Chapter 52
CHAPTER 52
Nine days later
Bernie
Unconsciously, over time, Saturday nights have become an evening of regimental routine. Supper is homemade chunky chips and battered cod, followed by bath time for the children. All three of the girls pile into the tub together with complaints of toes touching and elbows digging into ribs. Afterward, Marie and Elizabeth argue over which Enid Blyton story to choose. Each time, Dan guides them into our bed and selects his personal favorite, The Famous Five. I mop the aftermath of their splashing while Dan reads an adventure story complete with character voices, and once the girls are asleep, my husband and I reconvene in the kitchen like two warriors fresh from battle. I brew a pot of tea while Dan opens the biscuit tin and we settle in for a night in front of the television with Gay Byrne, the nation’s favorite host. It’s the same in every house across the country. The only folks not watching The Late Late Show on a Saturday are the single chaps down at the pub.
“Dan, quick, it’s starting,” I call out as the iconic music plays, and I turn it up a little as if it wasn’t loud enough already.
Dan hurries in and I pass him a cup of milky tea, just the way he likes it, and he bites into a chocolate digestive.
“When is she on?” he asks as he sits on the couch next to me.
My stomach flutters.
“I’m not sure. Somewhere in the middle, I think.”
We watch as Gay interviews a scraggily bearded chap who has written a book about weather patterns and says the world is going to change catastrophically in the coming years.
Dan calls him a hairy eejit and laughs at his crazy notions about the future. There’s a woman from west Cork in a red evening dress with a voice like an angel as she sings something in a different language. And finally, after the second advertisement break, the camera zooms in on three women in a row, sitting behind a long white desk that faces the audience.
I point toward the screen. “Look. Look. There’s Maura. Doesn’t she look great?”
Maura sits in the middle. Her hair is pinned off her face and she’s wearing a knitted cardigan. In real life I know it’s egg-yolk yellow, her favorite, but in black and white it appears pale gray.
“Now, folks,” Gay says with a clap of his hands. He’s standing in the center of the studio floor, facing his audience and staring straight into my sitting room. “We have something very different and—I’m going to go ahead and say it—groundbreaking to discuss with you this evening.” He leaves a suitable pause before he cocks his head and says, “Contraception.”
There’s a collective intake of breath from the audience, amplified by the space of the studio, and Dan and I jump as if the sound might crack our television screen.
“Please welcome Sharon Casey, Maura Davenport, and Nuala Tyrone, who are here to discuss.”
There’s another pause and I wait for the audience to offer a welcoming round of applause as they do when a new guest or guests are introduced. But there is no clapping in the audience this evening.
“A big word. A big change. A big surprise, I can see from some of your faces,” Gay says.
The screen shifts to a view of the audience. An elderly man in a suit and shirt in the front row looks as if he’s about to throw his dinner up.
“Would you look at this old fart.” I point. “As if he knows anything about women’s bodies.”
Dan is as quiet as a church mouse. His hands are clasped and resting on his knees, which he bobs up and down. The camera scans the audience. A priest, a young man—younger than me, I’d guess—blesses himself and drops his head into his hands. Another man pulls a face as if he’s sniffed farmer’s slurry. Older women seem as disgusted as their male counterparts. There are few, if any, smiles. Faces are icy and noses are upturned, and I have a sinking feeling that Maura’s already difficult life may become unbearable after this.
The camera returns to the host as he puts a question to the first woman on the panel, whom he introduced as Sharon.
“And can I ask if you want babies?” Gay says with a kind smile.
“You can ask all you like.”
His smile falters. “Is that my answer?”
“Take from it what you will.”
Gay adjusts his tie and tests a gentle laugh—to lighten the air or to relieve his own discomfort, I can’t tell. Sharon folds her arms on the desk in front of her and looks straight into the camera. Straight at me.
“It’s my body. My business. It’s certainly not the church’s or the government’s business, that’s for sure.”
“Some would argue that it is the business of the church,” Gay says. “Some would say that God blesses us with children.”
Sharon is quick to reply. “A fella blesses me with children. If God is there when me and a nice fella are alone, then the Lord above needs to take a long hard look at himself.”
Maura smirks and I punch the air.
“Yes,” I shout. “You tell ’em.”
“Oh my,” Gay says as the audience erupts.
There are raised voices. Too many voices. It blurs into one loud, incoherent sound. But one thing is distinctive: objection and rage.
“Now, now, folks, please.” Gay raises his hand and leaves it in the air. It takes some time, but the grumbles and shouting dissipate until finally you could hear a pin drop.
“We are not crossing our fingers and hoping contraception falls from the sky,” the woman on Maura’s opposite side says, cutting through the silence like a sharp blade.
Nuala Tyrone wears thick-rimmed glasses, which she shoves up her nose with her index finger, and somehow, they make her seem smart. I want to listen to this smart woman. The audiences hushes. It’s clear, despite their complaints and protesting, they want to listen too.
“If you are not hoping for contraception, would it be fair to say you are asking for it?” Gay says. He strokes his chin with his finger. He’s concentrating. “You’re asking the government for it, no?”
“No. We are not asking. We are done asking. Women have been asking for years,” Nuala says.
“Have they?” Gay says.
“Yes. Of course.” There is a flash of temper across Nuala’s face and her calm demeanor wobbles.
“Behind closed doors this has certainly been a concern for women for many years,” Gay says. “We have families on the breadline with ten and twelve children and it’s perceived as perfectly normal. I’ve no doubt these women have asked, maybe even prayed, for babies to stop. But publicly, I have never heard a woman dare ask aloud for contraception before.”
Nuala stands up. Her cheeks are puce and her eyes are wide and bulging.
“Jesus,” I say, a little worried she’s about to have a heart attack live on air.
“Shh,” Dan says, placing his finger on his lips. “I want to hear what she has to say.”
“If you’ve never heard a woman ask for contraception before, then you haven’t been listening.”
There’s more noise among the audience and it takes time to die down. Both Dan and I are sitting on the edge of the couch by the time it does, and Nuala continues.
“Have you heard the cries of young women all over Ireland when they’re abandoned at the doors of homes for unmarried mothers? They cry because they don’t know if they’ll see their families again. They certainly won’t see their babies. Ever. Don’t you hear them? They’ve been crying for more than thirty years.”
“I think we’re getting off track here,” Gay says. “We’re discussing contraception, not unmarried mothers.”
“All right,” Sharon says, jumping to her feet as well. “Let’s talk about married mothers, if you prefer. Mothers with a clatter load of small children already.”
Sharon’s hands are flailing about and her expressions are exaggerated and animated. Passion and frustration seem to battle for space inside her. “Them mothers with difficult pregnancies and aching, tired bodies. And them who lost their lives giving birth. Do you hear them crying? Do you hear their lonely children crying out, begging for their mothers back?”
Silence hangs in the air. The audience is lost for words now as they wrestle with their consciences. Dan and I don’t budge. We don’t breathe. We hope the people of Ireland are listening with equal attention. The bright studio lights are unforgiving, and all three women on the panel wear their emotions on their faces.
Finally, Gay finds words in the shape of a low, somber hum. “There is nothing more tragic than a young mother lost too soon.”
“That’s why we’re not hoping or asking for contraception. We’re demanding it,” Sharon says, bringing her hand down on the desk with such force it must hurt, but she doesn’t flinch. “Here and now we are demanding that no more women are denied methods of birth control that could change their lives. Save their lives.”
Finally, Maura gets to her feet. Her pretty face seems a little older and a little more tired than usual. I’m momentarily plagued with worry. What will Dr. Davenport say when he sees his wife on telly? What will her da say? Her ma, too. And the neighbors. All of Maura’s posh neighbors will be watching. A small gasp spills out of me, and Dan’s hand reaches for mine, squeezing it. He’s as concerned for our friend as I am.
“Maura is brave,” he says. “She’ll be all right.”
“She’s braver than me,” I say. “Look at me. Sitting here with a cup of tea and stuffing my face with bickies while I expect other women to fight my battles.”
Dan turns to look at me and sighs. “Bernie, we have to think of the girls. This is not your fight.”
“Do you think I should have stopped her?”
“Maura?” he says. “I’m not so sure you could have. Not anymore.”
“She blames herself, you know. For Josie’s death,” I say, placing my hand on my heart.
Dan shakes his head. “A kid on the streets. It’s just wrong. So wrong.”
I think of my own girls tucked up in bed. If I concentrate, I can hear gentle snoring coming from our bedroom.
Maura’s voice calls my attention back to the screen. “What about women who don’t want babies at all?”
The camera zooms in on her pretty face, free from the lines and wrinkles that are setting in around my eyes and across my forehead. She doesn’t look guilty or scared. She looks confident, determined, fiery. She looks different.
Gay shares the screen. His eyes narrow as he says, “For no reason. They just don’t want any babies?”
Maura shrugs. “Not for no reason. But for whatever reason. Any reason.”
Gay points toward Maura and, in a gentle whisper, asks, “Are the bruises on your face your reason?”
Maura’s eyes glass over and suddenly she looks every bit as tired and scared as I know she is. I hold my breath and wait for her to cry.
“Does it matter?” she says, without tears.
“I think it matters, yes.”
“It does not,” she says, her confidence returning, even greater than before. “I have my reasons and other women have theirs. That is enough.”
“Oh. I see.”
The camera focuses on Maura’s face for quite some time. Long enough for the audience and the people at home to see she wears her reason in an oval bruise on her left temple. It’s healing and someone in makeup has tried hard to cover it up, but it’s there. A stamp. The punctuation at the end of Maura’s story. And despite her good looks, her right cheek is swollen and puffy, another reason. The audience is forced see the truth in all that Maura hasn’t said. They are so silent and invested I almost forget they are there. It’s just me and Maura now. She is inside the small box in my sitting room and her damaged face is telling her story.
“Oh deary me.” Gay places his hand on his chest as if Maura’s truth wounds him. “Oh deary me, indeed.”
“Do you understand now?” Nuala asks, as all three women sit back down.
It’s evident on all their faces how exhausting it is, fighting to be heard.
Gay’s chest puffs out, pushing his suit jacket away from his shirt. “Just to clarify, you are suggesting that some women, for their own personal reasons, do not want to raise a family in any way, shape, or form. At all. Ever.”
“We are not suggesting it,” Nuala says. “We are simply saying that is exactly how it is. Women are not baby-making machines.”
“Indeed,” Gay says. “Indeed. Indeed. But tell me, ladies. Would you walk into a shop and buy condoms if you could?”
Dan’s inhale is so sharp and so loud it makes me jump.
“Jaysus, Dan,” I scold. “You put the heart crossways in me.”
“Did you hear him?” Dan’s eyes are as startled as if an extraterrestrial had just knocked on our front door. “Did you hear what Gay Byrne just said?”
“I heard him.”
“He said…” Dan gulps, as if the word is too wide for his throat and he has to cough it up. “He said condom . On the telly. He just said it as if it was any aul word.”
“It is any aul word,” I say.
“Ah, here, Bernie. It is not.”
My mind shifts to the foil wrappers that Dan and I keep hidden in his sock drawer. The French letters that have saved our marriage. The French letters we use but never talk about. Our dirty little secret that sometimes fills us both with such shame that we can’t even look at each other afterward.
“Well, they’ll certainly be talking about them now,” I say. “The whole country will.”
Maura, Bernie, and Nuala all agree that if they could, they would be only delighted to buy contraception in any store, in any town, in any county.
“That’s something I would very much like to see,” Gay says.
“Then watch this space,” Nuala says with a confident nod. “Watch this space.”
The end credits roll and I stand up, gather the empty teacups, and make my way into the kitchen. I take a deep breath and steady my racing heart. Gay Byrne is not the only one watching this space. I have no doubt every woman in Ireland will be keeping a keen eye on Maura, Sharon, and Nuala from here on out.