Chapter Fifty-Seven
Josephine was looking at herself critically in the mirrored wardrobes; she had a bump, but not a huge one. She caressed it instinctively, but the baby had not moved for two days, and now she was starting to feel panic rising inside her. Although she was eight months pregnant – the longest that she had ever carried a child – she was feeling nothing but dread. If this child had died, she knew she would never have another.
She was naked except for her dressing gown, a long flowing silk affair that had cost a small fortune, and it looked good on her. It was a pale pink colour, and with her thick blond hair and deep-blue eyes she knew that it suited her complexion perfectly. Even pregnant, she still wanted to look good for Michael. She took a step closer to the mirror and pulled the dressing gown around her, tying it loosely. Her face was pale, gaunt; she could see fear reflected in her eyes.
Turning away, she walked to her bed and, picking up the clothes she had laid out earlier, she slowly started to dress herself. Her doctor had told her that if she felt she needed to see him at any time all she had to do was call. Michael had made sure of that. He had probably offered the doctor what he would call a ‘sweetener’, but which was, in reality, a very large amount of money – hard cash and tax free. She wasn’t complaining though. She sat on the side of the bed and, bending over carefully, she slipped her maternity knickers over her feet. Michael called them her ‘passion killers’. She stood up and pulled them into place.
She was putting her bra on when she felt a stabbing pain shoot through her abdomen. It was so sharp that it immediately took her breath away. She waited for it pass, then she slipped her dressing gown on again. Sitting back on the bed, she waited nervously to see what, if anything, was going to happen to her next. She was not going to ring Michael or her mum or anybody until she knew what was going on. She would finish getting dressed, ring the doctor, and then she would drive herself to the hospital. She was determined not to panic; she was going to keep herself as calm as possible. Her doctor had told her that this was a normal pregnancy, and she was to treat it as such. There had been no bleeding or cramps, no feelings of illness or nausea. She had not felt her usual fragility, as if the child inside her womb was already too weak to go full term. There had been nothing untoward this time, and she needed to remember that. But until she held a baby of her own in her arms, she would not take anything for granted. She had suffered that kind of disappointment too many times before.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
‘I hope she manages it this time, though why it was such a big secret I don’t know. Let’s face it, Michael, you could have told me! Anyone would think I was a stranger on the street instead of your own mother the way you treat me these days. I suppose the house is piled up with baby powder and nappies again. If she had a squad of ten, she couldn’t use half the stuff she buys. It’s ridiculous.’
Michael had heard enough. With Hannah, it was a constant barrage of complaints – then she wondered why they didn’t want her around. Her snide remarks about grandchildren broke Josephine’s heart. She made him feel guilty because he didn’t seek her out every day, even though it was her own fault. She was so fucking bitter and twisted. As if he didn’t have enough to deal with in his life without listening to her going on.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Mum! Will you give it a rest!’
Hannah shut up. Her son’s voice was full of anger and irritation. She pursed her lips together tightly, so she wouldn’t react. Her son was worried about his wife, and that was natural. But he should still remember who had reared him, fed him, clothed him all his life.
Michael felt the urge to throttle his mother. She could make a saint swear. She was sitting there now, acting like butter wouldn’t melt, while his poor Josephine was being examined by the doctor.
He made his way back to his wife, wondering why on earth he had bothered to go and update his mother on Josephine’s progress. It was a complete waste of time.
He walked into Josephine’s hospital room, a bright smile nailed to his face. He couldn’t let her see how worried he was. If it went wrong this time, she would never get over it – he knew that much.
Lana was holding her daughter’s hand, and he was pleased to see that Josephine was laughing at something her mother had said to her.
‘Hello, Michael. The doctor said that everything is going fine! We heard the heartbeat, didn’t we, Mum?’
Lana grinned. ‘We did. Strong as an ox by the sounds of it.’
Michael sat on the bed. ‘How long do they think?’
Josephine shook her head, and shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Don’t know. Still waiting for my waters to break. Could be here for ages!’
She would happily stay there for days if necessary and he knew that. All she wanted was for everything to be all right.
‘Is your mum OK?’
Michael rolled his eyes. ‘Same as always, Lana – about as much fun as a broken back.’
Lana laughed at him. ‘No change there then!’
Josephine was watching her husband sadly. She knew how much he loved his mum, but she was not the easiest person to be around. Josephine was well aware that Hannah had never liked her much, but it had not mattered at first. If she had given her a few grandchildren, it would have made a big difference to their relationship. ‘She doesn’t mean it, Michael.’
Michael waved his hand impatiently. ‘Sod her, Josephine.’
The midwife came in, and Michael automatically stepped away from his wife. He watched as she smiled and nodded, as always eager to please, to do the right thing. He prayed once more that this time God would bless them with a living child. He wanted a baby, of course, but if it wasn’t meant to be, then, for him, that was that. He couldn’t watch her go through this again. This time it seemed to be going normally but, with their track record, he wasn’t going to let himself get excited about it.
The midwife was a heavyset West Indian woman, with a loud voice, and an infectious laugh. Josephine loved her, and he watched as the woman examined his wife, while chatting and joking with her, putting her at her ease. He was glad that he had paid to go private, it was worth every penny. Only the best for his Josephine. He loved her more than life itself.
‘Did you hear that, Michael? My waters have broken! It’s all go now.’
Carmen Presley was pleased with her charge’s progress; the girl had been so unlucky in the past, and no one was taking any chances. But everything seemed to be going as planned.
Michael smiled happily, but he was relieved when Lana said pointedly, ‘Get us a cup of tea, Michael, will you, darling?’
As much as Lana disliked her son-in-law, she felt sorry for him. She could see that he was terrified, and she knew that it was fear for her daughter. Whatever he was, she believed he loved Josephine.
As he left the room, she clasped her daughter’s hand, and said another Hail Mary. Like Michael, she wanted this baby for her daughter more than she had ever wanted anything in her life.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Declan Costello was in the top bar of their newest nightclub, The Gatsby. He was holding court, and enjoying every second of it. His latest amour, Sinead, a petite blonde with huge breasts and delusions of grandeur, was by his side. She was pretty enough, green-eyed with high cheekbones and full lips but, unfortunately for her, she had about as much personality as a tadpole. It had only been a week and already Declan was getting bored with her. The only women who lasted for a while with him, had one thing in common other than being good-looking – a sense of humour.
Declan looked around him. Everyone, from Jeffrey Palmer to Jermaine O’Shay had turned out to wet the baby’s head. Even the Notting Hill lads had come over to the East End – an almost unheard of situation. But Michael Flynn was popular and everyone wanted to congratulate him on the birth of his first child. Christ Himself knew they had waited long enough for it.
Jermaine was drinking whisky and, as usual, he had women lining up to talk to him. Tonight, though, he wa
sn’t interested in the strange around him; he just wanted to share Michael’s night with him.
The club was packed out, and the music was loud and pumping, the beat resonating through the floor.
Michael Flynn finally arrived just after midnight and, as he walked up the stairs to the top bar, Whitney Houston’s ‘I Wanna Dance With Somebody’ came on. Laughing excitedly, Michael made his entrance by dancing erratically, and singing the lyrics at the top of his voice.
‘Fucking hell, Michael! You pissed already?’
Michael was so happy, it was almost painful to watch him. After all these years, poor Josephine had finally managed to produce a child for them.
‘Drunk? Am I fuck, you cheeky bastard! I’m happy. Get me a large Irish, mate.’
Everyone was clamouring to congratulate him; he was shaking hands and hugging people all around, his happiness infectious.
‘So, come on then, what did she have?’
Michael looked at Declan in disbelief. ‘Didn’t you tell them?’
‘No, I kept schtum. That’s for you to know, and for that lot to find out! It’s your news, mate. Not mine.’
Michael felt almost tearful at Declan’s generosity of spirit. He understood how big this moment was for him and, even though he would not have minded Declan telling the people around them his news, he appreciated that Declan had left it to him.
‘Come on then, Michael, what you got? It can only be one or the other!’
Michael was laughing once more. Then, standing up straight and clearing his throat theatrically, he announced, ‘Jessica Mary Flynn was born today on the tenth of September nineteen eighty-nine weighing in at six pounds, five ounces. She is her mother’s double, and she’s fucking gorgeous.’
The cheer that went up from everyone was so loud it drowned out the music. Declan pushed a glass of whisky into Michael’s hand, and he downed it in one go. Then, giving Declan his empty glass, he shouted, ‘More!’
Michael had already noticed that Jeffrey Palmer was there with some of his crew, looking very sheepish. He had clocked Jermaine O’Shay too. Michael smiled at the people there; it was a great crowd, and he knew that they were there for him, to celebrate his good news with him. Almost every Face in London was in this bar tonight and, as he looked around him – at young Danny, as always telling jokes and making people laugh, and at Orville Cardoza, a Rastafarian of advanced years who was capable of extreme violence at the least provocation – he suddenly felt at peace with himself, and with his life. His little daughter was a miracle. She had arrived with the minimum of fuss, and he had never seen Josephine more beautiful – the look of triumph on her face had said it all. She had finally achieved the one thing she craved more than anything else in her life. As she had cradled her daughter in her arms, he had closed his eyes tightly and thanked God for finally answering their prayers.
He had another large whisky put into his hand and, once again, he swallowed it down quickly. ‘Keep them coming, boys. Tonight I am going to get fucking plastered.’
The men around him were cheering him loudly. Arnold Jameson, a young Jamaican guy with a bald head and a taste for outlandish shirts, hugged him tightly. ‘I remember getting my first baby. Your own flesh and blood. It’s a real trip, ain’t it, maw?’
Michael hugged him back. Until now he had not thought of it like that. His little girl, his brand spanking new little baby, was his flesh and blood.
Chapter Sixty
Josephine lay in the hospital bed, tired and sore, but also elated. She watched her little daughter as she slept in the Perspex crib beside her bed, fascinated by each breath and each snuffle. She was still worried that this was all a dream, and she would wake up in her own bed, covered in sweat and silently crying into her pillow.
She looked down at her body; already her belly had gone down – she didn’t look like she had just given birth. She had laughed about it with the midwife, and another new mum who had popped her head around the door asking if it was OK to come in and say hello. She had really loved that. Talking babies with another mum was something she had never thought she would ever do. It was so natural, and they had chatted together for ages. Then she had fed her little Jessica – already she was Jessie, Michael had seen to that. Her mother had never allowed her name to be shortened – she was Josephine, never Jo. Yet she had already accepted Jessie for her daughter; it suited her somehow, she looked like a Jessie.
Even Hannah had not been able to ruin this day for her. Unlike her mother and father who had held the baby, cooed to her, and shared in her first few hours in the world, Hannah had refused the offer to hold her grandchild, and she had left without even saying goodbye. Michael had not even noticed his mother’s absence; he was as besotted with Jessie as she was. He just gazed at his new daughter with complete and absolute awe. She was a lovely child already; she had been born pink and creamy, not even any blood or vernix on her. She could see herself in her daughter’s features. Her mum had said Josephine had been her double, the image of her as a baby, and she was going to bring in the pictures to prove it. Michael was so dark, Josephine had thought the child would resemble him, dark-haired and apple-cheeked. But she wasn’t – she was fair-skinned, and honey-blond, just like her mum.
Josephine knew she should try to sleep – she was whacked out – but it was impossible. She wanted this day to last for ever. It was the best day of her whole life. She felt truly alive for the first time in years. Michael had been so good, pretending he didn’t care if they had children or not, but she believed, deep inside, that he did care. She hugged herself with glee. She was finally a mother, she was someone’s mum, and that felt so good. She looked at her little daughter, lying there so defenceless, so vulnerable, and she whispered softly, ‘I promise you, my little Jessie Flynn, that I will never let you down. If you need me I will always be there for you.’ She meant every word. It never occurred to her that sometimes you couldn’t protect your children, no matter how much you might want to. Life just didn’t work like that.
Chapter Sixty-One
Michael took a deep breath, and counted to five slowly in his head. Josephine was feeding little Jessie, and he had walked into his kitchen, barefoot, in only his boxer shorts, gasping for a cup of coffee, and stubbed his toe on a new pile of boxes that seemed to have appeared overnight. He had hopped around in agony, while cursing under his breath.
Instead of laughing as expected, Josephine had deliberately ignored his pain. He had hoped that now she had a baby to care for the bulk buying would stop. He had always thought her need to buy so much was because of her failure to have a child of her own. He had ignored it, telling himself that if it made her happy then that was enough. But now it was starting to annoy him. In the last six months, she had got worse not better. He glanced quickly at the boxes as he sipped his coffee. More fucking food – like they didn’t have enough already! Twenty-four tins to the case, and there were five cases. Two were full of baked beans, one was spaghetti, and the other two were chilli con carne of all things. She cooked wonderful food for them – they rarely opened a tin of anything. It was getting beyond a joke.
He sat down, and smiled at his wife and daughter. Little Jessie pushed her bottle away, and gave him a huge gummy smile. She was absolutely gorgeous, there was no doubting that. Her eyes were a deep blue and framed by long, dark eyelashes. Everyone commented on her eyes – even complete strangers, they were that remarkable. She seemed to look into your soul, she peered so intently. Even his mother had eventually succumbed to her charms.
‘Morning, my darling.’
She started to crow at him, grinning and grabbing her own feet, and he laughed as Josephine tried to get her to finish her bottle. He kissed his wife on the forehead gently. ‘Morning, my other darling.’
Josephine smiled at him, but she could sense his frustration, and she hated it. She knew that, on one level, he had a point about her buying, but it wasn’t as if they couldn’t afford it. Possessing the things that she purchased made her fee
l secure somehow. It had started so long ago, it was normal for her now. And if things were on special offer, she just saw it as a way of saving money.
‘She is looking happy enough.’
Josephine grinned. ‘She’s already had her breakfast. She loves her food, Michael.’
He felt his heart constrict with his love for her. If only she would admit that her compulsive buying was getting out of hand. The house they lived in was huge by anyone’s standards, but she was gradually filling it up with more and more boxes of food, talcum powder, even bloody dried milk. She bought stuff they would never even use, like the tins of chilli con carne, and the boxes of dried fruits. It was completely without logic. If they lived to be a hundred, they could never use it all. In the spare bedroom, she had piled up box after box of cereals, every kind. Big packs that were all out of date, along with tins of tuna and tins of pilchards.
‘She’ll need a big appetite won’t she, Josephine? There is more cereal in this house than in fucking Tesco.’
He saw the hurt on his wife’s face and immediately felt bad, as though he was in the wrong. Her eyes were filling up with tears, and he sighed. ‘I don’t want to hurt you, Josephine, but surely you can see that this is getting out of hand? Look around you, darling. This place is like a fucking warehouse. We don’t even eat any of it. I tried to use a tin of beans the other week and you nearly bit my head off.’
Josephine rolled her eyes in exasperation. ‘There were tins in the cupboard. You didn’t need to open the case up. I explained that to you.’
He picked up his daughter, pulling her from his wife’s lap. ‘Listen to what you’re saying, Josephine. Who gives a flying fuck where a tin of beans comes from, I ask you? And, as we have more beans in this house than a fucking army canteen, I would have thought you’d have welcomed someone actually eating the fuckers. They aren’t ornaments, are they?’