Кен Бруен - A Fifth of Bruen - Early Fiction of Ken Bruen

“Each one of an affectionate couple may be willing, as we say, to die for the other, yet unwilling to utter the agreeable word at the right moment.”

Frank wasn’t sure if he’d finished so he asked,

“That’s it?”

“Aye... hark well, ‘The Right Moment’ laddie. Go tell your lassie now.”

Cathy was pleased with the crystal and signified this with a small smile. The cab arrived and as they moved towards the door. Frank took her hand, said,

“I love you.”

At the hospital she was put in a small room and hooked up to a machine that monitored the baby’s heartbeat. Frank said to the nurse,

“Does it give the test results?”

The nurse, with an Irish accent, said,

“Well, now, what an original line. We’ve never had such humour before.”

Frank’s hands were sweating, he was nigh deafened by his own heartbeat.

To his amazement, the tea trolley came and gave them a cup each.

Cathy took his hand and said,

“You go and smoke nineteen cigarettes, but tell me a sad love story before you go.”

“A sad one?”

“I’m Irish, sadness is part of my nature.”

“Did you ever hear of Rider Haggard?”

“A Country and Western singer?”

“I think that’s Merle. No, he was a writer. He wrote She and King Solomon’s Mines .”

“I saw She at the pictures, with Ursula Andress.”

“Yea right. As a young man, he was stopped from marrying his sweetheart, a girl named Lily Jackson. She married a stockbroker. Haggard spent time in Africa and was convinced that he and Lily would be reunited, either in another spiritual dimension, or through reincarnation. Haggard married an heiress. Then, years later, Lily’s husband ran off with all their money and Haggard re-housed her. But Lily’s husband had infected her with Syphilis which killed her.”

They hadn’t noticed the nurse at the door who said in a broken voice, sobs barely contained,

“Poor Haggard.”

And Cathy added in a tiny voice,

“Poor Lily.”

They both looked set to weep oceans.

Frank left to catch up on some serious smoking. He hadn’t the heart to quite finish the story, especially not today.

Haggard had a son, Jock, whom he worshipped. The little boy died after an attack of measles and Haggard was abroad at the time. From then on, all vitality left him, and he never mentioned the boy again. Such was his devastation that no one else was allowed to utter his name at any time.

As Frank thought of it now, he felt fairly overcome himself and whispered,

“Get a grip, old son, could be a long day.”

The tears he didn’t then shed would be fully used by the day’s end.

They took Cathy to the labour ward at six that evening and they’d decided on a caesarean. A nurse gave Cathy’s jewellery to Frank. It nearly gave him a coronary.

As if she’d died and these were her last things. He wrapped them in his hankie, then took them out and held them in his hand... finally he put them back in the hankie and tied it rather badly. He wanted to weep and take the hankie out one more time. He stood outside the labour unit and a nurse said,

“Won’t be long.”

He was dizzy from caffeine, from nicotine. A hand touched his shoulder and he jumped. Dolores, Cathy’s mother. So grateful was he to see a familiar face that he wanted to take his wallet out and throw fifty-pound notes at her.

“Settle down, Frank.”

“God, I’m glad to see you.”

“That makes a refreshing change.”

Little love had been lost between them in the past. The waiting made anxious allies and she slipped her hand in his. Every time the door swung, they jumped.

Then, two nurses came wheeling an incubator out. A tiny form inside. A nurse asked,

“Are you Mr. Marshall?”

“Y... es... I think so, yes... of course.”

“Congratulations, Mr. Marshall, you have a daughter.” And his world changed utterly.

He looked at the tiny thing... which looked right back. But something about the baby seemed not right. He didn’t know a blessed thing about babies, but something looked not as it ought to be.

He turned to the nurse.

“Is Cathy... my wife... is she O.K.?”

“She’s fine, Mr. Marshall, you’ll see her in a moment.”

Then it seemed as if another small army of nurses rushed out and then Cathy. She looked dead. His heart pounded and then her eyes opened, he whispered,

“Poor baby, she has an English face.”

Frank couldn’t shake the bad feeling. The baby looked fine and he couldn’t see anything wrong. But there was a limpness to her, he just knew that wasn’t right. Cathy was brought down to a single room, and then Frank was asked in. Tubes and antennae seemed to be attached all over. Her face looked ravaged.

“I’m so thirsty, Frank... where’s our baby?”

The door opened and a man entered with the little bundle in a pink towel. Frank wondered if they kept an equal amount of blues and pinks.

“Jeez,” he said, “who cares.”

The man said,

“I’m Dr. Stevens, the paediatrician, could everyone please leave except the parents.”

Frank didn’t like this at all. It had an ominous ring. A childish urge to flee with the nurses and Dolores was strong.

The door closed. Frank moved to Cathy and made to take her hand. The tubes made it difficult, he held one of her fingers. It felt lifeless.

The doctor looked on the baby with tremendous affection and said,

“She’s a beautiful wee thing, but alas, she is mildly Down’s Syndrome.”

Cathy threw her head back and screamed. She began to thrash in the bed and Frank was terrified the tubes would be torn free. His mind fought to understand what he’d heard

   — Down’s Syndrome

He couldn’t differentiate between all the names that fill people with dread,

   — Cystic fibrosis

   — Cerebral palsy

They raced and leapt in his mind, like demons of the unknown, whisperers of trepidation.

The doctor said,

“I am so sorry, here... she’s a lovely little thing, do you wish to hold her?”

And he held out the bundle to Frank.

Frank took her and was lost or found forever. Whatever term they use, bonding or union, it happened then.

Tears rolled down his face and fell on the baby’s cheek. As long as he lived, he’d swear the baby gave him a quizzical look. The doctor gave an outline of what the condition meant. Whatever merits he had, and compassion was certainly among them, he was very long winded. He used four sentences to cover one, and tended to pause for long intervals. The gist of what Frank heard was that the girl would be slow. She’d do all the things babies do, but later. Six months behind in walk, speech, and mobility.

All the while, Cathy cried quietly. The doctor excused himself and said he’d be available the next day for any queries they’d have. Frank said to Cathy,

“She’s beautiful, Sweetheart, will you hold her?”

Cathy put out her arms and held the baby. She immediately began to kiss and cuddle her.

“Frank, will they call her names in the playground?”

“Not a second time anyway.”

“Are you disappointed in me Frank, did I let you down?” Pain tore his heart and he said,

“I never thought she’d be so beautiful, she’s the image of you... it will be alright, Sweetheart.”

By the time he’d to leave, Cathy was enjoined with her child... she asked,

“Did the doctor say she may... may lead an ordinary life?”

Frank couldn’t remember, he said,

“Serena-may... do anything she please.”

Cathy smiled.

“That’s her name then, Serena-May. Let’s give her the start of endless possibilities. Did you like the doctor, Frank?”