Sowing The Seeds Of Love Part 7

14.

Emily went home to her parents on the weekend that Joe abandoned her. But she didn't tell them about the baby. How could she? They looked at her with such pride: their eldest daughter, first in the family to go to college. She wore baggy jumpers, not knowing how long she'd be able to get away with it. She had her meals prepared for her, got her laundry done and let her mother wrap her love around her like an old patchwork quilt. She'd need it to sustain her through the coming weeks.

She took to waiting for Joe outside his lectures. He never showed. She saw Niall noticing her. At the end of day three he came over to her. 'If you're waiting for Joe, don't bother.'

'I'm ent.i.tled to wait for him if I want to.'

'You're not getting me. He's not here.'

'Where is he, then?'

'London.'

'What?'

'He left college. He won't be coming back.'

'What? But what about his exams?'

'He might repeat the third year. But he won't be back any time soon.'

Niall was accusing, aggressive as he addressed the little trollop who'd ruined Joe's life. He turned and walked back to his friends. Joe's friends. Did they all know?

She was halfway through her pregnancy now. Horror had given way to despondency. She went about her business, attending lectures, handing in essays, going home at weekends. It was characteristic of Emily that her b.u.mp was small and neat. It was still barely perceptible and easily hidden beneath loose-fitting clothes. Sometimes she felt as if she was holding it in by sheer act of will. Her mother commented once that she was very quiet. Emily brushed away her concern and the matter was dropped. She was quiet. That was what happened when you had a lot of thinking to do. But she reckoned she'd decided now. Arrived at a solution that would suit all parties. She'd done her research. She was confident that she'd selected the most reputable agency.

'You must be Emily.' The woman was holding out her hand. She was in her thirties. Smiley. Gla.s.ses and curly hair. Emily followed her into a small office. It was warm and feminine, designed to inspire security and confidence.

Once she'd made the decision, it wasn't so bad. In a funny way, she was able to pretend it wasn't happening. She began to socialize a little more. She studied for her exams and sat them. It was actually working out quite well. She'd elected to stay in Dublin for the summer and get a job obviously not in her aunt's shop. Her parents would be disappointed that she wasn't spending the time at home but not half as disappointed as they'd be if they knew the truth. The baby was due at the end of September, so she could start the new college year as if nothing had happened. Then, next summer, she could go to the States, as she'd originally planned for this year. Visit Montana. Come back and eventually get her degree. Do an MA. Maybe even a PhD. Dr Emily Harte! Yes. Once again, her life was going perfectly to plan.

Emily had her first contraction in the supermarket, meandering down an aisle, her trolley full of ice cream. Braxton Hicks? Another came. Maybe not. She abandoned the trolley beside the cereals and walked rapidly out of the sliding doors. She didn't think of it again until she was well into labour when she wondered had the ice cream melted. She stood outside and breathed in great big gulps of Dublin city air. Was this it or not? She still had a week to go. How could she tell if her labour was really starting? If only she had someone to ask. The truth was, she did. Plenty of people, in fact. She'd just chosen not to.

Her friends back home. She'd deliberately kept her distance since she'd found out about her pregnancy. They thought she'd gone all sn.o.bby on them since she'd moved to Dublin. Her cla.s.smates in college she wasn't even sure if she could call them friends. And that, she supposed, was why she hadn't told them absenting herself from college life towards the end, only attending vital lectures and tutorials, perpetually wrapped up in her multi-layers. If anyone suspected, n.o.body said. Her mother. G.o.d, no. Her aunts and cousins they'd just tell her mother. Her sisters were too young and silly. No. The only people she spoke to about her pregnancy and the increasingly abstract concept of the baby were her doctor and the lady at the adoption agency. Emily had always been self-contained but now she was taking self-containment to a whole new level.

The truth was, she didn't want anyone talking her out of it.

Several contractions later she rang the hospital. The midwife on duty told her that, yes, she was probably in labour, but as it was her first baby, she most likely had hours, if not days, to go, and that she'd be better off staying at home and getting her hubby to run her a bath and make her a nice cup of tea. She stuck it out for another half-hour before she headed to the hospital. Let's get this over with.

She liked the midwife who examined her. Or maybe she just wanted to like her she was desperate to latch on to anyone. And this woman was gentle. Soft, warm hands, quiet, measured movements.

'You're only one centimetre,' she was saying. 'You may as well go home. It'll be a long time yet.'

Please don't send me home.

The gentle one was leaving the room.

'Please don't send me home.'

The midwife came back and leaned over the bed, her hand clasping Emily's forearm. 'Are you on your own?'

Emily nodded, somehow unable to speak.

'Would you like me to call someone for you?'

Emily shook her head and bit her lip.

'Your mother? A sister? A friend?'

'I'm having the baby adopted. n.o.body can know.'

The midwife squeezed Emily's arm. 'You can stay here as long as you like. You might get moved around a bit, though. Try and get some rest and I'll be back to check on you in a while.'

Emily sagged back into the bed. Thank you, G.o.d.

And, for the next twenty-four hours, that was the last thing she felt inclined to thank G.o.d for.

The pain was bad enough.

The terror of the unknown worse.

But the sense of aloneness. That's what unhinged her.

The gentle midwife was with her for the first half, holding her hand, ma.s.saging her shoulders and feet. The sense of betrayal she experienced when the woman's s.h.i.+ft ended was enormous. But she had to pick up her children. She promised she'd call in the next day.

'Would you not give your mam a call?' was the last thing she said.

Emily shook her head, tears gathering momentum at the corners of her eyes. She couldn't. Not now. Not like this.

And as for Joe...

In her weaker moments, those moments of agony towards the end, her need of him was ferocious, as if he'd only just left her and the last few months of hardening her heart against him had never happened.

Her new midwife was briskly efficient and lacked the bedside manner of her colleague. In a funny way, this was an unexpected relief. Emily stopped being tearful and focused on the matter at hand. Let's get this done. And the woman was there when it was crucial. Push. Pant. Rest. Push again. Until at half past three that morning, Emily's baby was born. Six pounds, eleven ounces. They laid the baby on Emily's chest, inside her nightdress, where it lay snuffling and covered in sticky stuff. It only started to cry when they took it away to clean it up.

Later, when they were both sanitized and wheeled to the ward, Emily eased herself into a sitting position and reached for her mobile. She rang the last the only number she had for Joe Devine. The mobile number that had remained resolutely unanswered for a whole week after he'd left, before she'd given up trying to contact him. It went straight to voicemail. Her throat tightened at the sound of his voice. She waited for the beep. 'I thought you should know. You have a baby daughter.'

Then she switched off her phone, lay on her side and stared at her baby.

She looked just like her father.

Later that morning, Emily's daughter lay cradled in her arms as she fed her from a bottle. She was wrapped in a pink blanket that some nurse had given her and dressed in a borrowed Babygro and nappy. Emily hadn't thought of these things. She hadn't packed a bag. Why should she when it wasn't really happening? It had been more than an hour since she'd rung the woman from the adoption agency. The foster-family should have been here by now.

She heard footsteps coming towards her bed and saw a shadow behind her curtain she hadn't wanted to talk to the other mothers.

It was the gentle midwife. She approached Emily's bed cautiously. 'They're here.'

Emily nodded.

'Do you want to meet them?'

She shook her head.

'I'll just give you a minute.' She went back out and Emily could hear her footsteps receding.

For a long time she looked down at the baby, who had finished feeding and was now sleeping, her tiny face puckered and closed. Emily brushed her daughter's cheek with the back of her finger. Then she bent low and breathed in the scent that emanated from her head. As she heard more footsteps approaching, she stuck out the tip of her tongue and licked her baby's temple.

The midwife came through the curtain. 'Ready?' She held out her arms. Emily handed her the baby, who squealed in protest.

Then they were gone. Footsteps receding again. Voices. Gone.

Emily sat there for a while. Then she lay down and faced the wall.

Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s ached, her st.i.tches stung.

And in her heart there was a hollow place where the baby had been.

15.

The next time Mrs Prendergast emerged from her little wooden door, she was accompanied not by a tray or a trowel but by a tall, dark-haired man in his forties. His bearing was so princely, his carriage so erect, that he could have been none other than Mrs Prendergast's son. Mother and son stood talking together for some minutes, just inside the door. Eventually they came over to Aoife, Mrs Prendergast a few paces ahead.

Aoife laid down her hoe and rubbed the worst of the muck off her hands on to the a.r.s.e of her jeans. n.o.body would be looking there anyway. She was touched by the pride and pleasure in the old woman's eyes as she introduced the visitor. 'Aoife Madigan, this is my son, Lance Prendergast.'

Lance stepped forward and held out his hand. 'How do you do, Aoife?'

Aoife shook it, no doubt leaving behind an earthy residue, which he had the good manners to ignore. His hand was cool and firm, his smile unwavering and his eyes direct. s.h.i.+t. He was even quite good-looking, if you liked that kind of thing. He was dressed, very snazzily, in a dark suit, very much the businessman.

'My mother told me about the Trojan work you three have been doing on the garden, so I decided I'd have to come and see for myself.'

'Oh. Well. That's... kind of you.'

'What is it you're doing here exactly?' He pointed to the ground beneath them.

'I'm planting seed potatoes. Should have a crop some time in July.'

He was looking hard at her, as if trying to evaluate something. 'Excellent. My mother tells me she's been promised all the fresh fruit and veg she can eat.'

'That's right.'

He smiled at his mother and she beamed back. Aoife was quite taken aback. She had never seen Mrs Prendergast beam before hadn't thought she had it in her. Even Liam, the most regular beneficiary of her smiles, never got the full-wattage treatment. Would Aoife be like that when Liam was older? Who was she kidding? She was like that now.

'I'll be looking forward to some spectacular dinners this summer, then,' Lance was saying. They all laughed politely.

'There's someone else I must introduce you to. Mr Rosenberg!'

Uri didn't hear her call, so Mrs Prendergast went towards the far corner of the garden where he was labouring, leaving Aoife and Lance alone. He drew a step closer, so that he was standing squarely in front of her. It was quite intimidating he was so tall and smart.

'What the h.e.l.l do you think you're doing?' he said.

'I beg your pardon?' Aoife genuinely thought she'd misheard. He was still smiling at her, but the words coming out of his mouth didn't match his expression. Until she looked into his eyes.

'I said, what the h.e.l.l do you think you're doing, taking advantage of a helpless old lady like this?'

Helpless old lady? Aoife almost laughed when she realized he was referring to Mrs Prendergast. 'I can a.s.sure you I'm doing no such thing.'

'You know full well that my mother has all but agreed to sell this land. I'll not have a bunch of...' he searched for an appropriate phrase '... hippie misfits mess it up for her.'

She nearly laughed again. 'Hippie misfits'. Was that the best he could come up with? But she didn't laugh, because something in his eyes was really quite horrible.

He continued: 'We she stands to make a lot of money out of this transaction. I'm sure you wouldn't like to stand in the way of a comfortable retirement for her.'

Or a whopping great inheritance for you, thought Aoife. 'Of course not,' she said, forcing herself to hold his eye.

'Lance, come and meet Mr Rosenberg.'

With one more warning look Lance turned away from her, baring his teeth at Uri, whom she heard admiring his suit.

The son wanted the garden sold.

The mother adored the son.

They were toast.

Later, after he'd gone, Mrs Prendergast came back out in her gardening gear. She stood beside Aoife as she pulled on her gloves. 'My goodness, that weed really does get everywhere, doesn't it?'

Aoife straightened and looked at her suspiciously. Could Mrs Prendergast actually be making conversation?

'You know he's single,' she went on.

'Who?'

'Lance. He's single.'

'Oh. Really.'

'Yes. He's handsome, isn't he?' She had a faraway look in her eye.

'Um, yes. Very.'

Mrs Prendergast smiled, then regarded Aoife critically. 'You know, dear, you might be quite pretty if you made a little effort.' And off she went to tend her roses.