Chapter 14
CHAPTER 14
December 1969
Maura
One morning follows another, and soon, Christy and I fall into a routine the way I imagine most married couples do. We both get up early when his alarm clock rings. He bathes and shaves, and when he comes downstairs dressed in one of his many dapper suits—that I know cost an arm and a leg in Switzers—I have his breakfast waiting. Rashers and eggs, mostly; they’re his favorite. I learn the hard way that he does not enjoy porridge. The bowl he smashed in protest was my grandmother’s and I couldn’t hold back my tears when it lay in pieces on the floor, tangled among gloopy porridge. Christy left without a word that morning and I cleaned up my tears and then the mess. That same evening, he arrived home from work with a new set of fine bone china.
More than five months pass before I finally open the box and make room in the cupboard for the delicate white delft with hand-painted flowers. I am in an especially cheery mood this morning and fancy china seems like as good a way as any to start the day. Christy sits at the table, reading the paper, as he does every morning. Without conversation I place a plate in front of him. He sets the paper down and looks at me with satisfied eyes when he recognizes the floral pattern beneath his runny egg.
“You like the plates,” he says.
“I do.”
I keep the part about its inability to replace the sentimental value of my grandmother’s china to myself.
“They have cups and saucers to match in the shop,” he says.
I know. I worked in homeware for almost a year when I first started in Switzers.
“Would you like them?” His fork squeaks against his plate as he cuts the fat off his rasher.
“There’s no need.”
“If you like them, there is every need. Say the word, darling, and they’re yours.”
I join Christy at the table and we eat our breakfast in silence.
“I’ll pop into Switzers after work and pick some out,” he says.
“I’ll go,” I suggest gently. “It will give me a chance to catch up with some of my old colleagues. And I could meet you for lunch, perhaps?”
Christy makes a face. “I can’t today, I’m afraid. But buy yourself something nice. A new coat, maybe? Something long to keep you warm. They say it might snow next week.”
I hide my disappointment with a forced smile. Lunch with Christy used to be my favorite part of the day. He always had a compliment for the chef or a kind word about a waiter’s uniform, openly admiring the décor and gushing over the delicious food. Christy had a knack for making people feel good just by being in his presence, and I was no exception. We’d share our news over tea and sandwiches and an hour was never enough. I have rather exciting news to share today, but as always, he’s too busy. I take a deep breath and remind myself that he works hard and provides a wonderful standard. I should have no complaints.
Christy opens the front door and I follow him into the hall, still in my nightdress and housecoat. I stand next to him and wait for the kiss on my cheek that I’ve learned is coming.
“I love you, darling,” he says.
“I love you too.”
We say the same words every single morning. There is no deviation. No additions. And no exception. When he leaves, I bake soda bread for later and wash up. Once the kitchen is gleaming like a new penny, I bathe and get dressed. I choose my favorite shoes, black patent with a round toe and a block heel. Christy doesn’t like them, and I will change into slippers before he returns home. Later, my feet will hurt from walking into town and back to pick up some bits and pieces for dinner. I did the same yesterday and the day before. My mother encourages me to appreciate the slow pace: “Once a baby comes, you won’t have a minute to yourself. High heels will be the last thing on your mind then, m’dear.”
I don’t pretend to understand why motherhood would be synonymous with flat shoes, but nonetheless, I can’t wait until every minute is filled with taking care of my baby. For the past six months I’ve crossed my fingers behind my back. And every month I’ve had to break the news to Christy that it hasn’t happened. His heart has broken as much as mine and I can feel him losing patience. There have been many smashed plates to sweep away, slammed doors to open, and bruises to cover up. I’ve cried alone and often, and I always dry my tears before he gets home. I’ve cried for the busy life I left behind on Switzers’ shop floor and yearned for the baby I left it all behind for. Finally, this month it might all be different. I haven’t told Christy yet, but I’m two weeks late. My doctor’s appointment is booked for 11:00 a.m. and I’ve said the rosary every day this week while I’ve waited.
I take a washed-out jam jar I have set aside into the bathroom. It takes me ten minutes of hovering over the toilet before I relax enough to fill the jar. Afterward, I screw the lid on and hope the answer to all my prayers is inside.
My stomach flutters with nervous anticipation as I pull on my heavy winter coat and choose a headscarf to wear today. I’ve a collection of scarves now, soft silks in beautiful colors. Christy spoils me , I remind myself as I tie a burnt orange scarf over my hair. My hair is longer than it has ever been before, and people rarely tell me I look like Doris Day, I guess because I don’t anymore. I leave the house and face into the winter wind. It stings my cheeks and I hope it snows. It would be delightful to have something as exciting as snow to break up the mundane winter days.
I walk in the opposite direction from the one I usually take and get lost a couple of times before I find the quiet side street I’m searching for. I scan both sides of the street until I spot the doctor’s office above a newsagent. A small plaque next to a blue door says DR. BUCKLEY ’ S FAMILY PRACTICE . It said in the Golden Pages that they had the fastest pregnancy testing service in Ireland. Results in two weeks , the ad said. I’ve no doubt the next fourteen days will be the longest of my life.
I push on the heavy old door and it creaks open. My legs quiver as I ascend the steps I find inside. Thankfully, upstairs is bright and airy. A woman about my age sits behind a desk and typewriter. She looks up and smiles when she sees me.
“Hello,” she chirps.
“Hi. Erm. Hello. My name is Maura Davenport. I’m here to see Dr. Buckley.”
Her smile widens.
“Oh yes,” she says. “You can leave that here with me. Results will be back in a fortnight. Shall I put you in for a return visit on the nineteenth?”
“Erm.”
“First time?” she asks me.
I nod.
“How exciting.” She writes something in a large green ledger and adds, “Well, that’s all booked in for you. We’ll see you in two weeks, Mrs. Davenport.”
She reaches her arm across her desk and I realize that’s my cue to root in my bag and find my jam jar. I pass it over, blushing a little. She doesn’t bat an eyelid as she places a sticker with my name on the front.
“See you on the nineteenth,” she says again.
I leave, and the wait begins.