been in there for ages,’ said Margaret Dolan. ‘She’s in a very long time.
‘Has she?’
Constance listened for tears or wails from the ultrasound room.
‘Maybe they’re on a coffee break.’
‘Huh.’ Margaret reached behind her and put a scratching hand in through the gap in the gown.
‘They saw us coming,’ she said.
Constance still liked Ireland, the way you could talk to anyone. It would not be the same in America, she thought, and tried to remember why she failed to get on the plane. Mostly it was the price. The ticket cost maybe £200, which was a huge sum of money in those days. And though Constance saved like crazy, it was hard to save much when you were out having a good time – even when it wasn’t such a good time, because the guy in the sheepskin jacket knocked something out of her, too, some carelessness. Constance lost her taste for adventure for a while, after the Coconut Grove.
If she had gone to New York she would not be worried about cancer now. She would have been jogging for years, living on wheatgrass, she would have a yoga ‘practice’, maybe even a personal trainer, and her children would be – she could not imagine what her New York children would have been like – whiny, at a guess, that mixture of anxiety and entitlement you saw in city kids. Her children would be fewer. Her children would not exist. Their souls would call to her from the eyes of strangers, as though they’d found some other way into the world. She would turn in the street to look at them twice: who are you?
She went last year with Dessie. On a shopping trip, no less. Constance told everyone about it – her hairdresser, the man who delivered eggs, the other mothers at the school gate. ‘We’re going on a shopping trip. To New York’, and they got on the plane at Shannon as though it was a perfectly simple thing to do. This was the place you went to get a whole new life, and all she got was a couple of Eileen Fisher cardigans in lilac and grey. Not that this was a terrible thing. They were really useful cardigans. She and Dessie stayed with her brother Dan on a fold-out bed in his apartment in Brooklyn, and it was quite a large apartment, apparently (Dessie did not mention the 4,000 square feet he was building out in Aughavanna). It was also just around the corner from ‘the best ever cherry ice cream’, Dan said, because for Dan, in his New York mode, things were always ‘amazing’ or ‘just the best’. The ice cream confused Constance slightly, the cherries were delicious but the full fat cream left a greasy coating in her mouth.
‘Isn’t it the best?’ said Dan. ‘Isn’t it incredible?’
‘Lovely,’ she said. Thinking, Is it for this you left?
Was it for the ice cream?
She thought that Dan was a bit of a hypocrite for liking things so wildly, or pretending to like them. And she started to feel inadequate to the menu in her hand. They went to a kind of brasserie that served a modern take on Jewish food, all gefilte fish and matzo balls, and that was supposed to be ‘amazing’ too. But it was just food . It was a long way to travel, she thought, for dumplings. Her enjoyment was soured, Constance knew, by the years she had spent yearning to go, and not going, selling condoms to men who did not want to sleep with her – the Baggot Street years, time she spent pretending to be a student, when she really wasn’t a student, she was a shop-girl, which was to say, a girl who was waiting to get married. Four years out of school the waiting (which had been dreadful) was over. Constance was courted by Dessie McGrath every time she went down home and she ended up going down home more often, just to feel his arms about her.
And she still liked the feel of them. Balding, blunt-spoken Dessie McGrath. Three children on, he had moved sex to the mornings – even this morning, indeed – because it set him up for the day, he said. Constance would sleep again afterwards while he went down to his
‘Has she?’
Constance listened for tears or wails from the ultrasound room.
‘Maybe they’re on a coffee break.’
‘Huh.’ Margaret reached behind her and put a scratching hand in through the gap in the gown.
‘They saw us coming,’ she said.
Constance still liked Ireland, the way you could talk to anyone. It would not be the same in America, she thought, and tried to remember why she failed to get on the plane. Mostly it was the price. The ticket cost maybe £200, which was a huge sum of money in those days. And though Constance saved like crazy, it was hard to save much when you were out having a good time – even when it wasn’t such a good time, because the guy in the sheepskin jacket knocked something out of her, too, some carelessness. Constance lost her taste for adventure for a while, after the Coconut Grove.
If she had gone to New York she would not be worried about cancer now. She would have been jogging for years, living on wheatgrass, she would have a yoga ‘practice’, maybe even a personal trainer, and her children would be – she could not imagine what her New York children would have been like – whiny, at a guess, that mixture of anxiety and entitlement you saw in city kids. Her children would be fewer. Her children would not exist. Their souls would call to her from the eyes of strangers, as though they’d found some other way into the world. She would turn in the street to look at them twice: who are you?
She went last year with Dessie. On a shopping trip, no less. Constance told everyone about it – her hairdresser, the man who delivered eggs, the other mothers at the school gate. ‘We’re going on a shopping trip. To New York’, and they got on the plane at Shannon as though it was a perfectly simple thing to do. This was the place you went to get a whole new life, and all she got was a couple of Eileen Fisher cardigans in lilac and grey. Not that this was a terrible thing. They were really useful cardigans. She and Dessie stayed with her brother Dan on a fold-out bed in his apartment in Brooklyn, and it was quite a large apartment, apparently (Dessie did not mention the 4,000 square feet he was building out in Aughavanna). It was also just around the corner from ‘the best ever cherry ice cream’, Dan said, because for Dan, in his New York mode, things were always ‘amazing’ or ‘just the best’. The ice cream confused Constance slightly, the cherries were delicious but the full fat cream left a greasy coating in her mouth.
‘Isn’t it the best?’ said Dan. ‘Isn’t it incredible?’
‘Lovely,’ she said. Thinking, Is it for this you left?
Was it for the ice cream?
She thought that Dan was a bit of a hypocrite for liking things so wildly, or pretending to like them. And she started to feel inadequate to the menu in her hand. They went to a kind of brasserie that served a modern take on Jewish food, all gefilte fish and matzo balls, and that was supposed to be ‘amazing’ too. But it was just food . It was a long way to travel, she thought, for dumplings. Her enjoyment was soured, Constance knew, by the years she had spent yearning to go, and not going, selling condoms to men who did not want to sleep with her – the Baggot Street years, time she spent pretending to be a student, when she really wasn’t a student, she was a shop-girl, which was to say, a girl who was waiting to get married. Four years out of school the waiting (which had been dreadful) was over. Constance was courted by Dessie McGrath every time she went down home and she ended up going down home more often, just to feel his arms about her.
And she still liked the feel of them. Balding, blunt-spoken Dessie McGrath. Three children on, he had moved sex to the mornings – even this morning, indeed – because it set him up for the day, he said. Constance would sleep again afterwards while he went down to his
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