Sowing The Seeds Of Love Part 12

With great difficulty, he lifted his head. 'How about the last five years back?' He groaned. 'What a waste.'

'Don't say that. We have Kathy, don't we?'

Yes, there was always Kathy. Fear overtook him. 'You're not taking her away from me. She's all I've got.' Tears stung the back of his eyes and he covered them with his hand.

His wife sat down beside him and laid her hand on his shoulder. When he didn't shrug her off, she squeezed it gently. It was the tenderest touch he'd felt in years. 'I'd never do that to you, Seth. Never.'

As it turned out, Seth didn't have to move out of the family home: Megan moved in with Siobhan. True to her word, she agreed to a joint custody arrangement. Maybe she was afraid of losing Kathy too. Luckily, Kathy was too young to understand what was going on and, to everyone's relief, adapted beautifully to her new living arrangements. Which was more than could be said for Seth.

The house felt over-large and echoey when Kathy wasn't around. And although he'd barely admit it to himself, he missed Megan too. He would have sold up and moved out but he didn't want to cause his daughter further disruption. Besides, the house wasn't just his to sell. He spent as little time there as possible, and when Kathy was with her mother, he sat anaesthetized with booze in front of the telly unless he was in the pub eyes bloodshot, cheeks unshaven, well on the way to developing a beer gut.

A lot of the time he didn't bother going to bed. He'd fall asleep in front of the box and wake up with a crick in his neck some time in the early hours, a mad infomercial blaring at him. He'd turn down the volume, rest his head on a cus.h.i.+on and cover himself with his jacket. He'd wake up in the morning, judge the time by the brightness in the sky, and turn the volume back up. Then he'd have his coffee and, if he was feeling up to it, a vitamin pill. Sometimes he'd shower, sometimes he wouldn't. Sometimes he changed his clothes and sometimes he wore the same outfit three days in a row. He couldn't even consider another woman. He felt so completely emasculated that he doubted he'd ever be able to get it up again. He went to work, thanking his lucky stars that he didn't have a boss, because if he had, he would have been well and truly sacked.

Then his mother died and it was as if someone had pulled a cosmic rug out from under him. Let's all laugh as Seth falls flat on his back again. Let's see if he can get up this time.

But Seth made it. Just about. He, his father and his brother united in their grief, making each other strong. And life went on. The legal separation came through. And Seth started to shave again and change his underwear on a more regular basis. And then one day his father rang him up and told him about this garden.

21.

All month long they came, the men in suits, the speculators. They paced around the garden, incongruous in their formal garb. Sometimes they came in twos and threes, but often alone. Sometimes one would inadvertently step on a plant. 'Sorry,' they would say. So you should be. The odd time, one might even enquire about the garden about the work they were doing. 'Such a shame,' they might say, as they walked away, pressing down the newly dug topsoil with their s.h.i.+ny shoes. 'Well, don't build on it then,' Aoife would scream silently in her head. But never out loud. Because she was used to keeping things in.

Emily was accustomed to keeping things in too. But even she couldn't do it any longer. She appeared one morning looking as if she'd been in a fight. Hay fever? But as the morning wore on, it became evident that there was more to it than that. Emily cried silently as she worked the same piece of earth over and over again, her tears dampening the soil. She had wiped her face so many times that it was mud-streaked. Uri and Aoife exchanged a concerned glance.

'Should we do something?'

'Ask her what's wrong. She talks to you,' said Uri.

So, Aoife approached Emily. Hesitantly, not wanting to frighten or upset her even more. She came up behind her and laid a hand gently on her arm. 'Emily?'

Emily turned and buried her face in Aoife's shoulder, sobbing openly. Aoife put her arms around her and they sank to the ground. Everyone else pretended not to notice, while Aoife absorbed Emily's pain, feeling oddly privileged to be chosen. The sobs became less frequent and eventually Emily lifted her head, rooted around in her pocket for a tissue and blew her nose. Aoife thought she'd never seen anyone look so forlorn. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind Emily's ear. 'What is it, Emily? What happened to you?'

There was a long silence so long that Aoife didn't think she was going to get an answer.

'I had a baby.'

Aoife was taken aback. She hadn't expected this she'd guessed Emily had been dumped. She collected herself. 'When was this?'

'Eight months ago.' Emily sniffed. 'She's eight months old.'

'A little girl.'

Emily nodded.

'Where is she?' For one terrible second, Aoife feared that Emily was going to tell her she'd left the newborn baby in a skip.

'I put her up for adoption. She's been with a foster-family. But ' fresh tears were starting to flow ' they've found a family for her. They want me to go in and sign the consent papers.'

Emily began to sob again. Oh, G.o.d. Aoife searched her pockets frantically for something resembling a tissue. Emily's had disintegrated into a sodden ribbon. Not that she seemed to care: she was oblivious to everyone and everything. 'Hush now. It's okay. Everything's going to be okay.' Aoife rubbed Emily's arm, uncomfortable with this very public show of emotion, but mostly just desperately sorry for the girl. She waited until Emily had calmed down a little before she said, 'And the baby's still with foster-parents? She hasn't gone to a family yet?'

'No.'

'Are you going to sign the papers?'

'I don't know. I can't decide.'

'Surely the adoption people provide some sort of counselling?'

'They do. I still can't decide. I mean, how could I look after a baby? I've got no boyfriend, no money, no job. I'm not even close to finis.h.i.+ng my degree.'

'What about your family?'

'They're really religious. They wouldn't understand.'

'You mean they don't even know?'

Emily shook her head.

'You never told them?'

'No.'

'Did you tell anyone?'

'You're the first. Apart from the woman in the adoption agency and the father.'

'And I take it '

'He didn't want to know.'

'Oh, Emily.' Aoife drew her close, trying but failing to imagine what it must have been like for her.

They stayed like that for a while. Emily, her wet face buried in Aoife's neck, didn't notice Mrs Prendergast tiptoe over and place a mug of tea on the ground in front of her. Aoife and the older woman looked at each other. Then Aoife nodded and Mrs Prendergast tiptoed away.

'Here,' Aoife said, after a while. 'Your tea's getting cold.'

'Where did it come from?'

'The fairies left it.'

Emily picked up the mug with frail-looking hands, and sipped.

'Better?'

'A little.'

'You might not be giving your family enough credit.'

Emily shrugged.

'How do you get on with your mother?'

'Okay. Well, I suppose.'

'There you go. She might surprise you. But she can't help if she doesn't even know.'

Emily showed no reaction.

'And how do you feel about the baby?' Aoife looked searchingly into Emily's pink, swollen face.

'I don't know. I just don't know.' She gnawed at her fingernails.

Aoife took a deep breath. 'I have something to tell you,' she said. 'It might help you decide.'

22.

The first time I gave my little girl chocolate, she laughed out loud. I'd made her mouth happy. It was a chocolate b.u.t.ton on her first birthday. Her dad caught it all on the camcorder he the Hollywood dad, we the Hollywood family. I've watched it so many times I know it by heart. But I've never managed to catch the deceit in my eyes. Michael never caught it either. Even though I was in the thick of it.

We were as entranced as she was, as the chocolate melted on her tongue, then stuck to the roof of her mouth. As her mouth filled with goo, her huge blue eyes filled with surprise, then delight.

'She's just like her mother,' said Michael, still filming.

I wasn't sure if he was referring to her looks or her new-found love of chocolate because she resembled me closely in both respects. It was gratifying at last to have a child like me. Liam was so unlike me he might have fallen from the clouds. Which didn't diminish my love for him. He was my firstborn, my finest achievement thus far in life. He'd stopped growing in the womb and had had to be cut out of me early so I was overprotective of him right from the start. It meant he was always small for his age. Some would say puny, I would say delicate. I had worried he'd be jealous of the new baby, having had the dubious benefit of my fierce attention all his young life but he seemed thrilled with her, and laughed with us at her reaction to the chocolate b.u.t.ton before demanding one for himself.

'Come on, Liam, give us a smile.' Michael trained the camera on him.

'Cheese,' said Liam, the chocolate making brown lines between his teeth.

'How old is Katie today?'

'One.' Liam held up a finger.

'And what do we have to say to her?'

'Happy birthday, Katie.' He started to clap and Katie copied him.

Michael and I looked fondly at one another. Our clever, beautiful children. Then he laid down the camera and walked over to me. He put his arms around me and spoke into my neck. 'I love you, Aoife.'

I closed my eyes. 'I love you too.' It wasn't a lie. I remember that moment exactly, even though it wasn't recorded. The feel of his arms supporting me, his breath against my skin. The mixture of happiness and guilt. I had everything in that moment. Absolutely everything. Except I was such a stupid fool I didn't even know it. Always wanting more. Forever yearning for something I didn't have. Later I blamed myself for my ingrat.i.tude: if you're not sufficiently grateful, we'll take it all away.

How can I describe Michael? He was always Michael to me, although his friends called him Mick. Only his mother and I used his full name. We knew it suited him best. He worked as a quant.i.ty surveyor. In all our years together, I never fully understood what he did.

The first thing people noticed about him was his hair: red. He hated it declared himself a lifelong victim of 'gingerism'. I loved it. Its silkiness, its floppiness. I think I nearly convinced him to love it too.

We met at this really naff party in Camden Town. I unbeknown to myself was meant for the host. I can't even remember his name now. Michael had been earmarked for the flatmate's sister, an unfortunate girl who got so inebriated that it took two men to carry her to bed. She's probably a respectable married lady now, who would cringe at the memory.

Michael was sitting opposite me. His sobriety marked him out. He sat back in his chair and sipped his wine slowly, casually surveying the chaos surrounding him. I was doing much the same at the other side of the kitchen table. Although part of me wanted to get roaring drunk, my desire to impress Michael stopped me.

'What's your name?' he asked. It wasn't the type of party at which formal introductions had been made.

'Aoife,' I said, waiting for the puzzled look, the furrowed brow, the request to repeat myself. To spell it out.

'That's beautiful,' was all he said.

I was sold.

He must have felt the same because, less than an hour later, the room having descended into drink-sodden chaos, he looked at his watch and then pointedly at me. 'Let's get out of here.'

They never even saw us leave.

We escaped together, the night blessedly cool and high after the claustrophobia of the flat, our laughter soaring into the starry sky, where it remained suspended on the air currents. Sometimes I imagine it's up there still.

We went to an all-night cafe and talked all night. His name was Michael O'Brien and he was London Irish too. His parents were from Mayo and he'd spent many a rainy summer there. We compared tales of Irish grandmothers and laughed uproariously.

'Mine says f.e.c.k.'

'Mine too!'

'Does she get up at six every morning to bake sodabread?'

'I think she buys it in Londis.'

'Oh.' Slight disappointment. 'Mine told me she cuts the cross on the top to let the fairies out. For years I believed her.'

'Mine's called Kathleen.'

'Mine too!'

'They can't all be called Kathleen.'

'No, some are called Mary.'

It made it easy to agree on our daughter's name when the time came.

The London child of Irish immigrants, I had never considered myself English. My Irish cousins had never considered me Irish. In their eyes, I was the plastic Paddy. I preferred to think of myself as a rare hybrid.