The Marble Collector: The life-affirming, gripping and emotional bestseller about a father’s secrets. Cecelia Ahern
The Marble Collector: The life-affirming, gripping and emotional bestseller about a father’s secrets
‘I’ve a feeling it’s a girl this time,’ Hamish says. ‘Her bump’s different.’
Hamish is serious; for all his trouble he notices things, sees things that none of the rest of us do.
‘I think you’re right,’ Mrs Lynch agrees. ‘It’s high up all right.’
‘It’ll be nice to have a girl around,’ Hamish says. ‘No more of these smelly bastards to annoy me.’
‘Ah, she’ll be the boss of you all, wait’ll you see,’ says Mrs Lynch. ‘Like my Lucy.’
‘She sure is the boss of Hamish,’ Angus mutters, and gets a boot in the stomach from Hamish. Chewed-up jam sandwich fires out of his mouth and he’s momentarily winded and I’m glad: payback for my headlock.
Hamish’s green eyes are glowing, he really does look like he wants a girl. He looks like a big softy thinking about it.
Mammy wails again.
‘Won’t be long now,’ Hamish says.
‘She’s doing a fine job,’ Mrs Lynch says, and she looks like she’s in pain just listening. Maybe she’s remembering and I feel sick thinking of a baby coming out of her.
The midwife starts chanting, as if Mammy’s in a boxing match and she’s the coach. Mammy’s squealing like she’s a pig being chased around with a carving knife.
‘Final push,’ Hamish says.
Mrs Lynch looks impressed with Hamish’s knowledge. As the eldest he’s sat through this five times; whether he remembers them all or not, he’s definitely learned the way.
‘Okay, let’s finish this before she comes out,’ Angus says, jumping up and wiping his jam face on his sleeve.
I know Angus wants to prove me wrong in front of everyone. He knows Hamish likes me and just because he’s too weak to hit Hamish, he uses me to get at him instead. Hurting me is like hurting Hamish. And Hamish feels that way too. It’s good for me but bad for the person who treats me bad: last week Hamish punched out a fella’s front tooth for not picking me for his football team. I didn’t even want to play football.
I stand up and take my place. Concentrating hard, my heart beating in my chest, my palms sweaty. I want that corkscrew.
The midwife is screaming about seeing the baby’s head. Mammy’s sounds are terrifying now. The piggy’s being slashed.
‘Good girl, good girl,’ Mrs Lynch says, chewing on her nail and rocking back and forth on the step, as if Mammy can hear her. ‘Nearly over, love. You’re there. You’re there.’
I throw the taw. It hits Duncan’s marble just like I planned and it heads to Angus’s. I want that corkscrew.
‘A girl!’ the midwife calls out.
Hamish stands up, about to punch the air but he stops himself.
My marble travels to Angus’s corkscrew. It misses but nobody’s looking, nobody’s seen it happen. Everyone is frozen in place, Mrs Lynch goes still. Waiting; they’re all waiting for the baby to cry.
Hamish puts his head in his hands. I check again. Nobody is looking at me, or my taw, which went straight past Angus’s, it didn’t even touch it.
I take a tiny step to the right but they’re still not looking. I reach out my foot and push my marble back a bit so that it’s touching Angus’s Popeye corkscrew. My heart is beating wildly, I can’t believe I’m doing it, but if I get away with it then I’ll have the corkscrew, it’ll actually be mine.
All of a sudden there’s a wail, but it’s not the baby, it’s Mammy.
Hamish runs inside, Duncan follows. Tommy grabs Bobby from the dirt and carries him into the house. Angus looks down at the ground and sees his marble and my marble, touching.
His face is deadly serious. ‘Okay. You win.’ Then he follows the boys inside.
I pick up the green corkscrew and examine it, finally happy to have it in my hand, part of my collection. These are incredibly rare. My happiness is short-lived though as my adrenaline begins to wear off and it sinks in.
There’s no baby girl. There’s no baby at all. And I’m a cheat.
‘Sabrina, are you okay?’ Eric asks me from across his desk.
‘Yes,’ I say, keeping my voice measured while feeling anything but. I have just fired my mug at the concrete wall because I missed a near-drowning. ‘I thought there would be more pieces.’ We both look at the mug sitting on his desk. The handle has come off and the rim is chipped, but that’s it. ‘My mum fired a teapot up at the ceiling once. There were definitely more pieces.’
Eric looks at it, studies it. ‘I suppose it’s the way it hit the wall. The angle or something.’
We consider that in silence.
‘I think you should go home,’ he says suddenly. ‘Take the day off. Enjoy the solar eclipse everybody’s talking about. Come back in on Monday.’
‘Okay.’
Home for me is a three-bed end of terrace, where I live with my husband, Aidan, and our three boys. Aidan works in Eircom broadband support, though it never seems to work in our house. We’ve been married for seven years. We met in Ibiza when we were contestants in a competition that took place on the bar counter of a nightclub to see who could lick cream off a complete stranger’s torso the quickest. He was the torso, I was the licker. We won. Don’t for a moment think that was out of character for me. I was nineteen, and fourteen people took part in front of an audience of thousands, and we won a free bottle of tequila, which we subsequently drank on the beach, while we had sex. It would have been out of character not to. Aidan was a stranger to me then, but he’s a stranger to that man now, unrecognisable from that cocky teenager with the pierced ear and the shaved eyebrow. I suppose we both changed. Aidan doesn’t even like the beach now, says the sand gets everywhere. And I’m trying to stay off dairy.
It is rare that I find myself alone in the house; in fact I can’t remember the last time that happened, no kids around asking me to do something every two seconds. I don’t know what to do with myself so I sit in the empty, silent kitchen looking around. It’s ten a.m. and the day has barely started. I make myself a cup of tea, just for something to do, but don’t drink it. I stop myself just in time from putting the teabags in the fridge. I’m always doing things like this. I look at the pile of washing and ironing but can’t be bothered. I realise I’ve been holding my breath and I exhale.
There are things that I need to do all the time. Things that I never have the time for in my carefully ordered daily routine. Now I have some time – the whole day – but I don’t know where to start.
My mobile rings, saving me from indecision, and it’s my dad’s hospital.
‘Hello?’ I say, feeling the tightness in my chest.
‘Hi, Sabrina, it’s Lea.’ My dad’s favourite nurse. ‘We just got a delivery of five boxes for Fergus. Did you arrange it?’
‘No,’ I frown.
‘Oh. Well, I haven’t shown them to him yet, they’re sitting in reception, I wanted to wait to speak with you first, just in case, you know, there’s something in there that might confuse him.’
‘Yes, you’re right, thanks. Don’t worry. I’ll come get them now, I’m free.’
And