I reach for my phone the second I wake up the next morning. A text from Liz Moran: ‘I’ve looked everywhere, love. Shane even checked under the bonnet of the Subaru. She’s not in the washing machine again, is she?’ There’s also forty-six new notifications in the Majella’s Babe Shower group but I don’t have the bandwidth to go in and explain that the cake I ordered a month ago is a regular three-tier round one with a fondant baby on top and not the life-size replica of Channing Tatum’s torso that Maj found on bloody Pinterest and shared at 2 a.m. last night. Sometimes that website does more harm than good.
John is already at the gym – he has a Pump ’n’ Grind class at 7 a.m. on Fridays – so I decide to do something I’ve been putting off. I booked today off work months ago, thinking I’d need time to finalise things for the shower. Now I have a missing cat, a heartbroken friend and a major life decision to make, on top of making sure Maj has the night of her life. The bedroom window is open and I can already tell it’s going to be another balmy day. I throw on a sundress, brush my teeth and am about to hop into the Micra when I stop and check under it, just in case. No cat.
‘Well, Daddy, how’re things?’ I say when I get to his grave, trowel and gloves in hand. I’m the only one in the whole place and grateful for the privacy. Daddy was never a brilliant one for doling out advice, but he was always a good listener. Often by the time I was finished explaining whatever drama was happening in school I’d have figured out what to do by myself. It’s how I got over my crush on our substitute maths teacher, Mr Wickham, in second year. Between the wedding ring and the fancy lunches I realised he was probably married. That did the trick.
I kneel down on the little foam pad I keep in the boot of the car and start methodically raking through his gravel looking for weeds. A small part of me was worried Mammy’s weekly visits would peter out after she took up with Dr Trevor, but there’s barely a dandelion sprout to be found, which is a relief, although if she moves west she’ll hardly be weeding every week. I’d have to make sure and step up. I couldn’t bear the thought of him being left alone with only his neighbours – Sinéad McGrath’s great-great-grandmother on one side and Pat Foran on the other – for company. Nobody could ever understand a word Pat Foran said he was such a chronic mumbler, and Angela McGrath had an incredible disdain for all men that Sinéad said stemmed from the fact she was mother to eleven useless boys. Sinéad tried to get her a plot in the feminist corner of the graveyard between Maureen Kelly – killed by a donkey – and Pansy Doran, who was Mo Mowlam’s second cousin, but Father Fenlon wouldn’t budge on his strict policy of new plots going in chronological order. Sinéad was bulling and told him to stick his little pink envelope for donations up his hole. Her mother made her apologise afterwards, but she swears Father Fenlon hasn’t made eye contact with her since.
‘I’m sorry it’s been so long since I came to visit, but work has been busy and then me and John have been renovating Murt Kelly’s mother’s cottage – you know the one just outside the village with the orchard? I think you’d really like it.’
I decide not to mention the fact that his sister did a line with Murt. Mammy’s told me since that Daddy wasn’t happy about it because Murt had a big mouth for telling stories about his way with the ladies.
‘I’m not sure if she’s said it to you herself yet, so I’m sorry if this is a bit of a shock, Daddy, but Mammy wants to sell the farm. You probably know Dr Trevor? They want to move in together, maybe over in the west, if you can believe it. He has two girls. They’re weapons.’
I sit back and wait to see if he sends me some kind of a message that he’s as put out as I am. I can hear the distant hum of a tractor and some chirping from the little tree that hangs over the grave, but otherwise nothing.
‘I have such mixed feelings about it. She says she’s too old and tired to keep the farm going and that she wants to retire.’ I can nearly hear his voice in my head – ‘Again’ – and of course he’s right. Mammy has already retired once, from her first job as a nurse. But when you live on a farm, you never actually stop working.
‘And I know she deserves that. She deserves to be able to relax and prune her roses and – oh my God, did you hear she’s taken up golf? It’s hard to say no to Constance, to be fair, but she’s really enjoying it. I’m so torn about what to do, Daddy. I’ll take it over, I think. Do you think I’d be able for it? You taught me well enough.’
I shift my position on the foam mat and cross my legs, spinning the trowel in my hand.
‘Mandy, my boss, wants me to make a big commitment to expanding the business in Dublin, and I really want to do that too, but I suppose I’m scared because the farm and Ballygobbard is such a big part of me and who I am. I’m afraid of losing my home, but then John would have to make it his home too. And we have our own little home in the cottage as it is. I wish I knew what to do.’
I take a breath. ‘I’ve also been planning Majella’s baby shower, which I’m sure you’ve already heard about.’ I glance across the graveyard to the older side. Majella’s granny is buried over there, but there’s absolutely no chance that the news wouldn’t have travelled by now. ‘I’m delighted for her, of course, but I suppose I’m a bit sad as well, because I was supposed to be having a baby too, but things didn’t work out and I had a miscarriage and, well, I think I’m still dealing with it but, you know me, always trying to keep busy.’ As the words are tumbling out of me, so are the tears. He would have been the best granddad. The thought of passing him a little bundle to hold gives me such an ache in my chest that for a minute I’m afraid that I’m going to be sick, but I keep going.
‘I’m a bit worried about John, to be honest. He was really looking forward to it so it hit him hard. He’s doing therapy now, which he says is helping, but I’m scared that deep down he might blame me because we don’t know why I lost the baby. Even that saying, “I lost the baby”, makes it sound like it’s my fault, and part of me thinks that maybe it is. Maybe I did something wrong. Maybe I’ll never be a mammy. Majella and Pablo are so excited, and I’m excited for them, but with the timing and everything I don’t know if I’m going to be able to get through this baby shower, despite all my talk. And if I do have babies then Mammy wouldn’t even be around to help me, and if I don’t end up on the farm I wouldn’t be able to teach them how to hold the bottles for the lambs the way you did with me. But sure, I might not have any babies anyway.’
I sniff. ‘So yeah, that’s all my news.’ And then I remember. ‘Oh, and That Bloody Cat is gone missing to top it all off.’
‘Hello, Aisling. And Seamus, God rest your soul.’ Her brusque voice gives me such a fright I nearly impale myself on the trowel. She always had an ability to pop up when you least expect it, like the time I was in the County General checking on John’s old flatmate Piotr, the one I kissed when I was in bits with grief. I was never so mortified.
‘Fran,’ I stammer, standing up and patting my cheeks dry with a gardening glove, wondering for the millionth time in my life what John’s mother must be thinking of me. ‘I didn’t hear the car.’
‘I’m on the electric bike. Úna Hatton had the cheek to give me a lecture about carbon emissions one day in BallyGoBrunch and, well, she made a valid point about shorter journeys, so we’re trying to use the car less, especially in the fine weather.’ The Granddadmobile. Ray would have been a brilliant granddad too, and every child needs one terrifying grandmother to keep them on the straight and narrow. It was Granny Reilly for me.
She hesitates for a second. ‘I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I was cutting back my mother’s hostas when you were talking. You were upset.’
I nod mutely, swallowing continuously to get rid of the lump in my throat. ‘I was just filling Daddy in on everything that’s going on. I like to keep him in the loop.’
‘Yes, well.’ She picks at the hem of her cardigan. ‘We haven’t really had a chance to have a chat, have we? Do you have a minute now?’ She points over towards the low limestone bench near the graveyard’s pedestrian gate. ‘There’s some shade over there.’
‘Oh, right, yes. Sure. No problem.’ I always felt that Fran slightly disapproved of me, especially when me and John first got together. But I think it’s just that the Holy Joe in her feels the need to scare people a bit, even when those people are picking out her Mother’s Day cards and reminding her son his car tax is due. John always said she was very fond of me, so I’ve made my peace with that just being the way she is.
We wander through the graves towards the bench, Fran automatically tutting at withered flower arrangements and lopsided headstones along the way. John is so easy-going – it’s hard to believe they’re related.
We sit down in unison, and for a second neither of us says a word. Then Fran clears her throat and puts a small hand gently on my forearm. ‘I wanted to tell you this before, Aisling, but there was never a good time. I had two miscarriages myself. After Rachel and John.’
I shake my head. I had no idea. I don’t think John even knows.
‘Ray and I always wanted a third. Me more than him, I suppose. I used to do nights in the General back then. It was a juggle, but I felt our family wasn’t complete. Sometimes I still feel like that.’
I’ve spent many hours with Fran over the years. On the sidelines at matches. Sunday dinners. Anniversary masses. Christmas masses. A lot of masses. In all that time I don’t think the two of us have ever had a conversation deeper than whether the ref’s call was right or who’s applying for planning permission in BGB. When we told her and John’s dad about the pregnancy it was the most we’d ever bonded, but even then it was brief. This is new territory, but I’m glad she’s telling me. I feel closer to her instantly. Like we’re equals. Two women grieving.
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Fran. Really.’
‘The first one was early. I hadn’t even told Ray yet, but I knew myself. I could feel the changes in my body without even doing a test. A woman knows, especially after two pregnancies. I was going to have it confirmed by the doctor and then give Ray a pair of John’s baby shoes wrapped up, little navy patent ones, to break the news. But at six weeks I started to bleed, and then there was nothing to tell.’
‘That must have been hard.’
She sniffs. ‘It was. I told Ray then, of course, but he didn’t have the same attachment that I did. By the time he knew, it was gone. Just an idea. It stayed with me, though, and I worked out that the thirtieth of June 1990 would probably have been my due date. The whole country was gone stone mad for Italia ’90. Ireland played Italy that day. I still light a candle every year.’
For a minute, I’m envious of her faith. ‘That’s lovely. It’s nice to have that.’
‘The second one was worse. I was eleven weeks gone and even showing a bit. Well, you see, I have a very small frame. I was at work when it started, which was both a blessing and a curse. It would have been born on the fourth of August 1991. I light a candle that day, too.’
‘I’m so sorry, Fran.’
‘I already had two little ones at home, so I tried to focus on that and count my blessings.’
‘I really like your idea. Of doing something to remember.’
Fran smiles. ‘The sense of loss never leaves you, but it does get easier to bear, Aisling.’
‘That’s what John’s therapist told him too.’
‘He mentioned he was talking to someone, alright, and I’m happy to hear it. They need to talk more, men. A bit like you and me.’ Then she laughs, and I think it’s the first time I’ve ever heard her make that noise. ‘Anyway, I wanted to tell you, Aisling, because I’ve always thought very highly of you. I don’t think John knew how lucky he was when he found you, but I’m glad he came to his senses. You’re a good match. I have faith that you’ll always look after each other.’
I look across to Daddy’s grave and wonder if he’s trying to tell me something. I walk Fran out to the gate of the graveyard and wave her off before hopping in the Micra and heading for the farm. Mammy texts to say there’s still no sign of the cat today, so I’m going to walk all the hedgerows calling for her and then head home to personalise the last twenty baby-shower party bags and curse myself for ever deciding to personalise them in the first place. Then a very large glass of Pinot Greej and at least three episodes of Succession. It makes me feel extremely cutthroat when I watch it. Maybe it’ll spur me into making a decision.