Danny Boy

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.

FIVE (#ulink_ceac9a3d-8120-5b91-9f61-fe3007055773)

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.