Shell got out the broom and started sweeping.
'You swept the floor earlier,' Jimmy said, without turning round.
'It's all crumbs again, with the two of you,' she snapped. She launched the bristles around his feet, darting them between the piano-stool legs and pedals. 'I'll sweep you up if you're not quiet.' She moved over towards the sink.
The lights flickered, grew dim and came on strong again. The wind got up hard and shrill. Time passed. Jingle, jingle went the piano keys, needling away on the same old note.
Holy God, it's coming again.
She dropped the broom. 'Keep playing, Jimmy.' She rushed into the bedroom and lay flat on her bed and panted. But the pain came on regardless. She drew her knees up to her chin and rocked. Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way. The oxtail stew flew up her throat but just on time she swallowed it back down. A hiss was in her ears and yellow streaks across her eyes. Oh what fun it is to ride on a one-horse open sleigh-heh-jingle bells...
'Shell?' Jimmy and Trix were standing over the bed, looking down on her.
She blinked. The pain exploded inside her into smithereens scattering into her bloodstream, then softened. 'What?'
'You all right?' Jimmy said.
Trix's lips wobbled. 'You're acting funny, Shell.'
Shell sat up. 'I'm fine.' She got up. She fluffed up Trix's hair. 'Just wanted a quick lie-down.' She went back out to the kitchen. 'Finish up those wings, Trix. Here, give me a brush.'
They did a mix of orange, white and yellow. But the green of the cornflakes packet still showed through, so they did a blue splurge over that part. They painted the grey insides bright red. Shell made a hole with a skewer and threaded through two lengths of twine in hoops for fixing the wings up to the shoulders. Trix tried them on.
Jimmy looked up from the piano. He was back on 'We Three Kings'. 'They flop.'
'They don't,' Trix said. She fluttered round the kitchen waving her fingertips.
'They do. The tips point to the floor. If you were a real angel, you'd crash.'
'Would not.'
'Would.'
'Would not.'
'Would. Crash, bang, wallop.'
'Whisht! ' Shell screamed. It was back, hard and vicious. Her hand shot out blindly, knocking the mug of water and paintbrushes over across the kitchen table. She grabbed the back of a chair. The coloured water oozed across the neat checks of the plastic tablecloth.
She got to the sink just in time. There was no holding the oxtail soup back now.
'Ick,' said Trix.
Shell ran the taps hard, and dropped in a squat. Ooerooooo, she moaned from deep in her throat.
Jimmy came over from the piano stool and watched. 'She sounds just like Mr Duggan's cow,' he mused.
The pain ran off her again, like water. But she was left cold and shaken.
'Trix,' she whispered. 'Clear up that mess of paint, won't you?'
She picked up the mac from across the bottom of the door and put it on.
'Where are you going?' Jimmy asked.
'Out. Need some air.'
''S pouring.'
'Don't care.'
She got out the door and marched around the house, five times and counting. All she could see was the light on the concrete path from the kitchen windows, back and front, and the gutters and drains, sloshing the rain away into the earth.
Another one came on the ninth go round. She vomited again, into the wind. She was the goat coughing by the gatepost now, not Dad. Eventually the pain went.
She went back in.
'Run a bath, Trix.'
''S not bath night, Shell.'
'Doesn't matter. I'm having a bath.'
Trix ran off to do it.
'Keep playing that piano, Jimmy.'
Jimmy shrugged. He played Star of wonder, star of night in the gruff notes at the bottom of the piano. In the bath, the water came right up to the rim of grime that wouldn't come off. It wasn't mad-hot, but warm enough. She stopped shivering once she'd got in. Her hands and feet tingled. Trix sat on the toilet seat, watching her, as she often liked to do.
'You're wicked funny tonight, Shell,' she pronounced.
'How funny?'
'You keep starting and stopping. 'S funny.'
Contractions, dilations, dos and don'ts, befores and afters.
'I'm distracted with the pair of you.'
She rubbed under her arms with the soap-bar. 'Pass the flannel over, Trix.'
'If you punched another hole, Shell...'
'Huh?'
'In my wings. And put another string through. And a knot round my middle...'
'We'll try it later,' Shell promised. 'Out you go. Scram.'
The next pain had her in its vice the moment Trix left. Star with royal beauty bright. She turned in the bath onto her knees and pressed her head up against the enamel. Oooeroooo, she went. The sound bellowed round her ears, deep, strong. She was sure Mr Duggan's cow had joined her in the bath. It wasn't her doing the moans but it. Oooooeroooo...
She'd topped up the bath twice but now there was no warm water left in the tank. The towels were damp and grubby, but she dried herself as best she could and pulled her clothes back on.
Back in the kitchen, there was a surprise. Jimmy and Trix had cleared away the paint things. On the table lay a ball of twine, a pair of scissors, a plastic bin-bag and a set of Trix's old doll's clothes. In the middle was a small cardboard box, a little bigger than a shoebox. It was lidless and thickly lined with cotton wool.
'We've got everything ready, Shell,' Jimmy said.
Shell stared. 'Ready?'
'For the baby.'
'The baby?'
'What else?'
Trix grinned. 'Told you it would come for Christmas.'
Jimmy patted his own belly. 'That's why you sound like Mr Duggan's cow. The baby's coming out. Isn't it?'
Shell nodded. 'I think so,' she admitted. She went up to the table and looked at their offerings. She picked up the twine and scissors and shuddered. What if...episiotomies and caesareans...
'Doubt we'll need these,' she said. She put them down and examined the plastic bin-bag. 'What's that for?'
''S to catch the goo. The afters.'
Shell shook her head. She picked up the shoebox and prodded the cotton wool lining. 'That's nice,' she said.
'It's a manger, Shell,' Trix said. 'I made it. I put cotton wool in, not straw.'
Shell nodded. 'Much better than straw,' she agreed, bending over.
'She's off again,' Jimmy said.
The pain came up this time like a juggernaut, mowing her over, rolling her flat on the tarmac. In the middle of it came a hot gushing between her legs.
''S coming!' she yelped. But after the pain grumbled away, all that was left was a puddle on the floor.
Jimmy got the mop out.
'What is it?' Trix asked, peering down. ''S a funny colour.'
'It's bath water,' Shell said. Her teeth chattered.
'Never.'
'It is.'
'Ick.'
'Get rid of it.'
Jimmy mopped it up.
'I'm all wet.' Suddenly Shell was sobbing and she couldn't stop. 'I'm frozen. I'm wet through.'
Jimmy put the mop away. He put his hand on her elbow. 'C'mon, Shell,' he coaxed.
They led her into the bedroom. Trix helped her into her nightdress. They tucked her in and heaped their own blankets on top of her.
'Jimmy?' she croaked.
'What?'
'Would you get me a bowl. The plastic washing-up bowl.'
'Why?'
'Gonna be sick.'
He came in with the bowl. Trix followed with a cup of tea and a Marie Rose biscuit. Instead of being sick she ate the biscuit and drank down the tea. For a moment she felt nearly normal. Then the next pain came on, and the next, and the one after that, until they were lining up like monsters, grabbing at her as they passed, munching on her insides, tearing her limb from limb.
She rememb
ered coming out of a tunnel, wanting to know the time. Jimmy was saying something. Two o'clock. How could it be two? It was pitch-dark outside. 'You should be at school, the two of you. What are you doing here?'
''S two at night, Shell.'
''S coming, 's coming.'
'You said that last time.'
''S really coming. Jesus.' She was on the floor, crawling towards the kitchen. 'God help me.' Her knees flew apart. Her hair was down around the boards in matted folds.
'Get the bin-bag, Trix. The twine. The scissors,' she heard somebody say. It was like the voice of a torturer. He was going to carve her in two. She hollered as loud as she could, but there was nobody to hear her for miles around. A knife was in her gut with a fiery blade, savaging her.
'No! Spare me,' she screamed. 'I didn't mean to do wrong. Please.'
She was Angie Goodie on the steeple. The lightning was striking her, not the wand, again and again, cutting her to ribbons.
The room went white and silent. She brought her head up and looked around. It was cloudy and quiet, with a warm current of air on her face. She was everywhere and nowhere. She was a spirit. The monster had killed her. There was a piano playing, from far away, then the sea rolling in and out, like the waves on Goat Island. The whiteness turned to cream, then to fine yellow, like sand. The wind made it ripple, and suddenly her mam was on it, walking towards her, her olive scarf tightly knotted under the chin, the wind blowing her tweed coat. Shell, she called. My own Shell. There you are. I've been looking for you all day but I couldn't find you. Where did you run off to, naughty girl? She came up close and placed a hand on each of her shoulders. She was stooping down over her, looking into her eyes. Shell looked back into hers. She saw her own face in both of them, translucent, bobbing. Off to the side were Mam's laughter lines, crinkling up around like broken smiles, just like the librarian's had. Mam's hand was on her forehead, smoothing out a damp tress of hair. You've a temperature, Shell. You shouldn't be out in this high wind. Come with me, Shell. I'll take you home. Mam's cool palm was in her left hand, then it was in her right hand; maybe there were two Mams, one on either side. Shell was turning in both directions, straining to see Mam's face again, but the whiteness had come back. Mam, she screamed. Don't go. Don't leave me. Please don't go. Please.
'Shell...Shell...'
The words got softer, further. Shell...Something was flying away from her. Mam's soul. It fell away like a stone rolling down a cliff, sliding down the side, gathering speed. Now it was the lost sheep stuck on the outcrop of rock, falling, going round and round, head over heels, dashing down to its death below. No, she called out after it. No. Come back, sheep, come back.
The rocks, the sea, the sheep vanished. She felt a hand on the back of her neck. She was in the kitchen, crouched in the middle of a blanket. Her nightie was rolled up around her hips. Her forearms were dug into the seat of the armchair. Under her knees was black plastic. On the black plastic was a lump. It was red and blue and brown and white. Jimmy was touching it. He'd a damp flannel and was stroking it clean.
'You did it, Shell,' he gasped. 'You got it out.'
As he wiped, a face appeared. Two button-blue eyes. A tiny nose. Little, pursed lips.
'I did it?' she gasped.
Its arms were curled around its chest, ending in tiny fingers, like a doll's.
There was something caught around its neck.
'What's that-what's that thing there?' she whispered.
Jimmy was doing something, pulling at it, yanking at it, slipping it over the baby's head.
'Don't take it off-it's--'
She shook her head, touching it. It was whitish-grey, like a strange necklace.
'Is it twine? You didn't pull it out with twine?'
'No,' Jimmy said. 'Didn't use the twine. It came out like you said. On its own.'
He got the scissors out and cut the round thickness of the thing in two. It oozed round the baby, a long, truncated worm.
'Ick,' said Trix. ''S horrid.'
One bit of it ended in the baby's belly button. Jimmy did another snip to cut it away. The other bit dangled from between Shell's legs. She remembered what it was now, from the body book: the umbilical cord.
Jimmy went on wiping the baby.
'Is it a boy or girl, Jimmy?' Trix said.
'A girl, silly. Any fool can tell that.'
'A girl?' Shell breathed. 'Give her over, Jimmy. Let me hold her.'
Shell reached out and touched the strange, alien creature. Minutes past, silent and still.
A gloop tickled her thighs. 'It's the afters,' Jimmy yelled.
A purple sludge, liverish and dark, came out. Shell didn't care. She hardly noticed. By now, she had the little girl picked up, and was holding her like cut-glass, hunched on her kneecaps, smiling. The little face blurred, then sharpened again. She touched the head. It was soft, like apple skin. There were tiny purple veins inside it, and no hair on top of it. Her heart missed a beat, then a surge of warmth flooded over her. 'Rosie,' she whispered. 'My Rosie, love.' She touched the little nose. 'Is it really you? Did I do this? ' She started to hum her mam's favourite hymn. 'Love divine, all loves excelling, joy of heaven to earth come down.' The little baby, daintily creased, lay in her arms asleep, making not a sound.
Thirty-one
Jimmy and Trix tried to take the child away but she wouldn't let them. She went to bed with her, singing her the hymn. She wrapped her in a soft flannel sheet, and laid her on a pillow at her side.
She must have slept.
She woke late next day. Panicking, she searched for the baby. She was where she'd left her, rolled on the side, hugged into Shell's shoulder by the pillow, with her head under Shell's armpit. Shell picked her up and sang some more. Slowly she got to her feet. Soreness stung from her stomach to her knees. She hobbled out of the bedroom, through the kitchen and made it to the bathroom. She ran another bath. She stepped in, carrying the baby with her, scooping the water over the little wrinkles on the forehead. 'I baptize thee Rose,' she said. The child was cold through, however hard she tried to warm her. Milk dribbled from her breasts but the baby was too tired to drink.
She got out and wrapped her up warm in a towel. She put her in Trix's cardboard box, in the snug cotton-wool lining. She folded up some clean socks to support her precious head. Then she made the breakfast.
Trix and Jimmy woke up. It was well gone school time, but she didn't scold them.
'You can stay home from school,' Shell said. 'Just for today.'
She drew back the curtains, putting the oddments back. She hummed the hymn. 'Joy of heaven to earth come down, fix in us thy humble dwelling...' The morning light shafted in. Fast clouds skimmed the sky. A feeble sun snuck low across the field. ''S fine today,' she said. She went to touch the baby's cheek and smiled.
'Rosie,' she murmured.
''S that what she's called?' Trix said.
Shell nodded. 'Like it?'
''S pretty.' Trix's lips wobbled. ''S very pretty, Shell.'
'What's wrong with you, Trix? What's there to cry about?'
Trix said nothing, but bawled out loud, tears streaming down her cheeks.
'You're worried about what Dad will say-when he gets back?'
Trix shook her head. Then nodded.
'Don't worry. We'll think of something. Maybe he won't mind after all.' Shell went on humming.
Jimmy threw down his spoon.
'Shell,' he said.
'What?'
'You know Mr Duggan's cow?'
'God in heaven. If you'd ever stop going on about that bloody cow.'
'The one I told you about. That had the early calf.'
'What of it?'
'It came out dead.'
'Dead?'
Jimmy nodded. 'Didn't tell you before.'
Shell stared.
'Didn't want to scare you.'
'Oh.' Shell's fingers went to her neck, shaking and cold. 'That poor cow. And her licking the calf.' Her teeth chattered. 'And the
calf dead.'
'She didn't know, Shell. She didn't know the calf was dead.'
''Spect not. The poor cow.'
Shell picked up the baby-box. She sat on the armchair, cradling the box on her lap. The baby was still asleep.
She stared across the room to where the sunshine came in through the window.
She tried to hum the hymn but the notes wouldn't come.
A great lid slammed down in her heart.
She made herself look down at what was in her lap.
The baby was blue and stiff. It was dead.
They found the lid to the box and put it on, covering the small child. Shell tried to cry but her eyes were dry. Jimmy took the spade of ocean blue and Trix the spade of ladybird red. Shell carried the tiny coffin in her arms. They processed out of the door into the sun. She, Jimmy and Trix were like sentinels, walking up the field in a silent row. In the middle they dug a hole in the earth. The ground was soft and heavy after the rain. There were no stones. Jimmy put the box in at the bottom and Shell cut off a strand of her own hair and curled it on top of the cardboard lid. Trix added a sprig of holly. They crossed themselves. Then they filled in the hole and surrounded it with a ring of small, round stones, taken from the cairn.
Part III
WINTER
Thirty-two
Dad got back from Cork at the end of the week.
He had his supper quietly and sat in his chair. He didn't say anything.
Shell noticed him following her round the room with his eyes as she put the things away.
'So, Shell?' he said.
'So what, Dad?' she said.
'You're all right, are you, Shell?'
'Fine, Dad.'
'Your headaches. Have they been plaguing you while I've been away?'
'They did a bit. But now they've gone, Dad. All gone.'
He nodded. 'Good.' He got up and paced the room, jangling change in his pocket. He looked at her oddly, with one eye scrunched up small, the other large and round. He kept starting to say something then changing his mind. Finally he said, 'Right, I'm off.' He left the house, even though Stack's would have scarcely opened.
Days slipped by. Milk dripped from her breasts. Sister Assumpta, the nun who'd taught her mam, would have called them 'Tears of a Disappointed Mammary Gland'. She'd to stuff tissues in her bra the whole time. She didn't cry. Instead a hardness grew in her like black ice. It froze her numb. Every minute seemed a week. Rosie's little hands, the light sketchy veins under her skin, floated around in Shell's head, but no tears came. In the mornings she stood by the ring of stones. She looked ahead into the copse at the harsh spokes of tree. Her mind was empty.