Erin Kaye - THE PROMISE OF HAPPINESS

To their right lay the mouth of the harbour where a small sailing craft was making its way slowly into Ballyfergus Lough. And almost directly ahead was a long, straight path which led to a memorial tower erected some hundred metres offshore in memory of some long-dead merchant from Ballyfergus’s past.

The tide was out, revealing a shoreline of black, wet rocks rounded into orbs and strewn with flotsam and jetsam thrown up by the sea – uprooted seaweed, segments of brightly coloured plastic, a tangle of blue nylon rope, a smashed-up lobster pot, a brown leather safety boot. The stench of decaying seaweed was almost overpowering. It had always characterised this part of the town, Louise remembered. But the smell whilst unpleasant was also reassuring, timeless – a reminder that some things never change. Like her parents’ attitudes.

Her father leant on the blue railing, crusty with layers of flaking paint, a futile attempt to keep the rust at bay. The vertical posts were streaked with ochre red, like dried blood. He removed his sunglasses, narrowed his eyes and stared out to sea. ‘That’ll be the Cairnryan ferry,’ he said and she followed his eyes to the misty, hulking shape of a vessel some miles out to sea. Uninterested, she looked away.

‘You haven’t returned any of our messages. We haven’t heard a peep from you since the party. Your mother was worried.’

No answer.

‘Did you get the messages?’ he persisted.

‘Oh, I got them all right.’

He turned his head towards her, one foot on the lower rung of the railing, the stance of a much younger man. ‘Are you upset about something, Louise?’

Louise secured a stray lock of hair, blown about in the wind, behind her ear. ‘Why did you tell Auntie P that I’d got pregnant by some bloke who subsequently left me?’ she asked, locking eyes with him.

‘Ah, that,’ he said softly and looked away.

Louise crouched down in front of the buggy and unbuckled Oli. ‘Come on out, darling. Time for a little walk.’ Oli tumbled out of the buggy, picked up a stick and started whacking the metal railing with it. It made a tinny sound that was evidently satisfying to his ear. He whacked it again and again. To her father she said, ‘Yes, that.’

‘We didn’t tell her anything much. She came to her own conclusions.’

‘Delusions more like. And knowing Auntie P she’ll have gone about telling half of Ballyfergus. Why didn’t you tell her the truth?’

Dad sighed again and rubbed his forehead with his right hand. ‘We didn’t think it was anybody’s business to know how Oli came into this world. People think what they want to think.’

‘Rubbish,’ said Louise and her father baulked slightly. ‘People think what you let them think, what you lead them to think. And you were quite happy for her to assume that about me, weren’t you? You’d actually rather she thought that than knew the truth.’

Her father turned to face her then and regarded her thoughtfully as though deciding on something. ‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘We did think it was for the best.’

Louise’s head filled with fury. ‘You’re ashamed of me and Oli, aren’t you? Admit it,’ she demanded, her voice high like the wind.

‘Calm down, Louise,’ he said, not refuting her accusation. ‘Surely you acknowledge that what you did is … is unconventional to say the least.’

‘So was marrying a Catholic fifty years ago, Billy,’ she snapped and glared at him.

He shot her a warning look. A woman passed by with a Golden Labrador on a lead. It looked harmless enough but frothed at the mouth, its breathing laboured. Oli, cautious, scampered back to his mother’s side. She placed a hand on his head.

‘This isn’t about your mother and me, Louise.’

‘Well I see quite a few parallels myself,’ said Louise, who had given the subject considerable thought. ‘Mixed marriages are two a penny these days but back then you broke a taboo. In your own way, you were trailblazers.’

‘Don’t exaggerate, Louise. There were other mixed marriages.’

‘Not among any of the kids I went to school with, there weren’t.’

Dad sighed. ‘I don’t see what that has got to do with this discussion.’

Oli ran along the promenade, hitting the railing rhythmic ally with the stick like a drum. They started after him, but slowly. The road was a long way away and he was in no immediate danger. ‘Well, I would’ve thought that you of all people would be open minded, having experienced prejudice yourself. In a few years’ time what I did won’t be so exceptional. Lots of single women will have babies the way I did and raise them alone.’

‘I sincerely hope not,’ said her father glumly.

‘Pahhh,’ cried Louise in exasperation. ‘You will insist on seeing this in a negative light. And I absolutely refuse to. Look, it’s not how I wanted my life to turn out either. I wanted to have children with Cameron. But he didn’t and I’ve had to deal with that,’ she went on, her voice breaking. She paused to regain control and continued. ‘But having Oli is the most positive, the most empowering thing I’ve ever done. And I won’t let you take that away from me.’

‘No one’s trying to take anything away from you, Louise. But you can’t ignore the fact that the God-fearing people of Ballyfergus might find it unusual … hard to understand. We didn’t want people judging you, talking about you behind your back. We didn’t want Oli to be thought of as … different.’

‘He’s no different than any other child from a single-parent home with no contact with his father.’

‘Well I beg to differ, Louise. He is different. His story makes him unique – in Ballyfergus anyway.’

‘And that’s a bad thing?’ she said, almost choking on the words.

Her father fixed his gaze out to sea once more in the direction of the three small rocky islands called The Maidens. He squinted and sighed loudly. ‘There’s something … something unnatural about the way he was conceived. Children should be born out of love between a man and a woman.’

Louise gasped and the back of her throat swelled up until she could hardly breathe. Tears pricked her eyes but she would not let them fall. Her anger held them in check. She swallowed. ‘Oli was born out of love. No one could love him more than I do.’

There was a long pause and when he spoke again her father’s voice was quiet and sad. ‘I know you love him, Louise,’ he said, looking at his hands, ‘but a child needs two parents. No matter how much you love Oli you can never make up for that. There it is. I’ve said it. And I’m sorry if it hurts you.’

The words stung her like hard rain in a storm. She had wrestled with this belief herself over many months and eventually put it to rest – or so she thought. Now, it was being thrown in her face, like a bucket of icy water. Maybe it was true – maybe her attempt to raise Oli single-handedly, no matter how dedicated, no matter how well-intentioned, could never compensate for this fundamental handicap. It was her greatest fear. But even as these doubts crossed her mind she said stoutly, ‘You’re wrong. I don’t agree with you.’

He made a little tut-tutting sound and shook his head.

‘I’ve made a terrible mistake,’ she said, staring at the back of Oli’s head. She gripped the handles of the buggy so hard it hurt. ‘I never should’ve come back. I thought I could count on your support and Mum’s and everybody else’s. But you’re all judging me, even Sian and Joanne.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you can rely on us, Louise. And on your sisters. We’d do anything to help you. We all love you. And Oli. And by the way, what Auntie P and everyone else thinks has nothing to do with your sisters. It was our doing – your mother’s and mine. We thought we were doing the right thing. And we didn’t think it really mattered – you’d been away for so long we didn’t expect you to ever come home. Look,’ he said and paused. ‘If we’ve upset you, then I’m truly sorry.’