I looked from the empty passenger seat back to the road.
“So, my little girl, we would have put you in the middle, between the two of us, between your mum and dad. That way we would be able to protect you from the jelly fish so that they couldn’t sting you. We would be able to see them and we would guide you away from the man o’war jellies. With Mum and Dad on either side, we would scare away the great big seals that follow us sometimes when we swim. I wouldn’t let the seals frighten you the way that they terrify me. Sometimes when we swim a large bristly face pops up beside us and is glaring us in the face – it is terrifying. Once when your dad and I were out swimming a large grey seal’s head popped up beside me. I thought it was your dad and then I realised it was a seal. I screamed and screamed and the seal just stayed there in the water and looked at me. I swam towards your dad and the seal swam beside me. That evening your dad and I sat overlooking Dun Laoghaire pier, giggling. I think that your dad was genuinely upset that I confused him for a seal.
“You know, it’s sometimes occurred to me that maybe the reason your dad and I got on so well together back then was because we swam together so much and we couldn’t talk when swimming. We swam all over the world together – we swam in Cuba off white sandy beaches fringed with palms and turquoise water, we swam through shoals of multi-coloured fish in Egypt. Then, in the evenings, we would get out the Maxi Memofish guide and identify the fish, the turtles and the coral that we’d spotted that day. We would spend hours arguing about what we saw so we didn’t have to talk about anything else. You see, Ruby, we saw the same fish because we would hold each other’s hand and with our other hand point out the marine life. We would stay in the water until our skin tingled from the salt and the sun. Eventually, we would drag ourselves begrudgingly from the sea when the skin on our fingertips was so wrinkled that it looked as though it was a few sizes too big for our fingers.”
The sat nav interrupted my story in its slight American twang: ‘Four minutes to your final destination.’
Chapter 18
My phone rang. It was not a number that I recognised. The area code was for Dublin.
“Is that Afric Lynch?” a male voice asked as soon as I picked up.
“Yes, yes, it is – how I can help you?” I responded rather sharply. I was terrified that some cold-calling sales person was going to clog up my mobile as I desperately searched for my daughter’s remains.
“This is Swift Delivery here. I have a consignment for you. I have to apologise. There’s an error notice appearing on your tracking number, saying that the consignment has been delivered – which is wrong – it’s not, I have it here in the van with me. You see,” he continued, eager to explain, “some bloody gremlins got into the Express Delivery System, which means when someone looks on the computer to look for their package, they receive a wrong message. For some bloody reason they’re receiving a message saying: ‘Consignment delivery complete. Consignment number closed off.’ So, missus, I really apologise. Sure isn’t the reason most people use this online service to be able to trace their delivery, so that they don’t have to spend all day home waiting for their package. Now, Áine . . .”
I didn’t bother to correct him.
“. . . can you tell me what your consignment number is and your full name and address?”
“Just one moment, please – can you please hold for a second – I’m driving.”
I indicated to move into the left lane. A huge haulage truck whizzed past me as I tried to manoeuvre the car onto the left shoulder and the car vibrated as it went by me. I hated this bloody monster of a car! What in the hell did he need a car this bloody size for, just for the two of us?
The car ground to a halt on the hard shoulder.
“Are you still there?” I asked eagerly.
“Yes, I am, I’m here.”
“What do you need? An address, is it?”
“Yes, your postal address and the consignment number that you received from the person that sent the consignment, if you have it handy?”
I grabbed my phone. “Right – the consignment number is AER33456/9, the address is Afric Lynch, Apartment 1, Coliemore Road, Dalkey, County Dublin.”
“Thanks . . . A-f-f-rick . . . I think that I just rang your doorbell. I think I’m outside the house. Is yours the one with the large bright yellow door? You see, I came here directly from the airport and stopped here first on the way to Bray. God, isn’t it a great day to be –”
“Oh no, you’re not at the apartment, are you?” I interrupted him mid-sentence.
I didn’t know whether to be furious with him for the mess-up with the delivery or to thank him profusely for having brought my daughter home.
“Yes, I am.”
“Well, actually I’m on the way to your depot in Tallaght. I’ll be there at the depot in a few moments. I thought that maybe the consignment might have been there, so I rushed out to collect it – so I’m not home.”
“Sorry about that, missus, sorry for the mix-up. I’m really sorry, missus – there’s a problem with the bloody system today, as I said. Can I leave the package with one of your neighbours? Is there someone that I can get to sign for it, someone nearby that might take it?”
I froze. I was speechless and horrified at the thought of leaving my precious package with some random neighbour that I didn’t even know. They would just sign for her and then fling her into a corner, not giving her the respect she deserved. Now that would hardly be the proper welcome home for my daughter, to be left with someone that she didn’t know – bad enough that she had to travel all that distance on her own. Worse than that, her mother did not know how she got back to Ireland. Jesus, what if Luke asks how Ruby got home? And now the delivery man, unintentionally, was making my daughter’s homecoming sound so transactional.
“No, there’s no one that can sign for it.” My voice had begun to shake. I took a deep breath, steadied my voice and said: “I am the only person that can sign for it.”
There was silence on the phone. It was a potential standoff between him and me. The man whose name I did not even know.
“Well, missus, I’m not sure what we can do in that case, if there is no one home.”
“I can wait here at the depot until you get back,” I offered, eager to find an instant solution. You will be coming back here to the depot?”
“But, you see, I have another package to deliver to Bray so I need to go there first, before I come back to the depot. You see, there were three express deliveries that came in on a flight from London this afternoon.”
The thought of my daughter moving farther and farther away from me, when she was just outside the house, began to upset me. “Is there nothing else you can do, to get my parcel to me?”
“Well, missus, I could try to deliver it again on my way back from Bray – that would be in an hour or so.”
“I don’t know, I don’t know, maybe . . . will it be safe till then, do you think?” I enquired anxiously.
“Of course it will be! I have it here beside me on the passenger seat,” he said, sounding a bit offended. “Sure ’tis only a small box, well wrapped up, all sealed with Sellotape. It has ‘Fragile, handle with care’ written all over it, so when I saw that, with nothing in the back of the van, I put it here on the seat beside me. I didn’t want it banging around in the back and getting damaged.” He was clearly happy with his logic.
“You won’t leave it unattended, will you, at any stage, do you promise?” I asked, my voice quivering.
“No, missus, no, missus, it will be as safe as houses with me, I promise.”
He sounded puzzled. He had obviously tuned in to my desperation.
I couldn’t bear the thought of my daughter sitting in the passenger seat beside some stranger. I squeezed my fists hard until my nails hurt my palms. I stared directly ahead. This time there was no stopping the tears; they streamed down my face.
“What’s your name?” I managed to ask between stifled sobs.
“Mi
chael is my first name. Michael Thompson,” he replied.
I took a deep breath and sobbed, “You see, Michael, that is my daughter that you have in that brown package. That is my little angel that has come home to me. Those are her ashes in that box, so please be very careful. That is why you must not leave it with the neighbours. I must have that package – it’s all that I have to remember her by. I want my baby angel back with me, not with some stranger. I’m afraid that you will lose her. Please be careful, very careful with my little Ruby.” Somehow through my sobs I had managed to get it all out, to get my desperation and heartache across.
“Ah, Jaysus, missus, I am so sorry, ah fuck, that is terrible, fucking terrible, sorry, missus, I didn’t mean to swear – that is shocking, just shocking, I am so sorry, so sorry. What do you want me to do?” His thick Dublin accent was full of emotion, his voice lower now, softer.
I could tell I had ruined his Friday.
“Are you there, missus, are you there?”
“Yes, I’m here,” I sobbed gently.
“What happened to her, missus? I hope you don’t mind me askin’ n’ all?” His tone was gentle and soothing.
“She died, she was sick – she had a fatal foetal abnormality, she was incompatible with life – there was no hope – no future for her – and she died in Liverpool. So they put her in a box and sent her back to us. That was the only way of getting her home to us – with Swift Delivery. So my little angel girl came home in a box all wrapped up and all alone.”
“Is your fella with you, missus? I mean, are you on your own? I don’t mean to be askin’ personal types of questions, but I mean is he with you now? Is there someone with you now? I just want to know you’re okay?”
Eager to assure him I would be okay, I replied, “No, he’s away on business but he’ll be back later today.”
“Right so, Áine, sorry, it’s not Áine, is it? ’Tis an unusual type of a name, what is it?” He was clearly rattled by now.
“Afric, my name is Afric, like the continent. Just take the A out of the Africa, the last A, I mean, and you have it: Afric. Though it has nothing to do with Africa, in fact.” I was happy to finish the conversation on a more positive note.
“Right so, I’ll do the other delivery out in Bray and stop on the way back. You’ll be home by then, won’t you?”
“Yes, yes, I will.”
“I’ll make it as quick as I can – I’ll be back in about forty-five minutes. I’ll give you a shout when I get back.”
“Thanks, thank you, Michael, and take care of my angel. You won’t leave her alone in the van, sure you won’t?”
“No, missus, I won’t. I’ll take good care of her. She’ll be safe with me.”
“Good, good, see you very soon.”
I hung up, weak with relief. My head flopped against the head-rest. I tilted the rear-view mirror, so I could see my eyes, and with my middle left finger I gently removed the mascara stains from my lower eyelids. I had got made up to greet my visitors.
My phone flashed. It read: two missed calls. I pressed the centre button and it read Luke. I pressed it a second time and again his name popped up. I stared at the screen, stunned for a few seconds, still trying to compute the conversation with Michael.
No need to call Luke, I thought. He was just doing what he used to do when we first met. Back then, he would call from London and say: “Two hours and I’ll be in your arms, holding you.” It used to make it my heart flutter – it made me all gooey inside. But today was not the day for this. I had less than two hours to locate my daughter, get home and prepare myself for Luke’s arrival. And rehearse my pitiful explanation.
I was also terrified that he would pick up from my tone that there was something seriously the matter. I chose not to return his calls.
My mind flitted back to the conversation with the Swift Delivery man. He must think me terrible, an awful person for abandoning my daughter in Liverpool, I thought. What kind of a mother would allow that to happen, to let her innocent daughter travel home all on her own? What would he tell his wife that evening? Of course he would tell her, of that I was sure.
I bet that in future he would wonder what was in every box he delivered. When he saw packages the same size and weight as Ruby’s, he would wonder if they were another heartbroken woman’s child’s ashes.
The wife would get it. She would explain it to him, and she would explain that Ireland is not the place to have a fatal foetal abnormality, that a woman in Ireland is forced to see such a pregnancy through to the bitter end. She would tell him that the baby had no chance of survival outside the womb, that it was incompatible with life. She might say it was sad that the girl had to go to England – and then come home and have to tell lies – she might say it was not Christian – and she might say ‘And, you know, Michael, they probably wanted that baby more than winnin’ the lotto.’ I was sure if she was Michael’s wife she was the salt of the earth.
I wondered if he, Michael, had ever heard this term ‘incompatible with life’ before. She would work it out for him and then, when they thought they had all the elements of the story, they would proceed to judge me. Decide then whether they felt sorry for me, if what I did was right and wrong. Would Michael still feel compassion for me after he had spoken to the wife? Maybe like most humane people he would feel even worse for me. Maybe he too would be furious with the system, with the country, maybe he would think that it is terribly inhuman, a cruel place to live, not only corrupt but brutal too.
At least he’d have a new story for the pub. I pictured him with his mates. I visualised him as a measured decent man. He would sit in the same spot in the same pub where he was part of the furniture. He would maybe have three, at the very most four pints. The same men would always sit in the same seats in the same area. I thought that maybe tonight he might opt for the four-pint option. I wondered how he would communicate the story to the lads. Would it be through a series of interconnected grunts, like a series of short statements but when all knitted together they tell a story? Or would there be a prolonged address to the gathered men? All huddled and drooped over a pint of Guinness, would he tell a heartfelt story about a woman and a box that came in the post?
I hoped in my daughter’s honour that he would tell a compassionate account of a heartbroken woman frantically looking for her daughter’s ashes. Would they deduce from the story the barbaric nature of this godforsaken island? Then of course there would be an intense debate – or maybe not. Would there be an increase in grunting, or would the mumbling just be faster than usual, or be more joined-up than usual?
Or maybe it might all be too much for them and they would sit there in stony silence. Yes, maybe silent nodding would happen, without any grunting or mumbling. They might just sit there in total silence, a silence like when you honour the dead.
Then they would all look toward the telly in the corner to save them from this emotional minefield. They would be saved by the repeat of an earlier GAA match. They would all order a fourth pint, by way of condolence, a way of showing solidarity, and they would all head home eventually to their respective wives, safe in the knowledge that such a topic would never be allowed airtime again. Their wives would ask them if there was anything new in the pub, and they would mumble something below their breath – no news, they would respond. They would have been in the dangerous perilous land of emotions, a place where the average Irish male would never want to visit.
I had to compose myself. I wiped the tears from inside my pink sunglasses so that they were no longer steamed up. I blew my nose very hard as if trying to rid my body of my sadness. I punched in Coliemore Road and turned his car around.
Chapter 19
I looked at the digital clock on the dashboard. It read: 16.33. By five thirty I would be safely reunited with my daughter. I took the M50 that headed south; I would leave the M50 at the Blackrock exit.
Luke would be home later. I would need to muster up as much courageous energy as possible for him.
> Would he rush in to hug me? Would it be at that moment when he pulled me tight against him that he would learn about the loss of his child or would it be sooner – would he know at a first glance? What would I say, what should I say? I wondered if he would ask for the details immediately. Of course he would. His first question would be simply what, followed by how and then why – why didn’t you tell me? I would have to tell him, straight away. He would want to know every detail of what actually happened. I understood this. He would be devastated by our loss, utterly devastated, because underneath the perfectionist, he was a big softie, behind those islands of freckles was a good kind man, trying to do the best for his family and if that meant long stints away, then that was what he had to do to deliver the goods.
As I drove along the M50 I admitted to myself that Luke was the one who had been more excited about the pregnancy. It had always formed an integral part of his life plan. I was much less enthused about expecting our child. It was not so big on my agenda and I had adopted the philosophy that if it was meant to be it would happen. This irritated him a little but he was careful not to comment on it, for fear I thought that he was pushing his own agenda, which I did.
I was pregnant for him. I had hoped that a little person in the house might eradicate his tendencies to slip into deep sadness. I had hoped that he might forget those dark times, that a third person in the house would be a distraction from his melancholy.
But I hadn’t reckoned on my own melancholy. All the people supposedly in the know said that “the blues” were connected to the hormones. I didn’t care to count how many people had told me not to worry, that it was a “just the hormones” and that it would pass. The dreaded hormones only raged during the first trimester, they insisted. They said that the blues would pass along with the morning sickness. It would all pass and then I would be blissfully happy – “blooming” they all said so confidently. But the only blooming I was, was going blooming crazy.
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