Resolution

Chapter 17

Una's fingernails were pressing hard, digging into the drum of Alistair's thumb, piercing the skin. "Bastard," said Una. "You shitty, shitty bastard."

"Breathe," he said.

The midwife smirked to herself as she checked the monitors. "I expect they told you to expect this in the classes." She smiled at Alistair across Una's belly. "I hated my hubby when I was in labor. Doesn't seem fair when you're in all that pain."

Una's contraction ebbed away and she gasped for a deep breath. She stared up at the midwife, holding Alistair's hand just as tightly as she had been when the contraction was coming. "He left me," said Una loudly, concentrating hard to speak as another contraction hit, "for my neighbor. When I was three months pregnant." She lost her breath to the contraction and turned red, her face contorting. She was holding Alistair's hand so hard that her fingernails buckled against his skin. He began to bleed.

It was half four in the morning and the maternity unit was quiet. Across the corridor, sitting in the waiting room, Winnie O'Donnell dabbed her eyes and prayed to a distant god. Dear God, she prayed, please, God, if there is a God, don't let it be a girl. She took out the Alcoholics Anonymous card and reread the serenity prayer. She'd have to pray for acceptance if it was a girl, but it might not come to that. Please, God, thy will be done, not a girl, thy will be done. Finding no comfort, she unclasped her hands and looked up. Behind the long window, dawn was breaking over Glasgow and Winnie's reflection was fading. She could see her outline, the white hankie to her face, and the doorway next to her leading into the bright corridor. Asleep in the seat next to her, George was drooling onto his chin, his big work-swollen hands clasped in his lap, his legs sprawled untidily in front of him. Una was across and two doors down, giving birth to Winnie's first grandchild. Winnie hung her head again. Please, God, don't let it be a girl.

She smelled him before she saw him. Michael was standing there, reeking of cheap lager and stale fags, holding on to the door frame to steady himself. He looked at Winnie's fading reflection in the window, paused, then swung himself into a seat across the room. His forehead and nose were badly sunburned and he was sweating. "You're late," said Winnie. "He called you hours ago."

"Aye," he said. "I'm here." He was slurring heavily and seemed very drunk. Winnie envied him. He reached for his fag packet and took one out.

"Ye can't smoke in here," said Winnie, but he ignored her and took his lighter from the other pocket. "Ye can't smoke in here." She stood up, stepped towards him and smacked the fag from his mouth. Michael looked startled, as though he had forgotten she was there. "You can't smoke in a hospital," she said, backing into her own chair.

"Hospital?" Michael seemed confused and looked to her for confirmation.

"Una," said Winnie ferociously.

"Una?"

"She's having her baby."

"Oh," he nodded, "Una. That's right. Una."

George woke up, rubbing his face and blinking hard. "Yes?" he said automatically.

Michael nodded at him and growled. George looked around the room and smiled, remembering where he was. "Oh, yes," he said, patting Winnie's knee excitedly, and settled back for another nap.

Michael spotted the fag on the floor. He leaned forward, picked it up and slipped it back into the packet for later.

Winnie looked at him. He was drunk and confused with a bitter distance in his eyes. His belly hung forlornly over his belt, his scarlet sunburned head was freckled with liver spots and tenuous tufts of hair. He saw her watching him and snarled as he tried to cross his legs. He was too stiff and couldn't lift his leg high enough – his knees banged off each other. He tried again, swinging his foot on the diagonal, but couldn't reach his knee. He was wearing nylon trousers, white socks and dirty trainers, all personal dislikes of Winnie's. She had loved his jaw, she had loved his hair, his dear, dark hair. When they met, Michael was going to write like Hemingway, tell tales of derring-do. He could command the attention of any party with his stories, flatten anyone with a punch and move like no other guy at the dancing. And now he was an unemployable abusive drunk whom no one liked and she, the doll on his arm, was six months sober with thirty years of apologies pending. As Winnie looked at him the years concertinaed and she wondered how they had got from there to here, if there was some sign she should have picked up on, if she should have known. But everybody drank in those days, she told herself, everybody drank.

They heard a scuffle in the corridor and Alistair was at the door, his face smeared with blood and tears, cradling his bleeding thumb as if it were the baby. "Beautiful," he said, and covered his face to cry.

UNA HELD THE BABY close to her chest and Winnie tried to smile. Please, God, if there is a God, not a girl.

"It's a girl," said Una, exhausted and cheated.

"Oh," said Winnie, grinning as her eyes welled. "Lucky."

They looked at each other, Una angry, Winnie sorry. Winnie reached out for the child but Una pointedly handed the little bundle to Michael, who had staggered in at her back, elbowing in front of George. They could all smell the drink off him. He reached out for the newborn, hands trembling. Concerned, the midwife stood at Michael's back, ready to catch the baby if he fell. Michael cradled her in one arm and poked a nicotine-stained finger at a nose that had been used for forty breaths. The baby sneezed twice.

"Have ye decided on a name?" asked Winnie, letting the insult go.

Una bristled, straightening the sheets. "I'm going to call her Maureen," she said. "I like the name."

Alistair frowned at her. "You can't do that," he said. "There's already a Maureen in the family."

"Not anymore, there isn't," said Una firmly.

Michael blinked slowly and looked at the baby. "Hello, Maureen," he said.