Danny Boy (6 page)

‘Does it…Is it normal to take so long?’

‘God bless you, Danny, it’s been no time at all yet.’

‘I hate to think of her in so much pain.’

‘And Rosie, like many before her, will forget it as soon as she holds that wee baby in her arms.’

Danny doubted that, but returned to his seat before the fire and settled himself again for the long vigil.

He was dozing when his father came down the stairs for the milking a few hours later, but stirred when he heard him making tea. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes with his knuckles and struggled to his feet. ‘No, lad,’ Matt said. ‘Stay and rest yourself, Phelan will give me a hand.’

‘Daddy, I’d be better doing something,’ Danny said.

Connie came out of the room carrying the tray at that moment and at the enquiring look from her son she shook her head. ‘Nothing yet.’

Danny sighed. He was glad to follow his father to the byre. A little later, with his forehead leaning on the cow’s velvety flanks and hearing the hiss-hiss of the jets of milk hitting the pail he felt more at peace. The rhythm of milking the soft, gentle cows, who stood so placid throughout with only the barest flick of their tails, often had this effect on him.

Back in the bedroom there was no such peace. Rosie was now in agony. She bit her lip to prevent the screams from spiralling from her, but she couldn’t help the gasping sobs and the strangled yelps.

She was glad she wasn’t alone, glad of Connie’s hand in hers, unaware that her nails had scored that hand often through the right. She thrashed on the bed, trying to get rid of the pain inside her that threatened to break her in two. ‘Hush, pet. Lie still,’ Abby said again and again. ‘Soon be over.’

How soon? Dear God, Rosie thought, this pain has been
going on for hours already. No one warned me it would hurt like this.

Abigail tied a towel to the head of the bed. ‘Pull on that when the pain gets too bad,’ she said. ‘Many find it helps.’

Rosie glared at her. When the pain gets bad! ‘Every pain is bad, you stupid bugger,’ she wanted to cry, but the throes of agony took all of her energy and this time she tugged on the towel so hard she threatened to bring the bedhead on top of her.

And so it went on, hour after hour. Connie never left her side, for Rosie seemed to gain comfort from her presence and she continually wiped the sweat from her face, telling her she was a good girl and doing just fine.

Sarah and Elizabeth called in before they left for work and took in the situation in one glance. They felt sorry for Rosie: she was so ravaged by pain, her eyes glazed and sweat lending a sheen to her pale skin, for all Connie’s efforts.

‘We’ll see to breakfast,’ Sarah told her mother. ‘Shall I make something for you?’

Connie looked across at Abigail, who gave a brief nod. ‘Best have something,’ she said. ‘We have to keep our strength up if we’re to help the girl.’

But suddenly Rosie arched in the bed and Connie knew they’d soon be too busy to eat or drink anything. Rosie let out a long low scream just as Danny was coming in through the cottage door. He felt as if his heart had stopped beating. ‘What is it?’ he asked his sisters. ‘Dear God, what’s up with Rosie?’

‘She’s fine,’ Sarah said, closing the door firmly behind her, knowing it would do no good at all for Danny to catch sight of his wife now.

The breakfast was eaten to a background of groans and cries and the occasional scream or shout and Sarah and Elizabeth were glad to leave the farmhouse. Phelan too found many duties that kept him outside.

By eleven o’clock, Rosie was visibly tiring and Connie and Abigail became concerned. ‘I’m going to have a wee feel about,’ Abigail said. ‘But first I’ll scrub my hands. Seen too many women die because of infection.’

There was a pot of water hanging on the fire in readiness for this and Abigail poured some of it into the basin, and added cold from the bucket by the door. She began washing her hands thoroughly, glad the men, especially the girl’s husband, were out of doors.

‘Now,’ she said, returning to the room. ‘Let’s have a look.’

She lifted the bedclothes up and bent Rosie’s knees and felt gently inside her. Rosie was too far gone to know or care what Abigail was doing and Abigail nodded confidently. ‘I can feel the head. It’s nearly there. She must push through the pain now. Rouse her, Connie, for it’s time for her to help us along.’

Rosie didn’t want to be roused, and certainly didn’t want to push. What was Connie talking about? The pains tearing through her body took her breath away, especially now there was such little space between them. ‘I can’t push,’ she said mutinously.

‘You can and you must,’ Connie said firmly. ‘Take hold of me and when the next pain comes, push with all your heart and soul.’

Rosie pushed but when that almighty effort yielded nothing, Connie said, ‘All right, Rosie, now rest yourself until the next one.’ Rosie wanted to scream at her, tell her to shut up, only she hadn’t breath to do so.

Then Abigail, at the foot of the bed, suddenly cried, ‘Come on, bonny girl, the head is nearly out. Let’s have another gigantic push.’

Rosie gathered her strength and pushed and then felt such an extreme ache between her legs that she screamed and cried in pain, fearing she was going to be ripped in two.

And then it was over. The baby’s body slithered out and
its wails filled the room. In the barn, Danny, who had been sawing logs for something to do, lifted his head at the sound and then threw the saw down, overturning the stool in his haste to get indoors.

The door was still closed but he heard movement and above it all the wonderful sound of a child crying. Connie, coming out with soiled linen, saw her son pacing and smiled at him. ‘It’s all over,’ she said. ‘You have a beautiful wee daughter.’

‘Oh Jesus Christ!’ Danny said, relief coursing through him. He felt ten-foot tall. ‘Can I see Rosie?’

‘You’ll see them both when they’re fit to be seen,’ Connie said. ‘Just bide here a wee while longer.’

She left her son and went into the room to see Rosie already suckling her daughter, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Rosie’s eyes met those of her mother-in-law and she asked happily, ‘Can I see Danny?’

Connie smiled. ‘You’ll see him in a minute when we have you tidied up and before he wears a channel in the stone floor.’ She stroked the down of hair on the baby’s head gently with one finger and said, ‘Have you a name for her?’

‘Aye,’ Rosie said. ‘Danny and I discussed it for hours. She’s to be called Bernadette Mary.’ She didn’t go on to say she would call the baby after no set of parents, for then her own might insist other children she might have be called after them. After the life they’d led her, she would not afford them that honour. To choose an independent name seemed safest.

If Connie was surprised the child was not called after her grandmother, or even herself, she made no comment on it. Abigail also looked at the baby. ‘Doesn’t matter how many times it happens,’ she said. ‘Always seems like a miracle. I love helping in homes such as this one where the children are wanted and not seen just as a burden and yet another mouth to feed.’

When Danny was allowed in a little later, Rosie scanned
his face for any sign of resentment or disappointment that their firstborn was not a son. She saw none, but she had to be sure. ‘You’re not disappointed that it’s a wee girl we have?’ she asked anxiously.

Danny was mesmerised by the child. Rosie had removed her from her breast, but still held her close, and Danny noted the milky grey-blue eyes as they blinked trying to focus, and was amazed at the perfection of her, this perfect being he’d created with Rosie. ‘Disappointed?’ he said. ‘Not a bit of it. I’m thrilled to bits.’

He was going to add maybe they’d have a son next time, but he stopped himself. He didn’t know whether he’d want to put Rosie through all that pain again. But then again he was a normal man with normal needs and everyone knew that in the Catholic Church it was wrong to plan your family – you had to take whatever God sent.

Added to that, Rosie didn’t look as if she’d suffered overmuch from the ordeal. Her eyes were sparkling and her mood almost euphoric. Rosie was discovering what veteran mothers had told her was true: the trials and rigours of childbirth were instantly forgotten once you’d given birth to a healthy baby.

‘Could you eat a wee bit of something now?’ he asked, knowing she hadn’t eaten for hours, and Rosie laughed. ‘No, I could eat a great lot of something,’ she said. ‘I’ve done a hard job of work and existed on cups of tea since yesterday dinner. I’m famished now.’

‘That’s grand,’ Danny said, glad there was something practical he could do for his young wife. ‘I’ll see to that straight away,’ and he kissed Rosie and planted a kiss on the baby’s cheek before leaving them.

Connie complained good-naturedly that the path from the road would be worn away with the people who came to visit Rosie Walsh and her new baby. They came bearing gifts and good wishes. Even her parents came – Rosie guessed only because it would have been remarked upon if they hadn’t. They certainly paid scant attention to the child and, on hearing the name chosen, Minnie snapped out sourly, ‘What kind of outlandish name is that? She should be named for members of the family. That’s how it’s done. It shows respect.’

‘Danny and I like the name Bernadette,’ Rosie remarked calmly.

‘Like! Like! What’s there to like in a name? It’s what you’re called and that’s an end to it.’

‘Well, our baby is to be called Bernadette Mary,’ Rosie said firmly. ‘We’ve already spoken to Father McNally about it. He liked it and gave me a wee book about St Bernadette to read to the baby when she’s older.’

That was that then. If the priest had put his stamp of approval on the child’s name there was nothing further Minnie could say.

They didn’t stay very long after that and although Connie said nothing in Rosie’s hearing, she remarked to her own
daughters that the woman was mean-spirited and miserable. Her daughter and first grandchild were there together and she barely gave them the time of day and would not even stay long enough to take a sup of tea. God, what a woman!

Rosie’s sisters made up for the lack of attention she and the baby had received from her parents, picking Bernadette up and cuddling her, crooning to her and telling Rosie how grand she was and how proud they felt.

They brought knitted coats and as Chrissie handed hers over she said, ‘It’s not great, Rosie, but I did my best.’

Rosie unfolded the little jacket and noticed the odd hole and dropped stitch, but said nothing. She knew Chrissie was no hand with either a knitting needle or a sewing needle, but it touched her that she’d tried.

Geraldine’s little jacket was better, and Rosie thanked them both and showed them her other gifts. Pride of place were the two dresses Elizabeth and Sarah had given her, both in brilliant white satin and with smocking so fine and beautiful that Geraldine said, ‘They’re lovely, Rosie, both of them. Is Bernadette being christened in one of these?’

‘No,’ Rosie answered. ‘Mammy – Connie, you know – has the family christening gown. It’s beautiful and kept between layers of tissue paper in a trunk in the loft. She’s washed it to freshen it up and it looks like new. It would so please her for Bernadette to wear it.’

‘I love the cradle,’ Chrissie said, tipping the rocker gently with her foot.

‘It’s beautiful, all that carving on the side,’ Geraldine said. ‘Is that a family heirloom too?’

‘Aye, but Danny did it up, you know, and gave it another coat or two of varnish. Mammy has spent the last weeks hemming cot sheets and nappies from a bolt of soft cotton she bought, and she’s bought the softest woollen blankets too.’

But of either of the families, the one totally besotted by
the child was Dermot. He’d spend ages just looking at her. The first day the girls called was a Saturday and Bernadette was four days old and he had insisted on coming with them. After that, he prised money from his piggy bank and went after school and chose the best rattle in the shop for his little niece.

The following Saturday they called again and Dermot had the rattle with him and waved it from side to side above Bernadette’s head, but gently so as not to startle her. He was delighted when Bernadette’s reflexes caused her to clasp his fingers and Rosie, watching him, thought it would have been the making of him if he’d not been the youngest in the family.

‘Would you like to hold her, Dermot?’ she said.

‘Can I?’

‘Surely you can.’

‘I’ll not drop her, Rosie.’

‘I know you won’t. Sit you up on the bed and open up your arms.’

Even Chrissie and Geraldine smiled at the awe on the young boy’s face as he held the baby close to him, and so did Connie when she came into the room with refreshments for them all.

‘Are you excited about tomorrow?’ Chrissie asked Rosie, biting into one of the biscuits.

‘A bit. Are you?’

‘No, I’m scared to death.’

‘You only have to do the responses,’ Rosie said. ‘It’s all written down and Sarah can go first if you like.’

‘Oh I’ll probably be all right when I start,’ Chrissie said. She and Sarah were to be Bernadette’s godmothers, and Phelan the child’s godfather, for the baby’s christening the next day. It was to be a lavish affair, with a large party afterwards in the Walshes’ house. With the help of her daughters when they were home, Connie had been baking and cooking almost since the day the child was born.

Rosie was pleased at the fuss being made, although she protested that Connie was doing too much. The next day, as she stood before the altar of the church with the sun shining through the stained glass in the windows to send a myriad of coloured lights dancing in front of them, she felt such peace and contentment. Here she was, beside the man she loved, welcomed so warmly into his family. Her own were in pews behind, together with neighbours and friends, and Rosie felt tears of happiness in her eyes.

She wouldn’t let herself cry, though, not at her own child’s christening, and she passed the baby to Sarah as the priest indicated. If Sarah noticed Rosie’s over-bright eyes she knew she would make no comment about it, for her own voice had been a little shaky when she made the responses.

Rosie wasn’t aware straight away that Sarah was raging about something. She was too busy showing off her baby and accepting the praise and presents of all those friends, neighbours and relatives who’d crowded into the Walshes’ house after the christening.

Bernadette eventually went to sleep and Rosie took her into the room away from the noise and laid her in the cradle. It was on coming out again that she caught sight of Sarah’s face and knew she was in a temper then right enough, for Sarah’s feelings were always portrayed in her face.

The looks she shot across the room to her Sam, who was drinking deep of the beer Matt had bought and talking earnestly to Shay, should have rendered him senseless on the stone-flagged floor. ‘Lover’s tiff?’ Rosie enquired lightly.

‘No,’ Sarah hissed back. ‘It’s that pair, on about the war and places none of us have heard of – Wipers and Gallipoli – and how over two hundred thousand have died now and a good percentage of them Irish men and boys. It’s not the time or place to discuss such a thing, if there is ever a suitable time. I told them straight, but God, there’s no stopping
them when they get together. You’d think they were planning a revolution. They’ll be at Danny next, you see if they’re not.’

‘They can try,’ Rosie said. She remembered the conversation she’d had with Danny when war had been declared, just two months before their wedding. In no time at all recruiting officers had toured Ireland, gathering up zealous volunteers and Danny had assured Rosie that he was one man who had no intention of joining that war, or any other war come to that. ‘Why should I help England?’ he’d said. ‘They’ve gone to the aid of Belgium because Germany has invaded them, taking over their country and oppressing the people. It would be laughable if it wasn’t so tragic, for isn’t that the very thing that England have been doing to Ireland for years? If I ever took up arms it would be to gain Ireland’s freedom. And I have no reason to do that, for Ireland will get Home Rule in the end. It’s there, ready to be implemented, and is only postponed because of the war. Eventually, Ireland will be a united country and hopefully without a shot being fired.’

So Rosie was able to say categorically, ‘Danny will never be tempted that way. Particularly now that he’s a family man.’

‘It’s good to be so sure of him,’ Sarah said. ‘And you’re right, of course, Danny has too much sense. At this minute I want to walk up to Sam and hit him across the top of the head with something heavy.’

Rosie laughed. ‘Och, Sarah, don’t mind him. Isn’t it just the beer talking?’

‘I wish it were just that, Rosie,’ Sarah said. ‘But he goes on the same way when he’s stone-cold sober. Of course, Shay encourages him too.’

Connie, who’d been keeping a weather eye on Rosie, for she was still officially lying in, came up to her at that point. ‘Don’t be doing too much now,’ she warned. ‘Or your milk will dry up.’

‘Aye, I know,’ Rosie said. She did feel weary all of a sudden
and so she said, ‘I do feel a bit wobbly now you mention it. I’m away for a lie down, if that’s all right.’

Danny saw Rosie detach herself from his mother and sister and followed her into the bedroom. ‘You all right?’ he whispered, mindful of the sleeping baby as he sat down on the bed beside Rosie.

‘Aye, I’m grand,’ Rosie said. ‘Just a wee bit tired.’

‘Bed’s the best place then,’ Danny told her. ‘You get tucked up and I’ll bring you in a plate of goodies and a wee drink.’

Rosie was almost too weary to care about food, but she knew Danny would like to do something for her and with Connie having gone to so much trouble she felt it would be churlish to refuse. ‘Aye, that would be nice,’ she said.

Danny looked at his daughter snuggled in sleep and traced a finger gently across her cheek. ‘Wasn’t she a star today?’ he said. ‘Not a peep out of her. Even when the priest poured the water over her head, she just looked surprised.’

‘Aye,’ Rosie agreed and went on with a smile, ‘One of the old ones told me they should yell their heads off in order to release the devil inside them.’

‘Huh,’ Danny said. ‘Some of those old ones should have their mouths stopped up! Glad to see you’re too sensible to take any notice of it.’ He got to his feet and said, ‘You get yourself into bed, pet, and I’ll be back shortly.’ He kissed Rosie on the cheek and left her.

Rosie ate some of the food Danny brought her without much enthusiasm, though she was grateful for the hot sweet tea and then she settled down for a sleep.

She had dropped off and slept for an hour or so, when she was roused suddenly. She lay there for a moment as the last threads of sleep disappeared. She peered around the darkened room and saw the door swinging: someone must have stumbled against it and made the latch jump. The baby was mewling in the cradle, obviously awakened by the same thing. She
wasn’t crying yet, but she would, Rosie knew. She would be too hungry to go off to sleep again.

As she lifted her she became aware of a conversation just outside the door and groaned as she recognised Sam’s voice. ‘You’ve seen nothing like it, man, I was there on the dockside in Dublin and one of the hospital ships was in harbour. The stretcher cases were already gone, but the rest…God, Danny, it would sicken you. There were fellows twitching with shellshock and others stone-blind being led along by a comrade. There were those in wheelchairs with missing limbs, or with their lungs eaten away with gas. ‘Course, they were counted as the lucky ones, for now there will be Irish bodies littering France, Belgium, and now bloody Turkey. Left to rot they are, to be eaten by the carrion crows.’

‘Lord, Sam, no one pretends war is pretty,’ Danny said. ‘Everyone knew some of those valiant men marching behind the British Army would not come back and others would be maimed and crippled. That’s the way of it. You don’t begin a war and expect no casualties.’

‘I know that,’ Sam said. ‘I’m not stupid. What angers me is that they fight for England, for Belgium, for France, yet their own country is oppressed.’

‘He’s right,’ Shay put in.

‘Aye, all right, but every man must do as he sees fit.’

‘You didn’t feel a need to join the British Army yourself?’ Sam asked.

‘I did not!’ Danny said emphatically. ‘I might not go around shouting about Home Rule like you two, but I have no great love for England and I wouldn’t put my head on the line for it.’

‘And would you for Ireland?’

‘What sort of question is that?’

‘An easy one to answer, I’d say.’

Danny sighed. ‘Essentially, I’m a man of peace,’ he said. ‘I’d fight if anyone belonging to me was threatened, but…’

‘And don’t you think they will be? When this damned war is over, England will renege on her promises of independence and Home Rule like she’s done so often before.’

‘Maybe,’ Danny said. ‘But if it’s on the statute book they must debate it sometime and with so many men giving their lives for England, they must feel they owe us something.’

‘Oh aye,’ Shay put in. ‘And will that stop the nonsense with Ulster and make Ireland properly united?’

‘Ulster can only opt out for six years.’

‘Danny, will you listen to yourself?’ Sam almost roared. ‘You’re as brainwashed as the rest of them. Six thousand years opt out, more like.’

Sam’s shout had caused Bernadette to jump on the breast where she was feeding and Rosie took her off and fastened her nightgown up, intending to close the door and help cut the noise out.

‘Even so…’ Danny put in.

‘Even so, even so,’ Shay mocked. ‘Don’t be so mealymouthed, Danny. Now, with England’s forces and energies directed at Germany and the rest of Europe, now is the time to take up arms and fight for independence.’

No-one noticed Rosie in the doorway, the men were sideways on to her and before them were Phelan and Niall – Shay’s young brother. The two lads were looking into Sam’s and Shay’s faces, hanging on their every word.

‘What we want to know, Danny, is are you for us, or against us?’ Shay demanded. ‘There is no middle way here. When the call comes for Ireland’s freedom, will you answer that call?’

Rosie pushed the door to before she heard Danny’s reply, but not before she saw the patriotic zeal burning in both of the young boys’ eyes. She returned to the bed a worried woman.

Everything settled down after the christening and Rosie told herself, whatever Sarah said, it had been the beer talking with
the men that night. Shay had always been a hothead, but it was just talk, surely to God. She mentioned the reactions of Phelan and Niall to Danny, but he told her not to fret. ‘They’re but boys,’ he said, ‘not long out of the schoolroom altogether and boys that age love looking up to someone, having someone to admire.’

‘So you don’t think it’s anything to worry about?’