’t serious. It was always for a laugh. Giggling, roaring, saying things like,—I swear, Jackie, I was scarleh.—She really had something to be scarlet about now and it wasn’t even a little bit funny. And she couldn’t tell it to Jackie. And anyway, Jackie had been going with Greg until last weekend so she hadn’t seen her that much since—she knew the date —the twentieth of February.
That was always the way when one of the gang was going with someone. She’d disappear for a while, usually a couple of months, and come back when one of them broke it off. She’d come back to the pub and they’d all be delighted to see her and she’d have to slag the fella—it always happened—about how he was always farting, or how he kept trying to tear the tits off her, or how his tongue always missed her mouth in the dark and he slobbered all over her make-up (Sharon giggled as she thought of that one. Yvonne Burgess had said that about a fella in the army who’d gone off to the Lebanon without telling her.—I hope he’s fuckin’ kilt, said Yvonne.—By an Arab or somethin’. D‘yeh know wha’ his ma said when I phoned? He’s gone to the Leb. The Leb! I thought it was the name of a pub or somethin‘ so I said to her, D’yeh know wha’ time he’ll be back at? I’m tellin’ yis now, I swear, I was never so mortified in—my -life. I wasn’t. And they’d screamed laughing), and after that it was like she’d never been gone. It was back to normal till the next time they went to Saints or Tamangos or one of the places in town and one of them got off with a fella she liked and disappeared again for another couple of months. She’d often read in magazines and she’d seen it on television where it said that women friends were closer than men, but Sharon didn’t think they were. Not the girls she knew.—Anyway, if she couldn’t tell Jackie the whole lot —and she couldn’t—then she couldn’t tell anyone.
She’d have to be careful and not get too drunk again so she wouldn’t blabber, and make sure she wasn’t caught looking at him and try not to vomit if anyone mentioned his name and Jesus, it was going to be terrible.
If they ever found out! She tried to imagine it. But all she could do was curl up and groan. It was—
Years ago—four years ago—when she’d been a modette, she’d gone with this young fella called Derek Cooper who spent all of his money on clothes and then never washed them and was dead now, and the two of them missed the last DART from town so they got the last bus instead. She’d been really pissed. She was only a kid then. She’d gotten the money she got for doing the pre-employment in school the day before so she’d been loaded. She paid for his drink as well. Anyway, she was pissed and she fell asleep on the bus and she woke up and she’d wet herself and she had to tell him and she made them stay on till the last stop, Howth. It was horrible remembering it. Even now. She’d never been able to laugh about it. She’d nearly been glad when she found out that Derek Cooper had been killed in that crash, but she’d made herself cry.
But this—this was far worse than that.
Sharon didn’t even bother closing her eyes. There was no point. She waited for the time to get up.
It was mad, but she wished she’d had sex a lot more often. Doubts about the father would have been very comforting; lovely. But the last time she’d done it with a fella she’d really liked—who’d turned out to be a right fuckin’ bastard—was six months before.
Before—Jesus!
She was glad she didn’t
remember much about it. The bits she did remember were disgusting. It wasn’t a moving memory, like a film. It was more like a few photographs. She couldn’t really remember what happened in between. She’d been really drunk, absolutely paralytic. She knew that because she remembered she’d fallen over on her way back from the toilets. She bumped into loads of people dancing. It was the soccer club Christmas do, only it was on in February because they weren’t able to get anywhere nearer to Christmas. She’d made it back to her table and she just sat there, trying not to think about getting sick. She remembered Jackie was asking her was she alright. Then it was blank. Then she was by herself at the table. Jackie was getting off with a fella in front of her. That was Greg. She could remember the song: The Power of Love, the Jennifer Rush one. She wasn’t sure if it was then or after but she was very hot, really sweating. She was going to be sick. She rushed and pushed over the dance floor, past the toilets, outside because she wanted cold air. It was blank again then for a bit but she knew that she didn’t puke. The air had fixed her. She was leaning against the side of a car. She was looking at the ground. It was just black gravel so she didn’t know why she was looking at it; maybe because she’d thought she was going to get sick earlier. Anyway, she was shivering but she didn’t move; go back in. Pity. She couldn’t move really. Then there was a hand on her shoulder.—Alrigh’, Sharon? he’d said. Then it was blank and then they were kissing rough—she wasn’t really: her mouth was just open—and then blank again and that was it really. She couldn’t remember much more. She knew they’d done it—or just he’d done it—standing up because that was the way she was in the next bit she remembered; leaning back against the car, staring at the car beside it, her back and arse wet through from the wet on the door and the window and she was wet from him too. She was very cold. The wet was colder. He was gone. It was like waking up. She didn’t know if it had happened. She wanted to be at home. At home in bed. Her knickers were gone. And she was all wet and cold there. She wanted to get into bed. She went straight home. She staggered a lot, even off the path. She wanted to sleep. Backwards. To earlier. She was freezing but she didn’t go back for her jacket.