From Here to Maternity (13 page)

‘James,’ I interrupted, before he could dissect the entire Glaswegian team, ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine. Kinsella will prop up as well as the other fellow and you’ll win by a mile. Is pizza OK for dinner? It’s the only thing I can face eating.’

‘Fine, thanks. Too much rugby detail?’

‘You lost me at pack. You know my knowledge is limited to lineups, tries, conversion and penalties. Oh, and drop goals. I like those.’

‘I’ll shut up then.’

‘Well, I think it’s important that you switch off when you come home. Otherwise you’d be consumed by rugby.’

‘True. How’s Yuri?’

‘Fast asleep, thank God. Actually, I have a surprise for you.’ I produced a shopping-bag. James’s face fell. He hated when I bought him clothes. He was only happy in either his Leinster track suit or cords and a V-neck jumper. All of my attempts to make him more chic had ended in disaster. He refused to wear anything that wasn’t a plain colour – navy or grey were keen favourites – and comfortable. My biggest victory so far had been to persuade him to wear a beige V-neck jumper.

‘Ta-da!’ I said, holding up a mini Leinster rugby shirt. It was the smallest one they’d had in the shop and far too big for Yuri, but with the sleeves rolled up it didn’t look too bad.

James grinned. ‘My very own live mascot.’

‘My thoughts exactly. I’m going to dress him up and bring him down to the game. I tried it on him earlier and he looked as cute as a button. He’ll be your lucky charm. So you don’t need to worry about any packs or props or whatever it is you were talking about.’

The next morning, a focused James left the house early to go over match tactics and lead a final practice session. I busied myself getting Yuri ready and waited for Lucy to pick us up. It was great having her at the games with me. Going with Dad wasn’t much fun. He spent the whole time shouting at the referee – normally questioning his parenthood – or muttering about the players under his breath. He only ever spoke to me directly at half-time and then got frustrated because I couldn’t analyse the game properly, so he’d end up talking to other Leinster fans seated around us. He always said he thought Leinster was going to lose and at the end of the match when they won he’d say, ‘Didn’t I tell you they’d win?’ Lucy and I kept one eye on the match while we caught up on gossip. Afterwards she’d come into the clubhouse with me to meet the boys and have a few drinks.

Lucy was impressed with Yuri’s outfit, but when I handed him to her while I got my things together, she watched him warily.

‘It’s all right, I gave him toast and cheese for his lunch- he never throws that up,’ I said, laughing as she held him at arms’ length.

‘Thank God for that. This coat is cashmere and I’m not sure if you’d ever get vomit out.’

Twenty minutes later Lucy was still holding Yuri while I gathered nappies, yogurt, Farley’s rusks, soothers and the ever-present grey elephant.

‘Come on, Emma, we’re going to be late. How much stuff does a baby need? I thought women were high maintenance,’ she said, as I stuffed a change of clothes into the baby bag.

‘I’m ready. I think I’ve got everything.’

‘Give me the bag and take your son. He’s wriggling like a lunatic here. I think he recognizes an amateur when he sees one. He wants his mother, the pro.’

Although it was the first match of the Cup, the stadium was full. The Leinster supporters were out in force to cheer on their winning team. Lucy and I found our seats beside Dad, who was tetchy because we were late. ‘I’ve been holding these bloody seats for over half an hour.’

‘The match hasn’t even started yet,’ I said.

‘Turning up just before kick-off! You should be here for the build-up. They need all the support they can get. Glasgow are a good side,’ said Dad, with his usual pre-match pessimism.

‘Dad, you’re the one who told me yesterday that Leinster would walk this, so stop worrying. Now, say hello to your gorgeous grandson,’ I said, holding Yuri up so Dad could see his Leinster shirt.

Dad smiled and tickled him. But within seconds he was back in grim-rugby mode. ‘There’s a lot of pressure on the lads as Cup-holders. It won’t be easy.’

‘Don’t mind Granddad,’ I said to Yuri. ‘He always gets like this before a game. It’s his nerves.’

Dad ignored me and turned to focus on the match.

At half-time, Leinster were up by seven points. The team were playing really well and everyone was happy. Donal was having a great game and had scored a fantastic try in the first minute, much to Lucy’s delight. Yuri had been very quiet throughout. He seemed a bit overwhelmed by the crowds of cheering fans. I was worried that he might be frightened by the noise, but he seemed happy to gaze at the coloured scarves and waving flags.

The second half went Leinster’s way and they stormed ahead, stretching the lead to thirteen points. With ten minutes to go, Glasgow intercepted a pass and the centre ran down the middle of the field. Donal threw himself at the Scottish player and tackled him to the ground with a thud. Everyone cheered. But Donal remained on the ground, not moving. Lucy jumped up and screamed. James ran on to the pitch with the team doctor. I held Lucy’s hand as they rolled Donal over and spoke to him. He was as white as a sheet and clearly in a lot of pain. They stretchered him off.

Lucy was beside herself. ‘What do you think it is?’ she asked Dad, our rugby expert.

‘Looks bad,’ said Mr Optimistic. ‘Broken collarbone, I’d say.’

‘Oh, God,’ said Lucy. ‘Will that mean he’ll be out for the rest of the season?’

‘At least.’

‘Hold on,’ I interrupted, before we all wrote Donal off. ‘We don’t know. It could be a sprain or something. Let’s wait and see before we assume the worst.’

Lucy, Yuri and I went down to the dressing room where we found James, Donal and the doctor. Donal was lying on his back with his limp right arm resting on his chest and a bag of ice on his shoulder. Lucy kissed him. ‘Is it bad?’ she asked.

‘I’ve dislocated my shoulder again and the doc can’t pop it back. I’ll have to go to hospital to have it done there.’

‘Oh, Donal,’ she said hugging him.

‘Jesus, Lucy, I’m in agony here, don’t go hugging me now.’ He yelped as she leant on his sore shoulder.

‘Shit, sorry. Will it heal quickly?’ she asked.

The doctor shook his head. ‘It’s a bad dislocation, I’m afraid, and it’s a recurring injury. He really needs to have an operation.’

Donal was gritting his teeth. ‘I’ll be grand. I just need to get it popped back in and get some physio on it and I’ll be back playing in a few weeks’ time.’ Despite his bravado, we could see how upset he was. Even he knew he was out for the season.

Lucy went to the hospital with him in the ambulance. James, Yuri and I followed in the car. ‘How bad?’ I asked a very grim-faced James.

‘Disaster,’ he said, thumping the steering-wheel. ‘It’s over for Donal. He won’t play again, not at top level.’

I presumed James was doing a Dad on it by being over-pessimistic. ‘Oh, come on, Donal’s a big fit guy. Surely he’ll bounce back.’

‘No, Emma, he won’t. This is the third time he’s dislocated his shoulder over the last six years. The fact that the doc couldn’t pop it back is a bad sign. He’ll be out for the rest of the season anyway – his shoulder is in tatters.’

By the time we had arrived at the hospital and parked the car, Donal had been given a local anaesthetic and they had tried to reposition the shoulder – again unsuccessfully. A surgeon had been called and had told Donal that the shoulder had to be operated on if it was ever to function properly again. Donal was devastated but the surgeon said he had no choice.

Lucy had fainted during the repositioning attempt and was now sitting in a chair beside his bed, her head between her legs.

Donal smiled when he saw us. ‘Here, lads, you wouldn’t take Florence Nightingale home, would you? She’s no bloody use to me.’

‘Sod off, you big lump,’ mumbled Lucy, and lifted her head. ‘I’m going nowhere.’

‘What did they say?’ asked James.

‘They can’t get it back in position so I’ve no choice but to have the operation,’ said Donal, looking down to hide how gutted he felt. ‘I’m sorry, James, it looks like I’ll be out of action for a while.’

James went and sat beside his friend. ‘Don’t apologize, you idiot. I’m glad they’re operating on it. It’s long overdue. When you feel better, you can be my assistant coach. I could do with some help training the forwards this year. It’ll be great having you on the sidelines with me.’

Donal faked a smile. ‘Sounds good to me.’

‘OK, folks, Mr Brady needs some rest now,’ said a nurse, coming in to shoo us away. We left Lucy behind and went home. James was gutted. His friend, captain and best player was out of action.

Lucy sat on the bed and held Donal’s hand. ‘It’ll be OK,’ she said.

‘How?’ he asked. ‘My career is over. I play rugby, it’s the only thing I’ve ever been really good at. What the hell am I going to do now?’

‘Well, you could coach with James. He offered you the job.’

‘He has a coach for the forwards already – he’s just being nice. Jesus, why did this have to happen now when I’d only a year or two left?’

‘It’s not so bad. Your playing career was almost over anyway. It’s hardly even been cut short, really.’

‘If you’re trying to make me feel better, you’re doing a lousy job.’

‘Look, Donal, I know it’s awful for you, but you would have had to face the end of your rugby career soon anyway. You need to think about what you want to do with the rest of your life.’

‘I’ve only just found out that I have to have a bloody operation. Can I have a few minutes to digest the information before having to choose my new career?’

‘Fine. But don’t worry about it. I’m earning good money so you can take your time to decide what you want to do next. There’s no pressure. At least that’s a good thing.’

Donal groaned. ‘Jesus, Lucy, I don’t want you supporting me. I’m the man, I’ll bring home the bacon.’

‘Oh, get over yourself, Rambo. I’ve no intention of supporting you long-term while you sit on your arse. All I’m saying is that you can take your time to recover properly from the operation and figure out what you’d like to do, without worrying about the mortgage repayments. Now, do you want me to get you something to eat?’

Donal shook his head. ‘I’m not hungry, I’ve no appetite.’

‘Not even for a Big Mac meal?’

‘Well, I suppose I might be able to manage a few bites.’

‘That’s my boy,’ said Lucy, and kissed him. ‘It’ll be OK,’ she whispered, as she went out to get the broken athlete some comfort food.

Chapter 15

Within forty-eight hours of the injury, Donal had had key hole surgery to fix his shoulder. The surgeon was pleased with how the operation had gone, but Donal didn’t really care: his days as a rugby star were over and he had no idea what to do next.

He moved home a day later with a bag full of morphine OxyContin and anti-inflammatory tablets. His arm was in a sling and he was told to move it as little as possible for the next few weeks. After that he’d have physiotherapy and then he could resume light exercise, like swimming, eventually regaining ninety per cent of the movement in his shoulder.

Lucy had taken a few days off work – something she never did – to look after him. Donal was not a good patient. Now that the reality of his situation had sunk in, he was grumpy as hell and shuffled morosely around the house. When he complained about the pain in his shoulder, Lucy got him some pills and a glass of water. When he moaned that the couch was uncomfortable, she plumped and rearranged the pillows around him until he said grudgingly that it was better. Even though she bought him books, magazines and his favourite series,
The Office,
on DVD, he grumbled constantly about how bored he was.

Eventually Lucy hid in the kitchen and busied herself cooking him dinner – his favourite, home-made lasagne. She was not naturally talented in the culinary field and spent ages trying to get it right, following the cookbook instructions to the letter. When she served it to him, Donal poked at it with his fork.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Lucy, trying not to snap.

‘There’s too much of that white stuff on it. I prefer it with more meat and less sauce. I can’t eat it, it’s all runny. I’ll make myself some toast.’ He sighed as he struggled to get up.

‘No, you won’t. Sit there and don’t move. I’ll make it,’ said the perfect wife.

When she came back with the toast, he said there was too much butter on it. ‘I like it with just a thin layer of butter. You’ve drowned it in the stuff,’ he complained, scraping the butter off with his good hand.

‘Oh, shove it up your arse, you grumpy old fucker,’ she snapped, her patience finally running out.

‘Charming! I come home after major surgery and get roared at. Where’s my sympathy, my comfort and pampering?’

‘Pampering? I’m killing myself here to make things easier for you. I know it’s difficult, but you’d drive a saint to drink. All you’ve done so far is complain.’

‘Can a man not get a few days’ grace? I’m in agony here, so excuse me if I’m not cracking jokes and dancing jigs.’

‘I know you’re in pain and I don’t expect you to be full of the joys of spring. I just think that a positive attitude will help speed up your recovery.’

‘What difference does it make how quickly I recover? I won’t be playing rugby again regardless, so where’s the rush?’

‘Come on, Donal, stop being so negative. You’ve your whole life ahead of you. The world is your oyster – you can do anything you want now. You just have to figure out what that is.’

‘I want to captain Leinster to their second European Cup victory,’ said Mr Morose.

‘Fine. If you’re going to be like that, I’ll leave you to it,’ said Lucy, getting up and clearing the dinner plates.

‘Where are you off to?’

‘I’m going to work on a proposal I’m behind on.’

‘Now?’

‘That’s the general idea, unless you need me to wipe your brow while you sit on the couch.’

‘What’ll I do?’

‘Watch a movie, read a book, sort out your future, take a bath… I don’t know, Donal. I can’t make all your decisions for you.’