Epilogue
BECCA
Carole King is playing on the record player in the corner of the room. Laura is sipping from a glass of wine, its smooth, dry taste making her entire body relax.
There are crisps in bowls. Yes, multiple flavours in multiple bowls.
Jodie is nursing baby Clara in the armchair by the window, while I am sitting holding my mother’s hand on the sofa.
Roisin Burnside is home from hospital and will be moving in to her fancy new accommodation as soon as it is ready.
To my delight this means I get to look after Mum at home for a while.
And then I get to move on with building whatever kind of wonderful life lies ahead for Conal and me.
Robyn, who has been surprisingly receptive to today’s events, walks back in from the kitchen along with Abby.
Laura, it seems, was right – the two have connected.
Already I can see a little trace of hero worship budding between my goddaughter and her mother’s friend.
It’s exactly what Laura had hoped for, and it’s an added bonus that Robyn will now think her mother is class for having such a cool friend.
As Jodie finishes feeding Clara, she asks Deirdre if she would like to hold the baby and maybe try to help get her wind up.
An auntie many times over, Deirdre is an old hand in soothing tummy pains in tiny tots – and the action soothes a pain inside Deirdre too.
For once I don’t fight for my turn at a cuddle.
There will be plenty more of those to come.
Niamh – my amazing Niamh – is standing in front of the fire, posing as if she is about to perform a poem, or give a speech in a great debate.
In her hand she holds a stick – one that is not actually a dildo, which she did suggest but swears that she was only joking.
Instead it’s a ruler she secreted away from the school supply closet and which we spent an hour embellishing before we started the afternoon properly – each of us adding a colour or a gem that signifies our stories.
Satin ribbons of various colours are wound around it; some golden embroidery thread is braided and stuck down. Some gemstones – very kindly donated by Fiadh and her unending craft supplies cupboard – have been attached with the aid of a hot glue gun and a lot of patience.
Niamh has very kindly added some googly eyes to it, because in her own words, ‘what is life without a bit of silliness?’ She’s not wrong.
‘Right,’ Niamh calls in her best teacher voice. ‘Have we all had our break, and has anyone who needed to have a wee had a wee?’
We chorus back ‘Yes, Miss!’ and descend into giggles.
‘Okay then! So who is going next?’
She raises the stick in her hand. Our ‘talking stick’ at this, our first intergenerational women’s circle.
We have all been sharing our ideas of womanhood and girlhood.
There have been some tears. A lot of laughter.
Some very righteous anger. But most of all there has been a real sense of connection and respect. Of shared experiences.
‘I think I’m going next,’ Grace says, raising her hand.
I admire her opening up so much to us all.
We’re relatively new to her inner circle.
She brought her own best friend, Daisy, along to make sure she had a pal to keep her company – and already we have been laughing and joking with the two women as if we have always spent our Saturdays together drinking wine, sharing stories and eating fancy crisps.
Niamh hands over the stick and Grace takes it. ‘It all started when I wanted to give women a voice,’ she says.