Sean stares at a plug of chewing gum on the floor of the carriage as the train shuttles him back to Hounslow, reliving his exchange of barely an hour ago with Naomi.
‘I don’t want it.’ He did not have to think about it. His reaction was instant. She continued speaking as if she had not heard him, prattling on so that he wanted to hit her, to stop up her mouth.
‘It wasn’t planned. I know. But we can make it work. I’m sure we can. I’m not saying that it’s going to be easy. But it will be worth it. You know, Sean, I can’t quite believe it. I am going to be a mother. A mother! For you it’s different. You don’t have to tell me. I understand. You’re already a father. You know what to expect.’ She was moving restlessly about the bedroom, as if, he mused, she was in a cage, as if they both were. He was lying on the bed, elbows bent, clasped hands cushioning his head. The sash window was pushed up as far as it would go. They had a view onto a brick wall. The bleat of traffic, ever audible in London, filled the pauses. And there had been many so far. The hot weather was doing his rash no favours. It itched like crazy now, so that it took every ounce of his willpower to resist the urge to scratch it.
‘I don’t show at all, do I?’ she asked, halting to display her concave belly to him. ‘It’s incredible to think that there is a baby growing in there. I’ve been choosing names. Is that foolish?’ He did not answer. She studied his face, searching for an indication of how he was receiving this news. But his eyes were poker straight, his gaze on her steady. ‘For a boy, Ashley? Too effeminate?’ She wrinkled her nose, gave her slow, hesitant blink. ‘You’re right. We don’t want him to be teased at school.’
On the move again, she crossed to the window. She sat on the sill and rested her head on the glass. ‘When will the rain come?’ she sighed. ‘God, I hope it’s soon.’ In a glance he saw that her hair was matted to her forehead. The black roots were plainly visible. She needed to dye it again. She was dressed in a cream blouse, muslin cotton, tied under her breasts. A single crystal gem of sweat wavered on her collar bone, broke free and trickled into her cleavage. She was not wearing a bra. She seldom did. He could see her nipples outlined clearly under the paper-thin cotton. Her pale-blue denim shorts, sitting low on her hips, were frayed about her thighs. She was barefoot. Her heavy make-up gave her features the immobile look of a ventriloquist’s dummy. She leant across the bedside table, took a cigarette from his packet of Camels, scooped up his lighter and shook it. It was almost empty, so it took her several goes to light up. She inhaled deeply then held the cigarette away from her, examining it carefully. Absently she picked a speck of tobacco from her tongue.
‘I suppose now I’m expecting, I should really give these up.’ He made no comment. He did not care what she did. He fucked her, enjoyed ownership of her, but that was the full extent of his investment. His shirt sleeves were rolled up. His trousers were polyester and it felt as though his legs were sheathed in plastic. But he refused to give in to the heat, though. In the market more and more flesh was on show, sometimes white, flaccid and not very appealing. Sean maintained that the impression you created was very important. If you let standards slip, before long you looked like a bum. And then it was only a matter of time before you began behaving like one. If you wanted respect, you had to earn it. But in these temperatures he gladly admitted it was proving a struggle. The Shannon called to him then, tempted him with the memory of the crisp green cling of her against his naked body.
‘What about Daisy for a girl?’ Naomi pushed her luck. She took another slow drag on her cigarette, then gnawed at a nail, chewing it to the quick. Her fingers were trembling. Some part of his brain registered television noise, music, Top of the Pops, he guessed. His hip flask was in his trouser pocket. He slid it out, sat on the side of the bed, unscrewed the top, took a mouthful, then another and swilled this second like mouthwash before swallowing. He hauled himself to his feet, flask still in hand. He had slipped off his shoes, was still wearing his socks, and now he pushed his feet back into them.
‘Where are you going?’ Her voice was shrill. He grabbed the packet of Camels, the lighter, but did not look at her.
‘Home,’ he said.
And now he is being thrown about on the Piccadilly Line, feeling like he is sitting in a dustbin. It is so bloody hot that he thinks he might really kill for an ice-cold lager. The other passengers in the carriage look as dejected as he feels. He broods on the conspiracy there is against him, the snare that has been set for him. He is fed up of fighting. Like the salmon swimming up the Shannon to spawn, it seems that everything, everyone, is contriving to thwart him. Nothing in his life will stay where he has put it. It is all spinning out of control.
He married Catherine because she was a nice girl, from a well-to-do family, a family who didn’t scrape a living on a wind-blown farm in Ireland. He’d hoped that some of their wealth would rub off on him, still does. He wanted to make his Mam proud, his brother Emmet jealous, to demonstrate to his Da, where he lay in his early grave, how smart men attained success. You did not have to get up at 4 a.m. and break ice on a tub of water to splash your tired face. You did not have to go to bed by candlelight, with calloused hands and a crippled back. You did not have to quake with superstitious fear each time the wind changed direction, or the priest frowned at you. But his Mam was tight-lipped after meeting Catherine. As always, she couldn’t see the bigger picture, how advantageous the marriage could be. ‘She isn’t of the faith. She isn’t Roman Catholic, Sean,’ she finally told him, her expression horrified. She said it the way you might say someone wasn’t human, that they were an abomination in the sight of God. ‘And she’s English,’ she continued in the same vein. ‘Whatever are you thinking of, bringing a lass like her into the family? It will only lead to trouble.’ It hurt, but her criticism just made him more determined to have her. He would show them all, he had simmered, small-minded bigots every one of them. His father had whipped him when he swam in the Shannon. But he had not broken his spirit or dashed his dreams.
Some days, though, he wonders if she might have been correct, if he has reached too high, been too ambitious. Still, he has not abandoned his plans altogether. One day he will start up his own business. He’s had a few setbacks, but what successful man hasn’t? The market stall that seemed such a profit-making concern, through an alcoholic blur minutes before the closing bell was sounded in a pub, is hardly breaking even. True, at the height of the tourist season there’s a profit to be made, but how long will it last? And Catherine, too, has done her best to jeopardize his future. She went and got herself pregnant, on their wedding night, most like. Oh, he knows it wasn’t her fault, the condom splitting and so on. But did she have to conceive? A virgin. Her first time. What were the chances of that?
He loves Bria, but now is not the season for her to be born. This should happen later, when they are settled, and he’s bought a house and got a bit of capital behind him. Catherine’s parents think as much. They look down their snooty noses at him, at the mess he is making of things. They deplore their daughter’s judgement. They earnestly wish she had not interrupted her typing course for a good-for-nothing Irish farm lad. But if they are disappointed, well, so is he. Catherine has changed, or maybe it is just that at last he is seeing an honest image of her, not as he wants her to be, but as she really is. They have nothing in common. Why he hadn’t spotted it from the outset he cannot figure. Perhaps they were both projecting qualities onto each other that simply weren’t there. In any case, it isn’t working out. Bed is a disaster. His wife is frigid. He made an effort not to put pressure on her in the early months, understanding she was innocent, inexperienced. He needn’t have bothered. Once the pregnancy was confirmed she claimed she’d had a threatened miscarriage, and they’d given up the whole wretched business altogether. But he is a man with a man’s needs, and that was where Naomi entered his life.
She was a whore he’d met trawling King’s Cross late one night. The sex had been great, every time, and he liked her too. When he was with her he felt good, powerful – up until recently, that is. He should have kept to their original arrangement – two, three times a week, no obligations, no expectations. But the thought of her going with other men bothered him. He wanted her all for himself. So he set her up in the flat and got her running the stall. And it had all seemed perfect, for a while. He hadn’t minded about his marriage, hadn’t worried so much about the baby coming early, or the business being put on hold. His life had equilibrium. Then, before he knew it, the scales had tipped up. Enrico had muscled in, rolling up to the flat whenever he felt like it, drinking his booze, and fucking his woman when he wasn’t there, he had no doubt. Taking Owen in as a lodger had been a masterstroke, his very own watchdog. He thought the game was won, but it was only that hand. Naomi’s next cards have brought it all tumbling down. So she is pregnant, talking as if she is going to have the kid, as if they are going to play at happy families. Well, he already has a family. It may not be very happy, but he sure as hell doesn’t need another one. The kid probably isn’t even his.
‘I’ve told you, I’m not hungry,’ he flares up, confronted by that other baby, his legitimate daughter.
‘All right. You don’t have to bite my head off.’
Catherine has offered to make him something to eat twice now, when he has made it clear that he has no appetite. He glowers at her. She looks dreadful, wandering about in a shapeless towelling robe stained in baby vomit. Her hair, that glorious red hair that had attracted him like a copper crown, looks unwashed and limp. She is red-eyed, a sign that she has been crying, a common occurrence these days. This is not how it is meant to be. He wants her to look pretty, to wear expensive clothes, to be tastefully made up, hair clean and brushed, exuding the fragrance of costly French perfume when he comes home. They are in the lounge of the scruffy rented terrace, her pacing, a distressed Bria wriggling at her shoulder, him in the armchair with the sagging bottom, the one he had thought such a bargain from a second-hand furniture shop in town. He knows she hates this place, but it’s all he can stretch to at present. No posh Kingston houses for them, not yet anyhow.
‘Sean . . .’ She hesitates, then fishes in the pocket of her robe, produces a slip of paper and puts it on the table next to his drink. He glances down and recognizes what it is. A gambling chit. ‘You told me you’d stopped,’ she says, her tone flat. Music thumps through the wall from next door. Wherever he is, that bloody music seems to find him. The market, the flat, and now here.
‘Are you going through my pockets now, Catherine? Is that what you’re after doing?’ His tone is low, baleful. He does not look at her but at the note, fuming that she has resorted to frisking his clothes.
‘We can’t afford it,’ she says, her stance defiant.
‘Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?’ he counters swiftly, his suppressed rage loosed suddenly, so that she flinches back. He is fast becoming the bully his father was, he thinks miserably.
‘I’m worried, Sean.’ She has begun jigging as she speaks, rubbing Bria on her back. Far from calmed, this gesture seems to add to their daughter’s discomfort and she gives several piercing cries of protest.
He takes a gulp of his drink, neat brandy purchased from the off-licence on his way home. ‘Don’t be. It’s all in hand,’ he tells her shortly. His eyes slide up to meet with hers. After a moment she breaks the gaze.
‘I don’t know what the matter is with Bria. She’s like this almost every night,’ she frets.
‘All babies cry, Catherine. It’s only natural.’
‘Not like this. If you were here more often you’d understand,’ she accuses, her green eyes hostile.
‘Catherine, I’m sorry. But you know how it is,’ he says wearily. ‘Some nights I have to stay in London. I’ve told you, I’ve got a couple of things on the go that I need to see to.’
She shoots him a resentful look that says she knows there is another woman, that he is keeping another woman. He elects to ignore this, tops up his drink instead, and brazens it out. Bria is grizzling now, a persistent breathy whining that, like a swinging pendulum, seems to have its own indefatigable momentum. ‘Is she after being fed?’ he inquires.
‘No, of course she isn’t,’ Catherine snaps. ‘She’s not wet either, or dirty. And for your information I’ve taken her to the doctor but he says there’s nothing wrong.’ She gives a despairing sigh.
‘So, there you are then. Why don’t you just put her down for a sleep? She’s probably tired.’
‘I don’t know if she’s tired, but I am. I don’t remember when I last slept. Most days I feel like a zombie. Do you realize, Sean, that most days I feel like the living dead?’ She closes on a rising inflexion that makes him grimace and startles the baby.
‘Motherhood is hard, love,’ he pacifies. ‘I know. But it’ll get easier, as she grows. I promise.’
‘I need a break. If I don’t get some sleep soon, I don’t know what I’ll do.’ She is shouting now. Her hysteria is transmitted instantly to Bria, who whoops in a breath and, face empurpled, yells angrily.
‘What about your own mother? Couldn’t she give you a hand?’
Catherine flashes him a withering look. ‘You know what she’s like. She’ll only make things worse.’
On the farm, babies were the preserve of women. Men did not get involved. But Catherine has a kernel of the new woman in her, the one that is coming, the woman who wants more, the woman who dares to consider the impossible – equality. Sean senses this ‘coming woman’ emerging from the worn-out tatters of his wife, and he feels the floor of his world tip a little more. With a snort he ponders how long it will be before he concedes defeat and slides off. He drains his glass. ‘Give her to me. Go to bed. I’ll look after her, so.’
She hands her to him, gratefully, and hurries upstairs. He cradles the child in his arms, strokes her head. Her wisps of damp fair hair are tinted with a hint of red in the evening sunshine. She smells of baby talc and milk. He observes a pulsing fontanel, a soft spot on Bria’s skull where the cranial bones have not yet fused. The crying abruptly ceases. The aftermath of her storm, hiccups, sends powerful shudders through the small body that seem to surprise her. They have the same eyes, Sean observes suddenly. Identical. Bluish green, greenish blue, a hard one to call. Tonight they are decidedly blue. She is cocooned in a yellow wool blanket and looks red-faced and boiling.
‘You’re hot, aren’t you, my darlin’?’ says Sean, unwrapping the bundle. Under it she wears a light-green baby-grow. He undoes three of the top poppers, and opens the neck up, exposing the miniature chest. ‘Is that more like it? There you are. What say we take a walk round the estate and a peek at the stars?’ Bria blinks, and with a jerk of her head sucks in air. ‘Is that a yes?’ She yawns pinkly at him. He stares down at this wonder, this perturbing wonder, his daughter. He climbs to his feet and makes his way to the kitchen and out of the back door. The garden is a patch of lawn bordered by a leaning fence. But this is level with Sean’s head, so that however small, there is a sense of privacy in this outdoor space. ‘No stars yet for you, my darlin’.’ It is a suburban sunset. The sky is streaked with pink and orange. A baseline of lavender blue is creeping very gradually upwards. Rotating, he sees a panorama of rooftops, chimneys, aerials. The main road thunders round them. He remembers the wide spaces of Ireland, the lush greens that quenched your sight. He listens for the silences, for the calm inner strength of the Shannon. Bria is peaceful, her eyes very wide and alert now.
There is a concrete patio, with a couple of steps down to the grass. He sits at the top of these, his daughter propped on his knees, her back to his chest. ‘It’s not much, is it? But it’s only temporary, you know. Till your father gets on his feet.’ He is riding the brandy now, a distance still from the stampede that will trample his brain into blackout. ‘Don’t be after telling your mother, but I’ve got a few deals going down that will make all the difference. I’ve made a connection with a man who has influence, a man who can alter the course of our lives – yours, mine, your mother’s. He’s loaned me a bit of money and in return I’m running a few errands for him. Couldn’t be simpler. I can turn this all round, you wait and see. One day your daddy’s going to be rich. What would you like, my darlin’? Take your pick from the sweetie shop of life. Anything you want an’ it’s yours. No idea? I was like that once myself. Not sure what I wanted, only, that whatever it was, I needed money to get it. I tell you what, I’ll decide for you. A great big house, with a garden you can run round in, and a pretty dress for every day of the year. How’s that? And what about a swimming pool? I’ll teach you to swim, Bria. I’ll take you to the Shannon, and together we’ll dive off the rocks. And no one will stop us, no one will tell us that the river is evil. I know her secrets and now I’ll tell you. Because you’re a water baby, my darlin’. My very own water baby.’