And the birds kept on singing Read online

  First published 2017.

  ISBN 978-1539634126

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  ©2017, Simon Bourke, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Printed in the UK by CreateSpace

  Cover design by Design for Writers

  Edited by Elaine P. Kennedy

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.

  Visit www.simonbourke.net to learn more about this author.

  Manchester, 1984

  1

  “This is not the kind of thing you should face alone, love. Is there someone you could ring? A friend?”

  The nurse scanned the patient’s face in search of an answer, but was met with the same blank expression the girl had worn since admission.

  “No one?”

  A slight shake of the head, a mumbled response, and then back to staring out the window.

  “Very well,” the nurse muttered, scurrying off to find someone more worthy of her attention.

  The patient watched her go, glad of the respite. All she wanted was some peace and quiet, just a few moments alone before it began. No friends, no family, no-one. No more interfering, no words of wisdom, just her and a room full of clinical instruments. A procedure, that’s all it was. The same as having a kidney stone removed, or an appendix. The joy of life, the wonder of creation: it meant nothing. This was a routine medical procedure which would rid her of her burden. Once it was over, she just wanted to go home and forget about the whole thing, and she would – just so long as she didn’t have to see it.

  Right now her primary concern centred on the procurement of drugs. She’d heard about the pain, been told all about it, and had no intention of suffering any more of it than necessary. She wanted to be dosed up to the eyeballs with everything they had; pills, needles, suppositories, she wanted them all. This thing had already caused her enough heartache, she wasn’t about to let it administer one final beating before it departed. The nurse had prepped her, done a few routine tests and got her changed into a gown. But there hadn’t been any drugs, none that she could remember anyway. It was too late to call her back; she was away helping pleasant ladies and their pleasant husbands. She wouldn’t be returning to the sullen cow in Room Nine if she could help it. Who would give her the drugs? She’d need them soon.

  She looked around the room. There were a couple of promising-looking cabinets on the wall opposite. Perhaps there was something in there that would knock her out cold, comatose, so that by the time she awoke it would all be over and she wouldn’t remember a thing. Wouldn’t that be fine? But no, she couldn’t go rummaging around in cabinets. Once Doctor Morgan arrived, everything would be all right. He would take command of the situation and give her all the drugs she needed.

  She lay back on the bed, suddenly tearful, wishing the nurse would come back and hold her hand. She was right; it wasn’t the kind of thing you should face alone. She only had herself to blame, though. It was her own fault; she’d been a silly girl who had succumbed to her desires, and now she’d have to reap what she’d sown, or at least reap what he had sown. And sown he had, with not a care in the world. Came, conquered and disappeared, never to be seen again. What was he doing now, she wondered? Probably going about his business, like any other day. Would he be thinking of her? Of course not. His blissful ignorance made her feel better. A simple misadventure between two wholly unprepared organisms was about to come to a satisfactory end. There was reason to be thankful for that at least.

  *

  “Just relax, Sinéad; this kind of pain is perfectly natural.”

  How the fuck would you know?

  “Just breathe, that’s the girl.”

  Oh do fuck off, you condescending prick.

  “Pretty soon it’ll all be over.”

  Yeah cos I’ve only been here seven hours so far, a walk in the park really.

  Doctor Morgan had at one point been a source of great comfort, a rock to cling to during some rough times, but now ...

  Now he was a man in a woman’s world. A man coaxing her through an experience which he’d never have to endure. There had been a man at the beginning of this ordeal; she wasn’t about to end it in the company of another.

  “Dr. Morgan?”

  “Yes, dear, what is it?”

  “Is there any possibility you could leave me with the nurses until this is over?”

  “But, Sinéad, I’m your obstetrician. I have to be here.”

  “Says who?”

  Her tone had changed, only slightly, but enough to signal danger.

  “Says everyone, Sinéad. Now stop fretting and let’s get this little tyke out, eh?”

  “I want you out, now!”

  The atmosphere in the room changed, becoming thick and muggy. Outside, birds stopped singing, children stopped playing, traffic came to a halt.

  “I’m sorry, Sinéad, but that’s simply not possible.”

  Eruption.

  “GET THE FUCK OUT!! GET OUT, GET OUT, GET OUT, GET OUT, GET OUUUTTTTT!!”

  Various medical paraphernalia flew into the air as Doctor Morgan scrambled for safety; for a man of his years he moved quite swiftly and managed to avoid her clutches. Sinéad sat with her fists balled, eyes ablaze, froth dripping from her mouth. She had tried to scratch his eyes out, but would have been content to draw blood. Dr. Morgan watched from the safe environs of the door well, a look of confused terror on his pale face. And they had been getting along so well.

  Now, with just a couple of grim-faced nurses for company, she could finally get down to business. No more cloying words of comfort from that fucking man. One of the nurses, a stout lady who looked like she’d spent the majority of her years pulling calves from the dark recesses of their mothers, locked eyes with Sinéad.

  “Now listen to me, little missy, you keep that temper of yours in check and do as I tell you, and everything will be fine. Okay?”

  Sinéad’s eyes watered. Unable to speak, she nodded acquiescence.

  “Good girl. Now, deep breaths and push when I tell you.”

  She nodded again, her face crumpled in misery.

  Someone dabbed her head with a towel. A hand grabbed hers and she gripped it tightly, gratefully.

  She pushed and pushed with all her might, tears rolling down her cheeks. Maybe if she pushed hard enough, she could get rid of it all; purge herself completely. She could pretend it had never happened – meeting him, their sordid alliance, becoming pregnant at seventeen. Begging him to stay with her, to support her, and being told that it just wasn’t possible; he had his own life to live. The shame she’d felt, the fear and finally the realisation that she couldn’t keep it, that she had to leave before it was too late. Creeping away in t
he wee hours, like a thief in the night, not knowing when or if she’d be back. Only knowing that she had to get away. Arriving in England, burden in tow, to her cousin; the one she’d always promised to visit. Then becoming a burden herself, her shame growing in tandem with her stomach. The looks she got, looks that told her: We know. We know exactly why you are here and what you have done.

  If she pushed hard enough she could start anew. A clean slate. Be back home, this whole thing just a detour on an otherwise happy ascension to adulthood. So she pushed and she pushed and she pushed, fighting as she’d never fought before; fighting for her freedom, for her future.

  And then it was over. There had been screaming, her own, but it had stopped; all was quiet. Her eyes swam as they adjusted to the brilliant colours surrounding her. The world seemed peaceful, serene, not the place she remembered. All around her were smiling, reassuring faces. What was this? Why was everyone so happy? Had she done something right, for once? As the swaddled bundle was gently placed into her arms, she remembered. She looked into its eyes, his eyes. She had done something right; she had created something. Created life. She stared at this beautiful, marvellous thing she had made, and vowed to never let it go.

  2

  “I’ll be honest with you, Mrs. Philliskirk: at this point, I think we have explored every possible avenue. All that’s left to consider ...”

  Margaret stopped him short. “Please, don’t say it. I understand. Please.”

  She raised her hand to signify that not only was this the end of the conversation, it was the end, full stop. They were finished; they had tried their best, but it was over. Malcolm thanked the doctor for his time and assisted his wife from her chair. She came willingly, too willingly; all the fight had left her. She had nothing left to give. As he led his defeated wife to the car, Malcolm couldn’t help but wonder if things would ever be the same again. The frustrating thing was they could be the same again. In fact, they could be better, if she could bring herself to agree.

  He’d been relieved that it wasn’t his fault, relieved that his swimmers were as determined as they were plentiful. Although he knew no one was really to blame, he secretly felt that he’d done his part. But his heart ached to see her suffer. She blamed herself, asked for his forgiveness, told him she would understand if he chose to seek solace elsewhere. He told her not to be so silly, vowed never to leave her side, but it shook him, made him fearful for their future. Maybe this was a sign that they weren’t supposed to be together. He wanted kids, always had done. What kind of life would they have, just the two of them? Growing old together, childless, their nest permanently empty? But they could have the life they’d always dreamed of, if only she would agree. He was willing to take the fruit of someone else’s loins and love it as if it were his own; why couldn’t she do the same?

  Every time he broached the subject he met with steely resistance. It wouldn’t be ours, she told him. It wouldn’t be the same. No, it simply wasn’t an option. They would keep on trying and hope that God was on their side. Neither of them had been particularly religious, but disappointment and despair had made believers of them both. Suddenly they couldn’t get enough of the Almighty; Margaret had the whole street praying for them. But unless God himself were to come down from the heavens and impregnate her with his holy phallus it would all be for nothing. No amount of praying could counteract the cold hard facts: they couldn’t conceive, medical science said so.

  They left the doctor’s office, the latest disappointment ringing in their ears, and drove home in silence; Malcolm frustrated and embittered, Margaret a broken woman, her last hope extinguished. He wanted to say it, to air that well-worn line just one more time. Surely she could have no valid objection at this point? But he relented out of love for her. She was already hurting; why heap more misery upon her? So they both sat there, unable, or unwilling to offer words of consolation. They knew words meant nothing now; there was nothing more to be said. Maybe his wife would become a mute. A silent, vacant shell, shuffling through life on auto-pilot. At least there’d be no more arguments about what to watch on telly.

  Then something magical happened. The silence was broken. And broken in a most unexpected way.

  “Malcolm?”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “Who do we see about applying for adoption?”

  3

  “It’s eight months old, Marge; it’s not going to care how you look.”

  Malcolm sat on the edge of their marital bed, fastening his tie in the mirror. A mirror to which he had intermittent access due to the movements of his increasingly agitated wife.

  “Come on, love, calm down a bit – this is supposed to be a happy day!”

  But she barely heard him, so intent was she on putting the final touches to an ensemble she hoped was befitting for a mum-to-be. There would no maternity wear for her, no unsightly bump or lactating breasts. Her outfit fit snugly over her trim figure, a figure which would never be subjected to the horrors of stretchmarks or post-pregnancy scars; but rarely could an expectant mother have been so thoroughly worked up. Labour was nothing compared to the emotional wringer Margaret Philliskirk was putting herself through.

  Having watched his wife do upwards of forty-five laps of their modest master bedroom, Malcolm intervened. He rose from the bed, tie still unfastened, and stood in front of the mirror.

  “Malc, get out of the way; can’t you see I’m busy?”

  “Yes, I can see; I’ve been watching you run about like a headless chicken for the last half-hour.”

  He took her by the shoulders and looked her square in the eye. She squirmed under his grasp, eager to resume her pursuit of matronly beauty.

  “Let me go, for crying out loud. We’ve got to be there in an hour.”

  “Yes, an hour. And how long does it take to get there?”

  She resisted his gaze, refusing to answer. He was right. She knew he was right, but under no circumstances was she about to concede defeat. She wriggled free, and headed towards the en-suite bathroom to check her make-up for the umpteenth time.

  “How long?” Malcolm called after her.

  Silence.

  “How long, Marge?”

  Still nothing.

  “Margey, how long does it take to get to the adoption centre?” he sang, imagining her surly expression turning into a smile.

  The door was flung open.

  “Twenty fucking minutes, now fuck off!”

  The door closed as quickly as it had opened. Shocked at this rare display of profanity, Malcolm could do nothing but shake his head amiably as he finally fastened his tie in the now-accessible mirror.

  Denise, their social worker, was waiting for them outside the adoption agency.

  “Hi, guys, how are we all feeling today?”

  “This one is a tad nervous,” smiled Malcolm, giving Margaret a reassuring squeeze.

  “Oh not to worry, Margaret, this is only the first meeting, you don’t have to bring him home today or anything.”

  “I know, I know,” replied Margaret. “I just want to make a good first impression, that’s all.”

  “Well, he’s only eight months old, so you shouldn’t be overly concerned.”

  “That’s exactly what I said,” responded Malcolm, relieved to be in the company of another sane person.

  But still Margaret fretted. What if she took him in her arms and he screamed his head off? What if she turned out to be one of those people babies hate? Everyone would ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ at the baby as he gurgled in delight, but once he was placed in her arms all hell would break loose. He hated her, and all the other babies would too. Word would spread about this nasty little woman coming to steal all the lovely babies, and before she knew it the whole building would shake with their cries any time she came near. Oh, Christ.

  “How many forms do we have to fill out today, then?” joked Malcolm, as they passed throu
gh the reception area into the new, unexplored environs of the nursery.

  “Ha, none whatsoever, my love,” grinned Denise. “But we do need you to sign a few things; mere formalities, nothing to worry about.”

  Malcolm signed with a flourish and then watched in bemusement as Margaret’s pen slithered across the page, leaving an illegible scrawl in its wake.

  “Sorry Denise, I ...”

  “It’s fine, Marge. Let’s get the introductions underway, eh?”

  She consulted her clipboard.

  “He’s just through here, Room 7B.”

  Denise entered the room ahead of the Philliskirks, who stood by the door, unsure how to proceed. Decorated in a neutral beige with a colourful trim depicting the adventures of some cartoon character they didn’t recognise, the room housed four infants, all under the age of twelve months. Which one was theirs? Oh, God, I hope it’s not the one crying in the corner, thought Margaret, checking herself lest her thoughts spiral out of control once more. She looked up at Malcolm; he grinned down at her, an expectant father eager to meet his first-born. How could she be nervous with him by her side?

  “Come on in,” Denise said, beckoning them over to the crib in the far corner of the room; not the one housing the caterwauling child, thankfully.

  “Here he is, the handsome little devil. He’ll be a heartbreaker, this one.”

  She lifted the child from the cot and ushered the new parents into the strategically-placed chairs. Margaret yearned to scream, ‘Give him to me, he’s my baby!’ But she primly sat in her chair as she’d been told, never once taking her eyes off the carefully-swaddled infant in Denise’s arms.

  “Now, here we all are,” said Denise. “Seán, I’d like you to meet Margaret and Malcolm: they’re going to be your new mummy and daddy.”

  And with that she handed them the blue-eyed bundle of hope and innocence. He didn’t cry. He didn’t scream out in protest. He went to his new mother without complaint. Margaret took him in her arms, cradling him as she’d been taught, and gazed into those sparkling blue eyes. He stared back at her for what seemed an age, then broke into a beaming smile.