Pack Up the Moon Read online

  Anne was busy attempting to brush up on her bowling skills but unfortunately for her she was as rubbish as I was. Clo suddenly realised that by playing with the women she was on a losing team and Clo hated to lose.

  “I was thinking, why don’t we mix up the teams?” she asked innocently.

  “No way,” Seán said while wiping mustard from his chin.

  “Why not?” she whined.

  “Cause Em and Anne are rubbish,” Richard noted before bowling a perfect strike.

  “It’s supposed to be fun,” Clo said with audible disgust, but the lads weren’t buying it.

  “Then you won’t mind playing with the girls.”

  “Crap,” she muttered under her breath.

  Mark arrived back with minerals for everybody. We all took turns to shake his hand and welcome him into our little world. He seemed nice.

  * * *

  The game was over and the lads had beaten us hands down. Clo was attempting to take it all in good spirits, especially as she had managed to have the best game. Mark had been the weakest link in the men’s team. He seemed embarrassed by his failure in the eyes of strangers, but his humiliation was eased early on when I had managed to drop the ball on my foot twice. I bloody hate bowling.

  We went to the nearest pub. The others were celebrating a great game while Anne and I celebrated the fact that the great game was over. It was one of those huge super pubs, with three floors, and yet it was packed on a Thursday night. We pushed our way past college students drinking shots while a rubbish rock band played in the background. We headed to the second floor where Enya sang about an “Orinoco Flow”, whatever the hell that was. There were seats and a girl to serve drink.

  “Standing around screaming at one another over a shit rock band while gulping down shots versus Enya and a seat, that’s the difference between your early and late twenties,” noted Seán while making himself comfortable in an armchair.

  “Yeah, we’re getting on,” Richard added before waving at the waitress.

  The women stayed quiet, not wishing to discuss the aging process.

  Clo needed the loo and I followed, afraid I’d get lost if I attempted the journey myself. It wasn’t until we were coming back that I recognised my brother sitting in a corner with a woman. I waved and walked over while noticing he was downing his drink and making a “let’s finish up” gesture to his company. Clo was behind me when I reached the table.

  “Hey, stranger,” I said smiling, happy to have bumped into my brother in a super bar of all places.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” he said a little too exuberantly.

  “We were bowling,” I said, waiting for an introduction to the woman who was keeping her eyes fixed to the floor.

  “You bowling?” he laughed.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Hi, I’m Clo.” Clo held out her hand to the stranger we were now both wondering about.

  “Hello. It’s nice to meet you,” the pretty stranger said, briefly looking up. Obviously we were interrupting something.

  “We were just about to leave,” said Noel.

  He stood and the stranger following suit.

  “Seán and Richard are over there,” I said, pointing into the middle distance. “Why don’t you join us for a drink?”

  “I can’t. I have work to do,” he said without meeting my eyes.

  “Right.”

  The stranger had her coat on.

  “Well, I’ll see you at the parents’ on Sunday,” I said.

  “Yeah. OK. See you on Sunday.”

  The stranger said bye and they walked quickly out of the premises, leaving Clo and me standing watching them leave.

  “What was all that about?” Clo asked suspiciously.

  “Probably a parishioner who needed advice,” I guessed.

  “Does Noel meet a lot of parishioners in the pub?”

  “It’s as good a place as any,” I said, totally convinced.

  “OK,” she said, totally unconvinced.

  I laughed. “He’s a priest, Clo.”

  “He’s a man, Em.”

  “You have a sick mind.”

  “I suppose I do.”

  “Yeah, well, you don’t know Noel. He didn’t have any girlfriends before becoming a priest – he’s definitely not going to go there now.” I was laughing at the absurdity of it.

  She smiled. “She did look stressed out.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “She’s probably going through a separation or has cancer or something.

  “Grim,” she said nodding. “I don’t know how he handles it.”

  “I know,” I agreed but I hadn’t a clue.

  * * *

  Seán was dedicating himself to becoming the new face of the male magazine world. He wrote funny, engaging articles about topics he couldn’t care less about and it paid his bills. His somewhat limited spare time was devoted to writing about things that did matter to him, which nobody got to see. I worked hard with my classes and every now and then I even went out, but truthfully life seemed a little empty. My friends and I stayed close, clinging to each other more than ever, our loss making us more careful with our friendship.

  It was late on a Friday evening five months after John died. I was lying on the couch, watching TV. The doorbell rang; it was Clodagh. I knew immediately something was wrong because, normally perfectly turned out, she arrived at my place looking like she had been dragged through a hedge. She greeted me with the words “fucking asshole” and her mascara was halfway down her face. I presumed she had had a fight with Mark, but I was only partly right. She hobbled into the kitchen and it was only then I noticed one of her heels was broken. She ordered a coffee and plonked herself down on the counter stool, flipping off her shoes one foot at a time while holding her head in her hands.

  “Did you have a fight with Mark?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Well, I’m sure it’s not the end of the world.”

  I would like to note in my defence that before John’s death I would never have uttered such a platitude, but once you hear enough of them it’s hard not to. Anyway, her response was in the form of a dirty look.

  “Sorry. That was a stupid thing to say. Tell me what’s going on?”

  She was looking at the carpet, which could have been cleaner. “Mark and I have broken up.”

  I couldn’t believe it – they had seemed to be getting on so well. “Why?” I asked.

  “We had an argument.”

  She paused. It was like pulling teeth.

  “And?” I encouraged.

  “We had an argument over me being pregnant.”

  She looked up from my dirty carpet and I nearly fell off the chair.

  “You’re pregnant?” I managed to blurt out.

  “Surprise,” she said in a sarcastic tone. There were tears in her eyes.

  I didn’t know how to react to the news, so I concentrated on attacking her ex-boyfriend. “That bastard, what did he say?”

  She sighed. “He basically said that if I was, it had nothing to do with him.”

  I was choking on outrage. She just looked tired.

  “Why do I always go for such total pricks?” she enquired.

  I was asking myself the same question. “I don’t know, Clo,” was all I could muster.

  “Fuck him, Emma! OK? Fuck him! He’s no longer my problem. This,” she pointed to her stomach, “however, is.”

  I hugged her, remembering the day I’d dreaded the blue line, remembering that hours later John was dead and I was alone. It really could be worse. I knew that now. I didn’t say anything. I’d never told anyone about the day my boyfriend died. It was too painful. Somewhere in the back of my mind I realised that if I had been pregnant I would be full term by now. I’d still have a little part of him. But this wasn’t about me.

  “I’m going to have an abortion,” she said.

  “Because of Mark?” I had to ask.

  “No,” she answered categorically. “I’ve kn
own about this for over a week. I’ve being doing a lot of thinking and if that prick had let me finish before launching into his I’m-not-ready-for-commitment speech, I would have told him the same thing.”

  It’s funny: a year ago if Clo had known that she was pregnant a whole week before telling me I would have been pissed off, but now I understood.

  “You’re sure?” I had to ask.

  She smiled weakly. “Obviously, I’ll have to go to London. Will you come?”

  Of course I was going. “I’ve wanted to go to London shopping for ages.” I looked at her, waiting for a response.

  “I knew you’d be there for me,” she said, relieved.

  We moved into the sitting-room and talked about stupid things and after a while we were giggling and laughing. Our joint desperation reunited us; our trepidation for our futures, our quest for answers and our fears reduced us to the children we once were. We were forced to confront our pain and together we laughed in the face of it.

  Clo had her mouth full of apple-pie when she started to laugh loudly.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked.

  “Mark,” she laughed.

  I was starting to giggle again. “What about him?”

  She looked up at me, still laughing. “When I told him and he was being an asshole about it, I got really angry and said –” She laughed again and covered her mouth. “Oh no! It’s too bad.”

  She had my undivided attention. “What? What did you say?” I enquired urgently.

  “Well,” she began, “he asked what I was planning to do about my little problem.”

  I wanted to find him and punch him in the face.

  She continued. “I said: ‘What do you want me to do? Squat down and scream “get out”?’”

  We roared with laughter and we continued laughing until she cried. She cried for a long time that night, but she knew she was doing the right thing and I knew no matter what happened I’d be there for her. She stayed over and we planned our trip to London. That night became a turning point. It was the first time that I managed to forget about myself for a whole evening – well, almost a whole evening.

  Chapter 10

  A Trip, a Miss and Confession

  I woke up to the phone ringing by my bed. I fumbled for the receiver, dropped it and while retrieving it noticed the clock read 6.30 a.m. I sank back into my pillow with the phone to my ear.

  “Hello,” I said into the duvet.

  It was Anne. “Hi, just giving you a wake-up call.”

  She was in the car heading towards Kerry and I could hear Richard fiddling with the radio stations.

  “It’s six thirty in the bloody morning,” I mumbled.

  She, of course, was already aware of the time. “You still haven’t packed and the last time you and Clo took a trip together you missed the flight out and back.”

  I couldn’t argue. She was right, but having said that our flight wasn’t until three that afternoon and I still had a half-day of school before me.

  “I’m up,” I said wearily.

  She disagreed. “You’re not up until you’re standing – now, get moving!”

  I sat up. “I’m up.”

  She didn’t believe me. “Stand up and move around,” she ordered.

  I gave the phone the fingers.

  “Are you up?”

  I put my feet on the floor. “Right, I’m up. Jesus, Anne, ever consider joining the army?”

  She noted how amusing I was before shouting an order at Richard to “pick a bloody station”.

  “That’s better,” she told both of us. “Well, Richard and I are going to pick the pair of you up on Sunday evening. Clo gave me the flight details. Try and make it, Em. I really hate sitting around airports.”

  Clo and I had obviously noted the irony that Anne so desperately craved the baby that Clo didn’t want. We discussed not telling her, as we felt it would be insensitive. However after much debate we both agreed not telling her would be the greater evil. She had taken it well. Anne was a trooper.

  “OK,” I agreed.

  “Tell her we all love her and everything’s going to be OK.”

  “I will,” I agreed again.

  “OK, we’ll see you on Sunday. By the way, Richard says hi.”

  “I heard him. I’ll see you on Sunday.” I replaced the receiver and got back under the covers, while telling myself it would only be for a few minutes. I woke up an hour later.

  “Jesus!” I shouted. “Jesus Christ!”

  I jumped out of bed and ran to the shower. Half an hour later, I was throwing anything I could find into a bag while eating a slice of toast. I managed to get marmalade on my favourite top.

  Crap, I thought, flinging it into the wash basket.

  Five minutes later I was sitting in my car. I kept thinking I’d forgotten something. It was beginning to bother me. I looked at the house. The cat had enough food to last a week, the door was locked and the oven had never been turned on. I had my travel bag, tickets and keys. What was missing? I started to back out of the driveway.

  “Oh for God’s sake!”

  I pulled back into the driveway, got out of the car, opened the door and ran up the stairs and into my spare bedroom.

  “Seán, Seán, get up!”

  He mumbled and turned over.

  “Get up! I’m dead late.”

  “Just a few more minutes,” he pleaded.

  He was a nightmare in the mornings, nearly as bad as me. I needed to do something to get him out. I went into the bathroom and filled a glass with water, walked back to the bedroom and poured it on his head. He jumped up.

  “Christ!” he yelled.

  I wasn’t in the mood. “Let’s go, come on, I’m dead late and it’s your fault.”

  He got out of bed. “How do you make that out?” he enquired smirking.

  I ignored him. He had arrived on my doorstep at half two in the morning, after attempting unsuccessfully to get a taxi home after a night on the piss, and I was in no mood for conversation.

  “I’ll be downstairs. You have five minutes or I’ll lock you into the house for the weekend.”

  Knowing I was serious, he quickened his step. I left him to it. He arrived downstairs an impressive two minutes later.

  “Let’s go,” I said, walking to the door.

  “What, no toast?” he asked grinning.

  His charm, or lack thereof, was annoying me. I grabbed two slices of bread and handed them to him.

  “There you go, take them home and toast them.”

  “Lovely,” he noted, looking at the scrunched-up bread in his hand.

  Two minutes later I was back in the car with Seán beside me, pulling out of the driveway for the second time.

  Doreen was on her doorstep.

  “Howya, Emma! Alright, Seán! Stayed the night again, I see.”

  She was smiling. We had become even closer since John had died. She was so kind-hearted and after sharing way too many Friday nights watching The Late Late Show together, she really wanted to see me get laid and it was nice, but her timing was bad.

  “Hey, Doreen! I couldn’t get a taxi last night!” Seán shouted out the window.

  “That’s what they all say,” she laughed.

  “Well, the next time he’ll have to walk!” I shouted, still pulling out.

  “That’s right, love. Give him a hard time. They’re all a bunch of bas … Oh, hello, Father.”

  I turned to see Noel heading in our direction. I stopped. “Oh for Christ’s sake!” I rolled the window down fully. “Noel, I’m dead late for school.”

  He smiled. “I can see that. I’m just going to grab the spare key. I left my jacket in your place the other night.” He banged the top of the car. “Go on. Have a good time.”

  I hadn’t told him why I was heading away for the weekend. I hated lying to him, but having said that I wasn’t going to mention the abortion because that would be stupid. “I’ll call you when we get home.” I waved, smiled and took off before he could
say anything.

  I looked in the mirror to see Doreen nabbing him, presumably for a cup of tea, a speciality of hers.

  Seán looked at me.

  “What?” I asked.

  “How come I don’t know where the spare key is?” he asked.

  “Because you’ll use it,” I answered.

  “Lovely,” he repeated. He was quiet for a minute. “Hey, Em, tell Clo that I’ll be thinking of her.”

  I smiled. “Tell her yourself.”

  * * *

  I made it into class five minutes after the bell rang. My students were enjoying their freedom. I apologised for my tardiness while they applauded me. It was English so I grabbed my copy of Romeo and Juliet. As it was a play, instead of having the class read it, I would always ask them to perform it. Each day I’d pick the players required for the particular scene we were going through. I felt it would enable the students to remember the play, key parts etc. The class felt it was my sick nature and of course a small percentage of it was.

  “Hands up for Romeo?”

  Nobody raised a hand. I surveyed the room.

  “OK, Peter we haven’t heard from you in a while. Jessica, you’re Juliet. Who wants to be The Nurse?”

  Nobody answered.

  “Right, Linda, you’re The Nurse.”

  “Ah Miss, I was The Nurse last week!” she groaned.

  “So I’ll expect an Oscar-winning performance.”

  The class laughed. Isn’t it funny that the most banal of statements can appear funny in a classroom, church or a wedding speech?

  Anyway, Peter began to read. A few seconds later James jumped in his seat and the class started to titter.

  “Peter, just a second. James, why are you jumping?” I asked.

  James was rubbing his ass. “Declan keeps stabbing me with his compass, Miss.”

  I sighed long and loud and looked towards Declan. “Declan, why are you stabbing James?”

  “Miss, he’s a bleedin’ liar.”

  “Language, Declan,” I admonished.