Noah and the Noise
Darragh lasted exactly seven minutes after the group before trying to leave.
Seven minutes of polite clapping, a few nods, one biscuit he didn’t remember taking but somehow ate anyway. Seven minutes of listening to other people talk about routines and rewards and “self-regulation” while his brain quietly screamed that he had to get to the dockyard or he’d lose the overtime.
When Niamh wrapped things up – gentle, tidy, like she was putting the hour back in its box – he was on his feet before half the others.
“Thanks,” he said, already edging towards the door. “That was… yeah. Grand.”
She looked at him properly then, not just the quick professional scan she gave everyone when they came in. Her eyes were greener than he’d noticed before, a sharp, clear kind of green that made you want to sit up straighter.
“No bother,” she said. “You got what you needed?”
He almost laughed. What he needed was Aisling back and a bigger house and a four-day week. What he’d got was a mug of tea, a handful of strangers’ stories, and the strange feeling that if he’d opened his mouth, something might have fallen out he couldn’t pick up again.
“Yeah,” he said instead. “Free biscuits, anyway.”
“That’s half the battle,” she said. “The rest we do slowly.”
He nodded, non-committal, and made his escape before she could ask him how he was feeling. Feelings were for later, when the kids were asleep and the house went quiet and there was no one to see him crack a bit around the edges.
Out in the corridor, he checked his phone. Three missed calls from his sister, two texts.
Siobhán: Ring me ASAP
Siobhán: Don’t panic but Noah’s teething and I might kill your child
He called her back, heart giving that automatic lurch it did every time something mentioned one of the kids and “don’t panic” in the same breath.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” she said, sounding frazzled. “Everything is just very… loud.”
He could hear it through the phone – Noah’s outraged wail in the background, the kind of full-body scream only a toddler in a mood could manage.
“It was no bother last night,” she snapped. “This morning my manager rang and asked me to cover a shift because someone decided Tuesday was optional. I’m already dropping the big two to school and trying to get to work and your fella has turned into a siren in a babygro.”
Darragh scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m at the centre. I can be home in ten, fifteen—”
“You can’t, boy, you’ve work,” she cut in. “And before you start, I’m not saying quit the job and live on vibes and Child Benefit. Listen.”
There was a rustle as she moved the phone. Noah’s crying surged, then dipped, then surged again, like waves hitting the quay wall.
He thought of the main room he’d just left. The flipchart. The circle of chairs. Niamh’s steady voice telling everyone they weren’t meant to do it all on their own.
“We don’t have childcare like that,” he said slowly. “It’s just… groups. Talking.”
“You don’t need childcare,” she said. “You need to not lose your mind. I’ll be outside in five. If she throws us out, she throws us out. At least someone else will have heard him roar.”
She hung up before he could argue.
Darragh stood there, staring at the FAMILY RESOURCE CENTRE sign on the office door. He could go back in and ask. He could also turn around, walk away, and pretend this whole morning had never happened.
Outside, a panel van splashed through a puddle, sending a spray over the footpath. The sky had settled into a solid grey sulk.
He went back down the corridor.
Niamh was in the main room, stacking chairs along the wall. She looked up as he appeared in the doorway, eyebrows lifting.
“Forgot something?”
“Yeah,” he said, shoving a hand through his hair. “My mind.”
Her mouth twitched. “That happens.”
“My sister’s on the way,” he blurted, before he could talk himself out of it. “With Noah. The baby.” As if she’d know his kids’ names. “He’s… ah… he’s having a day of it. She has to get to work. Is there any chance…”
He trailed off, because now that he was saying it out loud, it sounded mad. What was he asking? That she hold the child while he legged it to the dockyard? That she fix teething with a diagram and a leaflet?
“Any chance we could park him here for a bit?” he finished, wincing. “I can pay. Or send biscuits. Or—”
“Darragh,” she said softly. “Breathe.”
He did, reluctantly. The air tasted of lemon disinfectant and tea and the faint tang of poster paint.
“We’re not a crèche,” she said. “I can’t officially promise you childcare. But there’s a corner in the office with some toys, and I have to be here all morning catching up on paperwork and pretending I enjoy email. If your sister wants to drop him in for an hour or two so she can make her shift and you can go to work without your heart crawling up your throat…” She shrugged. “We’ll manage. We always do.”
“You’d do that?” he asked, thrown by how casual she made it sound.
“This place only works if we mind the grown-ups and the smallies,” she said. “You’re not the first family to juggle like this. You won’t be the last.”
“If anyone says ‘teething gel’ to me today, I’ll bite them myself,” she announced, then caught sight of Niamh. “Oh. Hiya. Sorry. I’m not usually this feral.”
“You’re grand,” Niamh said. “We like feral. Keeps the place interesting. That must be Noah.”
Noah did not appreciate being discussed. His little face was blotchy with tears, curls stuck to his forehead with sweat. He took one look at Niamh and let out another roar, as if to prove a point.
“Sorry, love,” Siobhán said over the noise. “He’s been like this since half six. Darragh said you might… that there might be something…”
Niamh moved slowly, like she was approaching a wild animal that might bolt. She held out her hands, not taking Noah until Siobhán shifted him willingly towards her.
“Hey, sweetheart,” she said, voice dropping into a low, soothing register. “You’re having an awful time of it, aren’t you?”
Noah hiccup-sobbed, suspicious. Niamh kept talking, nothing fancy, just a steady stream of nonsense and comfort.
“I know, I know. Teeth are a terrible idea. If I ever meet whoever designed them, we’ll have words. You’re wrecked. It’s very hard being small and important.”
Something in her tone – warm, amused, utterly unbothered by the volume – slid under Noah’s outrage. His cries faltered. His eyes, huge and damp, locked onto her face.
“That’s it,” she murmured. “You tell me all about it.”
She tucked him onto her hip like she did it every day, bouncing him gently, hand rubbing his back in firm, sure circles. Within thirty seconds, the roar had turned into a grumbly whine. Another thirty, and he was still hiccuping but mostly watching her, lower lip trembling.
Darragh stared.
“He doesn’t usually…” He gestured helplessly. “Stop. When he gets going.”
“Different house, different rules,” Niamh said. “Sometimes they just need a new audience.”
Noah made a tiny, questioning sound. Niamh hummed under her breath, some tune he couldn’t place. The baby’s head dipped towards her shoulder, as if that voice was a pillow.
“Traitor,” Siobhán muttered, half-relieved, half-offended. “I’ve been pacing the kitchen like a lunatic all morning and you settle for a stranger.”
“I’m very charming,” Niamh said. “It’s my curse.”
She looked at Darragh over Noah’s curls.
“If you’re all right with it, he can hang out with me for a while. We’ll do a few laps of the office, argue with my inbox, see if we can get a nap out of him. You can pick him up on your dinner break.”
His instinct was to say no. To say it was too much, that she was busy, that they’d manage somehow like they always did. Pride and fear and gratitude tangled in his chest, choking him.
“Please say yes,” Siobhán said. “I’m already late and if I ring in again they’ll start making faces about reliability.”
He swallowed hard.
“Yeah,” he said. “Okay. If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” Niamh said. “Worst case, we all cry and eat biscuits. It’ll hardly be the first time.”
He huffed out something that might have been a laugh.
“Right.” Siobhán leaned in and kissed Noah’s head. “Be good for the nice lady, okay? Don’t bite her. That’s my job.”
“You’re some advertisement for the family, you,” Darragh muttered.
She squeezed his arm, quick and fierce. “You’re doing great, you know that?”
He snorted. “Yeah. I’m flying it.”
She rolled her eyes and legged it, the door banging behind her.
For a second, it was just him and Niamh and Noah and the sound of the urn gurgling to itself in the kitchenette.
“I’ll—” He pointed vaguely towards the exit. “I’ll go so. Before I change my mind.”
“Good plan,” she said. “I’ll give you a ring if he starts plotting a coup.”
He nodded, throat tight, and turned to go.
“Darragh?”
He looked back.
“You’re not mad to ask,” she said quietly. “Just so you know. This is exactly what we’re for.”
He didn’t trust himself to speak. So he just gave a short, awkward nod and fled before he did something stupid, like cry in front of her.
***
By three o’clock, the house of Kavanagh was on the move again.
He parked two streets away from the primary, because Cork and parallel parking had an understanding – he wouldn’t attempt it, and the city wouldn’t laugh at him. Noah snored softly in his car seat, worn out from his big morning. When Darragh had collected him from the centre at lunchtime, the child had been mid-giggle, banging a plastic block on Niamh’s desk while she pretended to be outraged.
“You survived,” she’d said. “And he’s a fan of my filing system.”
Now, as he unbuckled the baby and hoisted him onto his hip, Noah’s head flopped against his shoulder with boneless trust.
“Come on, soldier,” Darragh murmured. “Operation Collect The Rest of Ye.”
The street outside the school was its usual circus: cars double-parked, buggies weaving between legs, kids exploding out of the gates like confetti. The air smelled of wet tarmac, exhaust, and whatever the chip van at the corner was selling today.
He spotted Maeve first. Seven years old going on solicitor, schoolbag nearly the same size as her, hair escaping its plait in defiant curls. She was holding Finn’s sleeve in a grip that said she knew exactly how likely he was to leg it into traffic if given half a chance.
Finn, four and built like a small tank, was mid-rant about something, hands flying as he talked. One of the twins – Aoife, he thought, unless it was Cian; he’d worked it out from the hair clip earlier but his brain was gone – was hanging off the railings like a monkey. The other twin was solemnly showing a drawing to a very unimpressed seagull.
“Troops,” Darragh called. “Over here.”
Five heads snapped round. A chorus of “Daaaaad!” rose above the general din. They barrelled towards him in a knot of jumpers and lunchboxes.
“Stay on the path,” he said automatically, shifting Noah higher on his hip. “I don’t have time for A&E today.”
“Miss said my reading is excellent,” Maeve announced, before he could ask. “I’m on the hard books now.”
“I fell off the yard wall,” Finn said proudly. “Twice.”
“That’s not exactly a goal, Finn,” Darragh said. “You all right?”
“I landed on my bum.”
“Grand so.”
The twins appeared at his knees, one on each side, chanting, “Snack? Snack? Snack?” like a pagan ritual.
“Hi, Daddy,” Aoife added as an afterthought.
“Hi, pet. It’s lovely to see the priority is food.”
“It’s always food,” Cian said philosophically.
Somewhere in the scrum, someone tugged his sleeve. He looked up and saw Niamh by the gate, hi-vis vest over her coat, helping a smaller child wrestle with a zip.
Of course she was here. Of course the city was small enough that his worlds overlapped at three o’clock on a Wednesday.
“Afternoon, Kavanagh,” she called. “You’ve collected half the school, fair play.”
“Other half’s on back order,” he said. “They said I could collect them at Leaving Cert.”
Maeve eyed Niamh with the frank suspicion of a child who’d learned that any adult with a clipboard might ask questions.
“Are you the lady from the leaflets?” she demanded.
“I might be,” Niamh said. “Depends if the leaflet was nice about me or not.”
“It said you help families,” Maeve said. “Daddy put it on the fridge under the magnet that looks like a pint.”
Traitor, Darragh thought, but there was a sting of pride there too.
“That sounds like me,” Niamh said. “I’m Niamh. I met your dad today and your brother.” She nodded at Noah, who had woken up enough to be staring at her, thumb hovering near his mouth. “He was a very hard worker in the office.”
“He’s a baby,” Finn said, unimpressed. “He just drools and bites things.”
“Same could be said for some of the lads at the dockyard,” Darragh muttered.
Niamh laughed, the sound warm enough to cut through the damp. Noah blinked, then made a soft, pleased noise, reaching one chubby hand in her direction.
“See?” she told him. “You know quality when you hear it.”
Darragh felt something in his chest loosen, just a fraction. Watching his smallest lean towards her voice like it was a lighthouse in a busy harbour did things to his equilibrium he wasn’t ready to name.
“Right,” he said gruffly. “Say thanks and goodbye now. We’re blocking the whole footpath.”
“Thank you,” Maeve said automatically.
“Bye,” Finn added. “Can we have chips?”
“That’s not how manners work,” Darragh said. “And no, there’s stew.”
The collective groan was loud enough to make a passing parent laugh in sympathy.
“Stew is just soup with ambition,” Niamh said. “You’re lucky.”
“See?” Darragh said. “Back-up. I’m keeping her.”
He meant it as a joke. Mostly.
She smiled, softer this time.
“See you, Darragh,” she said. “Any hassles, you know where we are.”
He herded his brood away from the gate, a moving tangle of limbs and complaints and small hands grabbing for his free one. As they turned the corner, Noah twisted to look back over his shoulder.
Niamh lifted her hand in a little wave.
Noah, traitor that he was, waved his own fist in vague imitation, then tucked his head back against Darragh’s chest, utterly content.
“Yeah,” Darragh murmured into his curls, more to himself than anyone. “You’re not wrong, kid.”
He didn’t know what this was yet – this woman with the steady voice and the daft flipchart slogans and the way his son went quiet when she talked. He didn’t have room in his head for anything new, not really.
But as he marched his noisy, infuriating, beloved crew down the hill, the city humming around them, he realised something that lodged under his ribs and refused to move.
For the first time in a long time, the idea of the house being full didn’t just feel like a job to survive.
It felt, faintly, like a future.