Chapter 13
13
PACK UP YOUR TROUBLES
Niamh
Niamh is simultaneously both looking forward to and dreading telling Paul she is going away for the weekend. Things have reached a new level of frosty between them and for the first time in her life she has felt intense dislike for him.
Yes, he has ragged her happiness on many an occasion during their long time together, but she always remained secure in her belief that he was her person. She loved him and he loved her and she could cope with the fact that no one is perfect all of the time.
Today though? Today she has fantasised about packing a bag and walking out the door to leave him to manage the shitshow that her home life has become. There will be no sneaking round to his mother’s house for his tea when it is his sole responsibility to feed the children and keep them in clean clothes.
He can pick his own dirty boxers up from the bathroom floor and wash them. He’s big enough and ugly enough to use a washing machine.
He can sleep all night in their bed in whatever position he wants and snore his head off for all she cares because she will have run off somewhere. Preferably to rent a little cottage by the sea, where she will keep her garden wild and her hair wilder.
Forget teaching, she will become a witchy herbalist and give not a single solitary fuck about anyone other than herself. And especially not Paul, whose very existence seems to irritate her these days.
When Jodie told him about her plans to keep the baby, he played the role of dutiful father admirably, telling her that he loved her and would have her back. He gave her a huge hug and they both had a bit of a cry and then he had made her some tea and toast and they’d watched an episode of Ted Lasso together.
It was only when he came up to bed later that night that he had started to vent his concerns to Niamh, telling her over and over again how Jodie had no idea how much she was going to limit her life. ‘I can’t believe she’s been so stupid,’ he raged while Niamh sat and listened – every protective mama-bear fibre in her body fizzing.
First she’d listened to Becca telling her how tough it would be for Adam to have to change his university course, as if it was anywhere near what Jodie would go through. And now she was listening to Paul’s tirade. It didn’t matter that she had her own concerns. Or maybe it was precisely because she had her own concerns that his ranting got under her skin so much.
She didn’t have the energy to start into any kind of heavy discussion with him at ten o’clock on a Monday night. She was tired, cold and hormonal.
Being honest, what she’d really wanted was for Paul to hug her and tell her he loved her and would have her back too. She’d have loved it if he had made her tea and toast and invited her to snuggle on the sofa beside him and watch an episode of Ted Lasso .
Instead she’d put a wash in the machine before going up to their bedroom to do some marking. Having finished her work, she’d climbed into bed, desperate to get some sleep, and had just been reaching over to switch off the bedside light when the bedroom door opened, flooding the room with light.
Paul’s silhouette had been framed perfectly in the doorway and as he’d stepped further into the room she could see he had an expression on his face that would curdle milk.
‘Do you think she’s really thought it through?’ he’d started as he sat down on the edge of the bed and kicked his trainers off. Niamh had cursed her lousy timing. If only she hadn’t fallen down that TikTok rabbit hole of investigating the beef between two American influencers she neither knew nor cared about, she could’ve been asleep by now. Or at least she could’ve done a good job of faking it.
It wouldn’t be the only thing she’d have been faking in their bedroom these days. Whatever fresh hell had taken control of her body, it seemed to have taken her ability to have an orgasm with it. Her one reliable stress buster had been cruelly snatched from her, leaving her worried it would never return.
‘Niamh?’ Paul said, his back to her as he pulled his sweatshirt over his head. ‘Well? Do you really think she has thought it through?’
Before she even had time to take a breath, let alone answer, he had started to talk again. ‘Like, do you think she knows how hard it’s going to be? This isn’t playing dolls. You can’t leave a baby in a crib for a week or two at time while you get distracted with something else.’
Niamh opened her mouth to tell him that Jodie was smart enough to have an idea of what the expectations would be for both her and Adam. Both of them are smart young people – and determined young people, at that. She wanted to tell him she understands he is worried – she’s worried too – but truth be told he was coming across as a bit of a patronising dick.
But again Paul spoke before she could.
‘God, the responsibility she’s putting on her shoulders at this age. She can’t possibly realise that once she’s made that choice, there’s no going back. And there’s no way to reclaim her early twenties. She should be having the craic, not worrying about finding babysitters, or up all night with a colicky baby! How’s she going to cope at university? I’d be surprised if her housemates would be happy to have a newborn sharing with them. It’s hardly conducive to the student lifestyle, is it?’
Niamh sighed – the kind of deep sigh that comes from your very soul. Did he really think that Jodie hadn’t thought things through? He was giving her no credit at all for her intelligence or how much of a sensible young woman she was. Yes, she’d found herself unexpectedly pregnant, but that didn’t mean she was incapable of making rational decisions. Dear Lord, but hadn’t they found themselves unexpectedly pregnant on two occasions in the past? Cal had been a bit of a surprise, and as for Fiadh? She’d been a plot twist of epic proportions. Niamh had been thirty-nine and perfectly happy that her childbearing days were behind her. Instead she’d had to get used to being the oldest mammy attending parent-teacher meetings or class assemblies. More than once she had been mistaken for her daughter’s granny. Which was ironic really, given that she is now actually going to be a granny and can’t help but think she feels and looks too young.
She’d wanted to say all this to Paul. She’d wanted him to listen while she spoke of her own concerns and worries. She’d wanted him to do what he used to do best and reassure her that everything was going to be fine and there was nothing that they, as a team, couldn’t tackle together. But she couldn’t, because that fierce mama-bear sized protective urge to support Jodie was overpowering her. If Jodie has decided that she will have this baby then they have to honour that. It’s not for anyone to tell a woman what she should do with her body. No man could ever understand how everything changes the moment a woman knows there is a potential life growing inside her. She had to dampen down her worries, not give a voice to them. Not to Paul anyway – who had so many of his own.
So she had let him say everything he’d wanted to say and she had nodded and acknowledged him until, eventually, he had sighed and rolled over in bed, pulling her in for a cuddle. Normally Niamh welcomed each and every hug from her husband. Even after all this time together. But lately she was feeling the need for personal space more and more. That had been especially true as they lay together last night, him feeling better for having voiced his worries and Niamh unable to escape a niggling feeling that something was very, very wrong. She didn’t know if it was in her marriage or something within herself, but it had unsettled her and she hasn’t been able to shake the feeling since.
It’s almost as if she doesn’t know him any more – or maybe it’s more that she doesn’t know herself any more? She thinks of the letter she wrote when she was just sixteen – the one Becca had uncovered in the time capsule last year – and how she was so full of life and joie de vivre . While it’s not exactly the case that she isn’t now… it’s just that everything feels a little duller. And this growing disconnect with Paul is troubling her more than she dares admit to anyone. She isn’t exactly sure what the hell she will do if things fall apart with him. He’s her soulmate. Her other half. She’s not a really schmalzy person, but when it comes to Paul Cassidy, he is undoubtedly the person she was destined to be with, and never before in all their many years together has she felt such an urge to give him a good shake. There’s no way he doesn’t sense it too. He can’t have failed to notice how her body tenses when he wraps his arms around her, or how often she tells him she doesn’t want a hug because she’s in the middle of a hot flush. Niamh being a person who wears her thoughts on her face means there is no way he hasn’t noticed her increasing eye rolls, or weary stare back.
So with things far from how they usually are Chez Cassidy, raising the subject of a last-minute weekend away with the girls isn’t something she particularly relishes – but deep in her soul she knows she needs this weekend away more than she is willing to let on.
In fact, she could do with a full week away, or maybe a fortnight? She wouldn’t be opposed to a month or two on a deserted island, if she’s being entirely honest – but only as long as there was running water, electricity and a steady supply of food and drink. Niamh is not built for the rugged lifestyle, which of course makes her wonder why on earth she has agreed to a weekend in a yurt of all things – and that’s not to mention the fact she forgot to ask Becca what the toilet/showering situation is. Visions of dashing through icy pellets of rain in the pitch-black night to a freezing outhouse or having to shower under the tumbling streams of an Irish waterfall while actively trying to ensure she doesn’t freeze her tits off cross her mind and she shudders in anticipation. And it’s not the good kind of shuddering in anticipation either.
Weighing it up though, the fear of sub-par ablution stations is not greater than her need to get some much-needed headspace. She’ll rough it. It’s not exactly I’m a Celebrity… She’s pretty sure there will be no animal testicles to eat or tunnels of rats to crawl through. She can handle it.
Paul is scrolling through his phone in the living room, looking perfectly relaxed on his favourite armchair with his feet up on the footstool in front of him. His face, one she can recognise is ageing now and far removed from the young man she fell in love with, is set in a sour expression.
He doesn’t even look up as she comes into the room, but that doesn’t stop him from talking. ‘The Kerrigans at the top of the street have put their house up for sale. You’ll never guess what they’re asking for it…’
‘Paul,’ Niamh says, sitting on the sofa opposite him.
‘Our house is definitely nicer than theirs and they’re asking?—’
‘Paul,’ Niamh says again, more firmly this time, and he looks up.
‘￡260,000.’ He turns the phone screen towards Niamh, who wants to scream that she doesn’t give a damn what the Kerrigans are selling their house for.
She bites her tongue. This is the kind of thing they talk about often. They’ve been debating upsizing a bit now that the children are all getting bigger. Of course, there might even be a new baby coming into the house… but still she feels irritated by him waving his phone in her face. Worse than that, she feels irritated that she feels irritated by him. Mustering all the essential relaxation skills she learned in yoga, she takes a deep breath and centres herself before she dares open her mouth. She feels it in her very bones that one of these days when she speaks it will not be the supportive, loving wife coming out of her mouth but the vicious, snapping beast that menopause is turning her into. When she visualises it she can’t help but think of the Gmork from The NeverEnding Story – the scary, growling black dog/monster that gave every child watching that movie in the eighties the biggest jumpscare of their young lives.
‘Very good,’ she says as he shakes his head in disbelief at the asking price of his neighbour’s house.
‘They’re chancing their arm, looking for that,’ he mumbles and goes back to scrolling across his phone screen.
‘But I need to talk to you about something else,’ Niamh says.
He looks up from his phone and grimaces. ‘Oh, God, what now? Don’t tell me there’s another bombshell coming our way? What is it now? Cal been expelled? Fiadh getting an ASBO ?’
‘No. It’s nothing like that.’
‘Thank feck,’ he says. ‘So what is it? God. Don’t tell me it’s worse?’
She tenses and wonders when did he ever become such a drama queen? ‘It’s not something worse. It’s just, well, Becca got the gig at Northern People .’
‘That’s brilliant news!’ For the first time in two weeks he looks genuinely happy.
‘It is. And they’ve already offered her a great opportunity to go to a women’s retreat – a kind of menopause boot camp.’
He grimaces again and she wants to throw a cushion at his face. ‘Don’t pull that face! You wouldn’t be doing that if you actually had to go through menopause.’
‘Yeah, but I have to live with you going through menopause. Maybe I’m the one who needs a retreat? Could you ask Becca?’
He’s joking, of course, in the sarky gentle ribbing way they always joke, but Niamh doesn’t find it funny and it’s more than a cushion she wants to throw at his face this time. But along with the anger, another emotion bubbles up, taking her by surprise. Tears prick at her eyes. Dear God, she thinks, I’m going to cry. As a lump forms in her throat, and embarrassment causes her face to flush a fierce red, she gets up and leaves the room because she does not trust herself to speak.
Even though this is Paul. Her Paul. Her soulmate and life partner – who she has cried in front of too many times to mention over the years but who she doesn’t seem to recognise any more.
Has he changed that much, she wonders. Or is it her?