My Sister's Child Read online

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names,characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Published 2015

  by Poolbeg Press Ltd

  123 Grange Hill, Baldoyle

  Dublin 13, Ireland

  © Caroline Finnerty 2015

  Copyright for typesetting, layout, design, ebook

  © Poolbeg Press Ltd

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9781781991909

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold 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 purchaser.

  www.poolbeg.com

  About the Author

  Caroline Finnerty lives on the banks of the Grand Canal in County Kildare with husband Simon and their three young children, Lila, Tom and Bea as well as their dog Sam. As well as contributing to magazines and newspapers, she is the author of the novels In a Moment, The Last Goodbye and Into the Night Sky. My Sister’s Child is her fourth novel. You can find out more about her on www.carolinefinnerty.ie

  Acknowledgements

  To all at Poolbeg, especially Paula & Gaye for their guidance on this book and getting it onto the shelves. To my agent Sallyanne Sweeney for your support and encouragement – I’m looking forward to working on many more together.

  To Dr. David Walsh of the SIMS clinic who took the time to help me with my research in relation to donor-assisted conception and also Emma Morrow & Noelle Byrne for helping me with my midwifery questions and for sharing some of the courageous work that they do. I will put in my usual damage limitation clause here: any mistakes, liberties or inaccuracies are 100% my fault.

  A special mention must go to Annemarie McBrearty who bid on my books as part of Authors for Nepal to help raise funds for the people affected by the dreadful earthquakes. I’m delighted that together we could play a small part in assisting with the relief effort.

  To the booksellers, bloggers and librarians who put my books in the hands of readers – big, big thanks. I couldn’t do this without you.

  Also the people who pick up my books and get in touch with me afterwards. It never fails to blow me away that people actually take the time out of their lives to contact me, so thank you so very much.

  I am lucky to have made friends with some really talented writers but I have to give a special mention to the lovely Margaret Scott and Janny Peacock – thank you for all your chats and support.

  To my ladies: Rebecca, Catherine, Michelle, Carol, Camilla, Louise, Gemma, Pam and Jenny. And not forgetting all the Musical Tots mammies too, now that some of our little ones are moving on we’ll have to replace the tea with wine.

  To my family who mean the world to me: Mam & Dad, Niall & Nita, Dee, Tom – a line in the acknowledgements could never say it all but I love you. And a big special mention has to go to my in-laws Mary & Neil, who are so supportive and really go above and beyond for us all.

  Lastly, but by no means least, to my husband Simon and my children Lila, Tom & Bea, who have enriched my life in unimaginable ways. I couldn’t do it without you; you’re the best xxxx

  For my beautiful sister, Dee

  Chapter 1

  Longing

  She was dreaming of the baby again. She could still feel his weight in her arms when she woke from the dark recesses of sleep and had to look to make sure that he wasn’t really lying there in the bed beside her. She was disappointed to discover that of course he wasn’t. She felt so sure that she had been holding him this time. He had been breathing so evenly; the rise and fall of his small chest in time with her own breaths had felt so real to her. As real as the cool cotton sheets that were now brushing against her skin. His scent seemed to linger in the room and she could almost still feel his silky covering of hair underneath her fingertips.

  The baby was a boy, it was always a boy, and she wasn’t sure if it was the baby that she’d lost, the baby in her dreams. Or maybe it was David or another baby entirely. He never cried, he just slept peacefully, and she knew that it was because she was there to comfort him.

  As Isla Forde lay back against the pillows, she let herself imagine how it would feel to have him growing inside her and to know that they were joined together for life. She liked to do it from time to time. She liked to imagine how it would feel to lift him gingerly from his pram or to rub his back in rhythmic circles to bring up wind. How would it feel to be the person that he would run to if he were scared? Or to be the only one who could make it all better if he was upset?

  Was this what people meant when they said that they were longing for a baby? She had always wondered what that felt like, the longing. She had heard people describe it as a gnawing hole inside their tummies, pulling deep down into their groins, like a chain grounding them to earth that made them yearn for motherhood. She reckoned that it must be a pretty strong feeling because it had kept the human race populated for two-hundred thousand odd years depending on which side of the evolutionary debate you fell in with. Sometimes she thought she could feel it, she thought she could hear it calling her but other days she wasn’t so sure. How did you ever really know? She had watched people take the plunge and they all experienced that strange thing that happened to her sister Jo after she’d had Réiltín, where our animal instincts take over, and she wondered if it would happen to her too? She had heard people say that as soon as your baby was placed into your arms you felt a rush like no other. Her mother said that the day she brought her older sister Jo home from hospital she had sat down in her armchair feeding her infant baby from her own body and she had never felt more in touch with nature. Like everything and everyone had just slotted into its rightful place, like the way her back fitted in between the cleavage of the cushions, her first-born baby was sitting rightfully in her arms.

  Isla got up out of bed and tiptoed across the floor. She pulled back the curtain and peeked out at the clouds, which were heavy and full above the frost-tinged street below. The snow hadn’t yet arrived. She let the curtain swing back into place and went into the bathroom. Climbing over the side of the bathtub, she turned on the shower.The water pummelled against her scalp, until the skin on her chest turned red. Steam rose around her until she couldn’t see through the glass anymore. She rubbed shower gel over her body and let the water wash it away. She thought back to the dream again and she felt a shiver run down her body. It always left her disturbed for a long time afterwards. It lingered in her head and wrapped itself around her thoughts like smoke for the rest of the day. She felt as though it was trying to speak to her but what was it trying to tell her? What are you trying to say to me?

  When she came out of the shower she wiped away a circle of steam that had worked its way up along the mirror. In it, she saw her cheeks were rose pink. She brushed her teeth and swept her damp hair up into a bun. Then she dragged the black pencil-eyeliner in an arc across her eyelid and curved it upwards with a flick, before doing the same on the other side. She dressed quickly and stood back to look at her reflection in the mirror before leaning in again to slick some Vaseline over her lips.

  She threw on her parka and opened the flat
door. The usual chemical smell met her. Her small one-bedroomed flat was over a dry-cleaner’s. She hurried down the stairs to the front door and stepped outside. A cold wind sliced through her, whipping loose strands of her hair against her face. Pulling her hood up, she walked along the row of Victorian houses to where she had arranged to meet Jo. They were going for a walk along the strand before work.

  A lid of ice covered each puddle on the footpath. It gave her a childish thrill to break each one and hear the crack of ice, followed by the splash of the puddle underneath.

  When she reached the steps that were their meeting point, there was no sign yet of her older sister. She looked out over the sea wall where the slate-grey water mirrored the dark and threatening sky overhead, merging into murkiness somewhere on the horizon. The red-and-white chimneystacks of Ringsend looked hazy in the distance. Eventually she saw Jo coming with her small straw basket in her hand and her dog Oscar on his lead.

  They greeted each other and took the stone steps down to the sand where Jo unleashed Oscar and they watched as he darted off up the beach. They walked after him until Jo stopped to bend down and collect fronds of kelp, which she put into her basket. She would take them home and let them dry in the sunlight on the kitchen windowsill until they were curled and crisp, before eating them.

  “I had that dream again last night,” Isla said as Jo righted herself and they continued walking.

  “What dream?”

  “The one about the baby!” Isla said, throwing a stick for Oscar. They watched as he dug his paws into the flattened strand and tore off after the stick, scattering sand, powdery like Demerara sugar, in his wake. “It’s really strange. That’s the third time now that it’s happened.”

  “You probably were watching something about a baby on TV before you went to sleep,” Jo said dismissively as she bent down to collect some more strands of brown-green kelp.

  “But don’t you think it must mean something? I mean it’s the exact same dream every time! I’m not sure if it’s David or someone else.”

  Oscar was back, stick in mouth, with brown sand matting his shaggy grey coat. Isla took the stick and fired it onwards. He bounded along after it.

  Jo was down on her hunkers on the sand again, separating fronds of seaweed; she turned and looked up at her younger sister.

  “Honestly, Isla, you don’t have to make everything so dramatic! It’s just a dream!” Jo, who worked as a solicitor at Lawson-McBride-Williams Solicitors and who prided herself on being the very epitome of level-headedness, sighed.

  “Yeah, you’re probably right,” Isla said quickly, feeling stupid. “I always read too much into these things.”

  The sisters kept walking on until they reached the tower, which marked their turnaround point. The wind was head-on now and it pushed them back as they walked. It swirled inside Isla’s hood, ballooning it out until her ears were stinging. They didn’t bother talking, as they knew their words would be lost on the gale. They reached the bottom of the steps and climbed the well-worn slabs until they reached the top.

  “Do you want to come back for a juice or maybe a coffee?” Jo asked.

  “Nah, I better head on.”

  “Oh, I forgot to say it’s Réiltín’s birthday on Thursday –”

  “Yeah, I know – you didn’t think I’d forget it, did you?” Isla laughed.

  “No, of course not.” There was a defensive edge to Jo’s tone. “I was just wondering if you wanted to come over for dinner that evening?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Great – well, will we say around eight?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Okay, we’ll see you then – have a good day.”

  They said goodbye as a jogger swerved around them on the path, breathing out clouds of white as she ran.

  As Isla continued on to the café, she couldn’t believe that her niece was turning fourteen – the years were just flying past. She didn’t normally allow herself to think about how Réiltín had come to be; she felt it wasn’t fair to Jo. Usually, whenever the thoughts entered her head she pushed them back out again but she could never help herself on her niece’s birthday. It was always a day she found bittersweet. It was a day that made her think back over everything, especially now given her own desires to have a child.

  She rounded the corner onto St John’s Street and saw Greg, the owner of the café where she worked, putting up the sandwich board with the daily specials outside the door. He had a knitted hat pulled down over his ears and strands of his black wavy hair were poking out from underneath it. She could see his face break into an easy grin as she approached.

  Greg’s wasn’t like the newer cafés down on the waterfront, the ones that had canopies and little Parisian-style tables out the front. The ones that served boards of antipasti, paninis and bagels, macchiatos and soya-lattes, to the time-pressed workforce in the surrounding office blocks. No, it was a proper greasy-spoon café that served rasher sandwiches, beans-on-toast, egg-and-chips and that type of thing. The walls were covered with plain square white tiles and little blue-and-white gingham curtains framed the windows. Isla had been working there for nearly three years and she had yet to experience her usual itchy feet.

  “Morning, Isla,” Greg said when she got closer. “It’s a cold one today.” The lines at the sides of his clear blue eyes crinkled as he smiled.

  “It is – it’s Baltic.”

  She pushed open the door, went inside and hung her coat up in the small passageway out the back before hooking an apron over her head and coming back out front.

  It wasn’t long before the first of the day’s customers started to come in. The place soon filled up and they were kept going serving plates of food and cleaning tables off.

  Mrs O’Shea and her friend Mrs Price, two little old ladies who had been meeting there for the last twenty years, came in then. They had a habit of reminding Greg that they’d been coming there before it was even called Greg’s. They sat down and Isla served them their usual: a pot of tea and a fried breakfast for Mrs O’Shea and scrambled eggs on toast for Mrs Price.

  After the morning rush had died down and Isla started wiping down tables, she noticed a young girl sitting at a table over by the window. She was holding her baby on her knee, bouncing him up and down while he giggled heartily. She couldn’t have been any more than seventeen but Isla watched her as she cared for him ably. Even though some would argue that she was still a child herself, she knew what to do with him and it was clear to Isla that she cherished him. Was it purely instinctive, she wondered? Would she be like that too if it was her baby? She thought again of the baby in her dreams and felt a familiar tightness in her chest. The urges were getting stronger. The need to connect with something outside of herself felt more powerful than ever. She wasn’t sure if it was because of the dreams but she was feeling a longing that was like nothing she had ever experienced before. It felt like an insatiable hunger growing inside her, a hunger that wouldn’t rest. Her body ached for a baby.

  “Penny for them?” Greg said, coming up beside her.

  “Sorry, Greg, I was miles away,” she sighed.

  They made their way back over to the counter.

  “Where were you – lying on a sandy beach in Barbados or diving in the Great Barrier Reef?”

  “I was almost at the top of Everest when you interrupted me!”

  “Well, it’s cold enough, that’s for sure! You look tired, Isla . . . are you okay?”

  “I didn’t sleep very well last night.”

  “Have you stuff on your mind?” His tone was concerned.

  “No, I just keep having a really strange dream and it keeps me awake for hours afterwards.”

  “What’s it about?” Michelle asked over her shoulder as she unloaded the dishwasher. Michelle was into dream interpretations. She liked nothing more than spending a morning analysing what they had all dreamt the night before.

  “It’s just this one I keep having about a baby.” Even thinking of it now m
ade her feel unsettled. She had a heavy feeling in the bottom of her stomach, like there was a stone sitting in it.

  Greg raised his head from the till and looked at Isla with widened eyes.

  Michelle turned around and laughed. “It doesn’t mean she’s going to have a baby, love – it’s a sign of new beginnings.”

  “Really?” Greg asked, sounding disappointed.

  “Yeah, it’s a sign of something new happening in your life.”

  “We’re out of napkins,” Isla said.

  “I saw a box out the back earlier – top shelf, right-hand side,” Michelle said.

  Isla, glad of the excuse to escape for a minute, went out to the storeroom. There had been no mistaking the hopeful look on Greg’s face when he thought that she might be pregnant.

  Isla and Greg had a thing, if you could even call it that. They had been sleeping together for over a year, usually after a night out. The thing was, though, they never used protection and she was starting to wonder if maybe there was something wrong with her. Was she, at the age of thirty-eight, like the arbiters of doom also known as the medical profession would have you believe, a barren lady? Were her eggs drying up? Was she just not dropping them any more? She had thought a few months back that she might have been pregnant; she had felt light-headed and nauseous when she woke in the mornings and she didn’t get her period that month – but it was negative when she had done a test.

  She opened the door to the storeroom and scanned the shelves full of catering supplies until her eyes landed on the box she was looking for. She took it down and also grabbed a bag of wooden coffee-stirrers because she had noticed earlier that they needed to be replenished.

  “So are we going for a bite to eat at the weekend or what?” Michelle asked when she came back out front. “My mum has offered to take Jamie and I could really do with a night out.”