LJ idol Week 7 - Where I'm from
Glasgow 1958
The door slammed behind him, the sound loud and jarring as it shook the paper thin walls of their single end. Storming down the stairs and into the street, his nose scrunched up automatically as the smells of Glasgow hit him. He had been here for nearly ten years now, stepping off the boat, then bus, full of hopes and dreams. Leaving behind him, the political unrest in Ireland, an angry Da and a future filled with responsibility and accountability that at fourteen he hadn’t been ready to accept.
He had loved Glasgow, from the very beginning. The busy streets filled with hustle and noise so far removed from the green landscape of Claremorris. But he had never, ever gotten used to the smell. The cloying smell of decay and the heaviness of smog hung onto everything. It clung to your skin, appeared in mucky grey of your clothes, came through in the chesty, sickly cough of your kids.
As he pushed open the door of the pub, the smell disappeared, replaced by tobacco and sweat. He spent more time here now than he did at home. Tired of the fighting, the yelling, the screaming of four small kids and now May wanted to go and add another one. No, not wanted to, had. The quietly spoken ‘I’m pregnant’ had been the catalyst for their latest fight. He barely knew how it had happened, they didn’t touch each other anymore. The early whirlwind of romance was long gone, lost in his fourteen hour shifts and the two cleaning jobs that May fitted in around four kids under seven.
He didn’t want it, he had told her so, her look of shock and betrayal quickly flitting to disdain and anger. He was the catholic, not her. They didn’t have the money, the energy for another one. So he had decided to do what he did best, bury himself in beer and woman and go back when his bloody wife had come to her senses.
Four months later he found himself out of Glasgow, down south, surrounded by the red terraced houses of Manchester, where his wife had run off to after finding him with his latest floozy. At first he had left them to it. Rejoicing in the quiet and solitude. But he had started missing them quickly. Little Mary’s soft singing, the three boys playing ‘Sojies’ as they jumped on every available surface of the house. May’s laugh, the way she would smile as he danced her around the kitchen. He wanted his family back, wanted to be the man they believed he was.
It took three weeks, but she eventually agreed to come home, it was as they were packing their things that May’s labour started, two months early. Charles came into the world kicking and screaming. It wasn’t until later, when they were registering the birth that the full enormity hit him and he began to chuckle. His Da had stopped speaking to him when he first married ‘The Proddy’ as he called May. It would drive him round the bed when he found out the grandson that bore the family name was a ‘Damn Englishman’.
Looking over, he saw May’s besotted smiled as she looked down at their newest son. And he knew, that no matter what, they would be ok.
Glasgow 1976
She searched the room frantically, her fingers grasping under the bed desperately. Tissues, lipstick, varnish but no sign of the neatly folded piece of paper she was seeking.
“Patricia, downstairs now, you have to leave for school in five minutes.” The shout broke the silence, forced her to her feet and out the room.
She rushed down the stairs two at a time, wondering for a brief second what would happen if she slipped, tumbled down the stairs, what would happen then?
She skidded into the kitchen with the enthusiasm you can only get away with as a child, although she was currently approaching the shift. Sixteen going on seventeen, almost time to leave behind the childish things like skidding on floors in her slippy socks.
The kitchen smelled of bacon and grease and her tummy turned. But she knew that there was no way mum would let her out without eating something. She grabbed a slice of toast, heavily buttered and held it between her teeth as she pulled on her school blazer. Her mum was at the sink, already juggling the pile of dishes breakfast had left behind. For half a second the words formed in her mouth, she wanted desperately to talk to her mum. To have her stroke her hair, tell her that it was all going to be fine. A kiss from mum to make it better.
But this wasn’t a scraped knee. She looked closer and noticed the droop of tiredness in the set of her mums shoulders. Seven kids, three jobs and a husband working nightshift, yet she always made time for everyone. She knew if she just said the word, her mum would drop what she was doing and help her fix this. Her lips almost formed the words and then stopped as the front door opened. Her dad stepping in out of the morning cold, his mouth set in a grim line that lifted as he saw her.
“Morning Patsy,” he greeted her with a kiss on the cheek with chapped cold lips. Sitting down he grunted at her mum, noises taking the place of conversation. His smile now gone as he looked at his wife, searching for just the right fault to pick away at.
She sneaked out the door as she heard him start to complain about the temperature of his tea. She caught up with her sisters at the far corner, both had left before Dad came home. Both like mum used to his coldness, his disapproval. She was the only one exempt it seemed. Although she knew that would change if he found out what she had done.
She turned her mind away from the dark places it was going and into her sisters gossip. They were passing a stub of a cigarette between them and she grabbed it, taking a long slow draw and letting the nicotine seep into her system, bringing with it a sense of calm. She has started smoking three years ago, thirteen and desperate to prove how cool she was to her new friends. Then she had met Charlie and had tried to stop when he complained it was like kissing an ashtray.
She had met him through her friend Liz who was dating his brother John. Charlie had been brought along to keep Tricia occupied while John and Liz had some alone time. She had hated him at first, loud, brash and full of opinions about everything. But as the days and weeks passed she started to see a different side to him. She listened to him talk about his parents, who were even worse than hers. Her mum and dad had retreated into a wall of silence, but Charlies mum May was wild, she attacked his dad with fists, pots, knees and nails. His dad Pat was softer, a sweet Irish man who seemed to just ignore his whirlwind of a wife, but Tricia had heard the stories, of the other women, and secret kids. Not that she ever mentioned them to Charles.
Over the course of months, then years they had fallen in love. Her mum and dad didn’t like it. They thought Charlie was poor, dirty, rough. Not good enough for her. But they were wrong, she saw past the filthy house he lived in, the wild family and loud noises to the sweet loving boy underneath.
She loved Charlie, totally, completely, fiercely. She loved him enough to defy her family, something she had never done before. She was the good girl. She had none of her older sister Margaret’s wildness or her brothers sleekitness. She was quiet, well behaved, smart, studied hard. But for Charlie she had broken all the rules. Even the big one, the one she thought she never would. Freezing in place she knew then and there that it didn’t matter. That if she had Charlie, she could do anything.
Ignoring her sisters calls she ran back to the house, her heart feeling like it would burst out of her chest as she ran, her feet missing the puddles of black ice. Mustn’t slip, not now.
Barrelling through the door, she could hear her father’s heavy footsteps upstairs, good that would make things easier. Heading into the kitchen she found her mother sitting at the table.
“I’m pregnant.”
The words slipped out, as if unstoppable, inescapable. Once they were out it was like a weight had been lifted, she looked at her mother, waiting for the explosion. Watched as her mum removed a small folded piece of paper from her pocket. The lines crisp from repeated folds, the letter from the doctor, confirming the words that had just been released.
“Sit down Patricia, we need to talk.”
Taking a seat her heart started pounding again. She was sixteen, still in school and she was having a a baby. She knew it was going to be hard, knew what people would say. But then she met her mums eyes, saw the softness there, no anger, no recrimination. She wrapped her fingers into her mums palm, and she knew, no matter what, it was going to be ok.
Glasgow 2005
Wrapping my arms around the silver bar, I feel another wave of the pain creeping up on me. Gritting my teeth, I can hear the groan hissing out, almost unbidden as my body shifts and moves to deal with the pain.
My husband is standing beside me, looking for all the world like he wants to be somewhere else, the noises im making barely sound human and he looks embarrassed by the fuss I’m making. He makes the cardinal mistake of leaning down and saying that I am being really loud. I love him, more than anything in the world and at that moment I want to kill him.
I had heard stories of partners in the delivery room before, it was why in my original birth plan, he wasn’t supposed to be here. But very little of my original birth plan remained. From the moment I had screamed the words ‘I’m pregnant’ I had made so many plans. I planned a natural birth. Lots of movement, no drugs. When my son was born (we had found out it was a boy at my sixteen week scan. My husbands smile had put the Cheshire cat to shame) I would lay him on my chest for bonding. Would count out the ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes and look into the face of the baby we had longed for.
We had been trying for seven years. Years broken by the misery of miscarriage and dashed hopes. When I had finally managed to get one to stick at the ripe old age of twenty nine, it had seemed like all of our wishes had been granted.
My mum had found it strange. She thought I was a little old to be a first time mum, to be fair she had fallen pregnant with me at 16, had married and had given birth by her 17th birthday. By the time she had hit 29 she had a twelve year old, a seven year old and had passed more than a decade married.
I still felt too young, still worried that I would do everything wrong, that I wouldn’t be the mum this child I longed for needed. Up until 13 weeks I had worried about losing him, but as each week progressed past that I had never worried that I wouldn’t get to keep him. At least I hadn’t until I hit week 23 and my waters broke. Then I learned that my child at that point was not classed as a child. I held on until week 24, until he was classed as ‘viable’ and now my body was giving up on me and expelling my precious boy, sixteen whole weeks too early.
Now instead of a natural birth with my best friend, I have my hubby and what seems like fifty doctors gathered round me. Instead of soothing music, I listen to men with accents tell me just how little chance my child has of surviving. They prep me to give birth to a child who will likely not survive the night (5%). Who if he does, probably won’t come home alive (20%) and if he did would be severely disabled (65%).
I make the mistake of looking at my husband and see the fear that lies behind the request to be quieter. We are just two people, two newlyweds about to become parents to a child that likely won’t survive.
As the wave crashes over me again, I feel a sense of utter hopelessness overtake me. What’s the point. The point in all the pain, if I don’t get to have my baby. I‘m scared, more scared than I think I have ever been in my life and don’t know which way to turn.
As the helplessness and pain overtake me, I hear a different voice. Soft, soothing. My mum pushes back my hair and tells me to breathe. She tells me that everything is going to be alright and I believe her. She wasn’t supposed to be here either. She was most definitely not part of my birth plan. I love the woman but I always felt that she would tell me I was doing labour wrong and we would argue and I’d either throw her out of the room, or more likely be expelled from the room myself whilst being told to ‘think on my actions’. She wasn’t what I wanted, this wasn’t the birth I wanted.
But as I look at her, grounding myself in the worry and kindness in her eyes I realise I’m going to be ok. My mum is here and no matter what, it was going to be ok.
~*~
Where am I from? I’m a product of all of the above. I came from a wandering soul, who left his home in Ireland to start a new adventure. Who crossed the divisional lines of religious bigotry at a time where they couldn’t have been more dangerous. I got my love of the romantic from him, the idea that the next great adventure is just around the corner.
I’m a result of a quick coincidence, of a boy wanting to be with a pretty girl who roped in his impulsive brother to date a shy quiet lass who never thought anyone would look at her twice.
I’m the result of a sixteen year old girl and seventeen year old boy, who put away their own fear and became parents at an age where they were just kids themselves.
I’m a mother who gave birth under the worst of circumstances, but who knew she would ok, because these are the people I came from. Strong, smart, imperfect people who love fully and who taught me that no matter what, with love and family around me, it would always be ok.
This has been my entry for therealljidol
The door slammed behind him, the sound loud and jarring as it shook the paper thin walls of their single end. Storming down the stairs and into the street, his nose scrunched up automatically as the smells of Glasgow hit him. He had been here for nearly ten years now, stepping off the boat, then bus, full of hopes and dreams. Leaving behind him, the political unrest in Ireland, an angry Da and a future filled with responsibility and accountability that at fourteen he hadn’t been ready to accept.
He had loved Glasgow, from the very beginning. The busy streets filled with hustle and noise so far removed from the green landscape of Claremorris. But he had never, ever gotten used to the smell. The cloying smell of decay and the heaviness of smog hung onto everything. It clung to your skin, appeared in mucky grey of your clothes, came through in the chesty, sickly cough of your kids.
As he pushed open the door of the pub, the smell disappeared, replaced by tobacco and sweat. He spent more time here now than he did at home. Tired of the fighting, the yelling, the screaming of four small kids and now May wanted to go and add another one. No, not wanted to, had. The quietly spoken ‘I’m pregnant’ had been the catalyst for their latest fight. He barely knew how it had happened, they didn’t touch each other anymore. The early whirlwind of romance was long gone, lost in his fourteen hour shifts and the two cleaning jobs that May fitted in around four kids under seven.
He didn’t want it, he had told her so, her look of shock and betrayal quickly flitting to disdain and anger. He was the catholic, not her. They didn’t have the money, the energy for another one. So he had decided to do what he did best, bury himself in beer and woman and go back when his bloody wife had come to her senses.
Four months later he found himself out of Glasgow, down south, surrounded by the red terraced houses of Manchester, where his wife had run off to after finding him with his latest floozy. At first he had left them to it. Rejoicing in the quiet and solitude. But he had started missing them quickly. Little Mary’s soft singing, the three boys playing ‘Sojies’ as they jumped on every available surface of the house. May’s laugh, the way she would smile as he danced her around the kitchen. He wanted his family back, wanted to be the man they believed he was.
It took three weeks, but she eventually agreed to come home, it was as they were packing their things that May’s labour started, two months early. Charles came into the world kicking and screaming. It wasn’t until later, when they were registering the birth that the full enormity hit him and he began to chuckle. His Da had stopped speaking to him when he first married ‘The Proddy’ as he called May. It would drive him round the bed when he found out the grandson that bore the family name was a ‘Damn Englishman’.
Looking over, he saw May’s besotted smiled as she looked down at their newest son. And he knew, that no matter what, they would be ok.
Glasgow 1976
She searched the room frantically, her fingers grasping under the bed desperately. Tissues, lipstick, varnish but no sign of the neatly folded piece of paper she was seeking.
“Patricia, downstairs now, you have to leave for school in five minutes.” The shout broke the silence, forced her to her feet and out the room.
She rushed down the stairs two at a time, wondering for a brief second what would happen if she slipped, tumbled down the stairs, what would happen then?
She skidded into the kitchen with the enthusiasm you can only get away with as a child, although she was currently approaching the shift. Sixteen going on seventeen, almost time to leave behind the childish things like skidding on floors in her slippy socks.
The kitchen smelled of bacon and grease and her tummy turned. But she knew that there was no way mum would let her out without eating something. She grabbed a slice of toast, heavily buttered and held it between her teeth as she pulled on her school blazer. Her mum was at the sink, already juggling the pile of dishes breakfast had left behind. For half a second the words formed in her mouth, she wanted desperately to talk to her mum. To have her stroke her hair, tell her that it was all going to be fine. A kiss from mum to make it better.
But this wasn’t a scraped knee. She looked closer and noticed the droop of tiredness in the set of her mums shoulders. Seven kids, three jobs and a husband working nightshift, yet she always made time for everyone. She knew if she just said the word, her mum would drop what she was doing and help her fix this. Her lips almost formed the words and then stopped as the front door opened. Her dad stepping in out of the morning cold, his mouth set in a grim line that lifted as he saw her.
“Morning Patsy,” he greeted her with a kiss on the cheek with chapped cold lips. Sitting down he grunted at her mum, noises taking the place of conversation. His smile now gone as he looked at his wife, searching for just the right fault to pick away at.
She sneaked out the door as she heard him start to complain about the temperature of his tea. She caught up with her sisters at the far corner, both had left before Dad came home. Both like mum used to his coldness, his disapproval. She was the only one exempt it seemed. Although she knew that would change if he found out what she had done.
She turned her mind away from the dark places it was going and into her sisters gossip. They were passing a stub of a cigarette between them and she grabbed it, taking a long slow draw and letting the nicotine seep into her system, bringing with it a sense of calm. She has started smoking three years ago, thirteen and desperate to prove how cool she was to her new friends. Then she had met Charlie and had tried to stop when he complained it was like kissing an ashtray.
She had met him through her friend Liz who was dating his brother John. Charlie had been brought along to keep Tricia occupied while John and Liz had some alone time. She had hated him at first, loud, brash and full of opinions about everything. But as the days and weeks passed she started to see a different side to him. She listened to him talk about his parents, who were even worse than hers. Her mum and dad had retreated into a wall of silence, but Charlies mum May was wild, she attacked his dad with fists, pots, knees and nails. His dad Pat was softer, a sweet Irish man who seemed to just ignore his whirlwind of a wife, but Tricia had heard the stories, of the other women, and secret kids. Not that she ever mentioned them to Charles.
Over the course of months, then years they had fallen in love. Her mum and dad didn’t like it. They thought Charlie was poor, dirty, rough. Not good enough for her. But they were wrong, she saw past the filthy house he lived in, the wild family and loud noises to the sweet loving boy underneath.
She loved Charlie, totally, completely, fiercely. She loved him enough to defy her family, something she had never done before. She was the good girl. She had none of her older sister Margaret’s wildness or her brothers sleekitness. She was quiet, well behaved, smart, studied hard. But for Charlie she had broken all the rules. Even the big one, the one she thought she never would. Freezing in place she knew then and there that it didn’t matter. That if she had Charlie, she could do anything.
Ignoring her sisters calls she ran back to the house, her heart feeling like it would burst out of her chest as she ran, her feet missing the puddles of black ice. Mustn’t slip, not now.
Barrelling through the door, she could hear her father’s heavy footsteps upstairs, good that would make things easier. Heading into the kitchen she found her mother sitting at the table.
“I’m pregnant.”
The words slipped out, as if unstoppable, inescapable. Once they were out it was like a weight had been lifted, she looked at her mother, waiting for the explosion. Watched as her mum removed a small folded piece of paper from her pocket. The lines crisp from repeated folds, the letter from the doctor, confirming the words that had just been released.
“Sit down Patricia, we need to talk.”
Taking a seat her heart started pounding again. She was sixteen, still in school and she was having a a baby. She knew it was going to be hard, knew what people would say. But then she met her mums eyes, saw the softness there, no anger, no recrimination. She wrapped her fingers into her mums palm, and she knew, no matter what, it was going to be ok.
Glasgow 2005
Wrapping my arms around the silver bar, I feel another wave of the pain creeping up on me. Gritting my teeth, I can hear the groan hissing out, almost unbidden as my body shifts and moves to deal with the pain.
My husband is standing beside me, looking for all the world like he wants to be somewhere else, the noises im making barely sound human and he looks embarrassed by the fuss I’m making. He makes the cardinal mistake of leaning down and saying that I am being really loud. I love him, more than anything in the world and at that moment I want to kill him.
I had heard stories of partners in the delivery room before, it was why in my original birth plan, he wasn’t supposed to be here. But very little of my original birth plan remained. From the moment I had screamed the words ‘I’m pregnant’ I had made so many plans. I planned a natural birth. Lots of movement, no drugs. When my son was born (we had found out it was a boy at my sixteen week scan. My husbands smile had put the Cheshire cat to shame) I would lay him on my chest for bonding. Would count out the ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes and look into the face of the baby we had longed for.
We had been trying for seven years. Years broken by the misery of miscarriage and dashed hopes. When I had finally managed to get one to stick at the ripe old age of twenty nine, it had seemed like all of our wishes had been granted.
My mum had found it strange. She thought I was a little old to be a first time mum, to be fair she had fallen pregnant with me at 16, had married and had given birth by her 17th birthday. By the time she had hit 29 she had a twelve year old, a seven year old and had passed more than a decade married.
I still felt too young, still worried that I would do everything wrong, that I wouldn’t be the mum this child I longed for needed. Up until 13 weeks I had worried about losing him, but as each week progressed past that I had never worried that I wouldn’t get to keep him. At least I hadn’t until I hit week 23 and my waters broke. Then I learned that my child at that point was not classed as a child. I held on until week 24, until he was classed as ‘viable’ and now my body was giving up on me and expelling my precious boy, sixteen whole weeks too early.
Now instead of a natural birth with my best friend, I have my hubby and what seems like fifty doctors gathered round me. Instead of soothing music, I listen to men with accents tell me just how little chance my child has of surviving. They prep me to give birth to a child who will likely not survive the night (5%). Who if he does, probably won’t come home alive (20%) and if he did would be severely disabled (65%).
I make the mistake of looking at my husband and see the fear that lies behind the request to be quieter. We are just two people, two newlyweds about to become parents to a child that likely won’t survive.
As the wave crashes over me again, I feel a sense of utter hopelessness overtake me. What’s the point. The point in all the pain, if I don’t get to have my baby. I‘m scared, more scared than I think I have ever been in my life and don’t know which way to turn.
As the helplessness and pain overtake me, I hear a different voice. Soft, soothing. My mum pushes back my hair and tells me to breathe. She tells me that everything is going to be alright and I believe her. She wasn’t supposed to be here either. She was most definitely not part of my birth plan. I love the woman but I always felt that she would tell me I was doing labour wrong and we would argue and I’d either throw her out of the room, or more likely be expelled from the room myself whilst being told to ‘think on my actions’. She wasn’t what I wanted, this wasn’t the birth I wanted.
But as I look at her, grounding myself in the worry and kindness in her eyes I realise I’m going to be ok. My mum is here and no matter what, it was going to be ok.
~*~
Where am I from? I’m a product of all of the above. I came from a wandering soul, who left his home in Ireland to start a new adventure. Who crossed the divisional lines of religious bigotry at a time where they couldn’t have been more dangerous. I got my love of the romantic from him, the idea that the next great adventure is just around the corner.
I’m a result of a quick coincidence, of a boy wanting to be with a pretty girl who roped in his impulsive brother to date a shy quiet lass who never thought anyone would look at her twice.
I’m the result of a sixteen year old girl and seventeen year old boy, who put away their own fear and became parents at an age where they were just kids themselves.
I’m a mother who gave birth under the worst of circumstances, but who knew she would ok, because these are the people I came from. Strong, smart, imperfect people who love fully and who taught me that no matter what, with love and family around me, it would always be ok.
This has been my entry for therealljidol