“Agh, missus, great news, great news altogether.” He had by now given up on tackling my name. “After I spoke to you, while I was parked up in front of the gate, a fella with spiky hair and a face full of freckles frightened the bejaysus out of me. He tapped on the passenger window. You know, I was just getting over the shock of talkin’ to you n’all. So I rolled down the window and the fella with a foreign accent asked me if I was trying to deliver to Apartment 1, the upstairs apartment, just now?” He paused. “Are you still there, missus?”
“Yes, yes, I am – what did he say?”
“Well, I told him I was Michael Thompson from Swift Delivery. I told him that I had a consignment for Afric Lynch, that I was just talking to her and she was on her way back now to sign for it. And then, the fella, your fella said ‘I’m her husband Luke Lynch’ and he offered to sign for it, so that I didn’t have to come back again. To be honest, missus, I found his accent a bit like hard to understand. He said he didn’t want to bring me back on such a lovely day, I think that is what he said. Then I told him what I told you, that I was going to do a quick delivery to Bray and that you, his missus, said that you was the only one to sign for it, that’s what I told him. I told him that I would keep it safe until it was delivered to you. I told him that I had promised you and that I was a man of my word. I dunno if he understood what I meant.”
I could tell from Michael’s tone of voice that he wanted to be praised for doing the right thing.
“Your fella muttered something about shoes, but again, missus, I could only catch half of what he said – something like you need more shoes when you’re pregnant, bigger feet ’n all. He seemed in a kind of rush – he said he had just got home early from somewhere and he needed to shower. He said he would sign for it. Then he got a bit rattled when I asked him to show me some ID. I told him it was company policy, not my policy. All the time I was remembering what you told me about keeping the package safe. I was only doing my best. I told him that was what big companies were like, all bloody rules . . .” Michael’s voice tapered off. “I said to him about a household bill, to get one with both your names and then I could give him the package. He seemed a bit annoyed but I didn’t care – I had given you my word, so he came back down with one, a bill addressed to Mr and Mrs L Lynch and his driving license. Then he signed the form and I gave him the small brown-paper package. He thanked me, told me it was a beautiful day, then missus I thought about saying sorry for your trouble, but the words just would not come out. I dunno what happened but I lost me voice. Then he went back in through the yellow door, and that was it. Is that okay, missus, is it?”
“Thank you, thank you, Michael, for getting the package safely to me – thanks.”
“Not at all, missus, and sorry for your trouble.”
Michael was gone.
The kids had by now tired of the entertainment of flinging themselves off the rock. The summer tide was filling up quickly and early-evening bathers arrived with their worn towels rolled in a ball and tucked under their arms.
There was another text, another from Luke: Please Afric please come home, please come home and tell me what happened. Tell me you are okay, that is all that is important.
I drove along by Bullock Harbour. As the tide was incoming many of the boats with the painted names were out fishing, gone to get an evening catch, and the harbour looked sad without them.
Now, I imagined Luke in the apartment pacing the beige carpet in a circular motion, talking to himself, calming himself for my arrival, awaiting the news, the Liverpool news whatever that might be. He would be looking out of our bedroom window onto the pavement below, sitting or standing there, waiting and watching for the car, for to me to arrive. I guessed he would have looked out at Howth Head and onto the lighthouses, maybe for some guidance, desperate in search of an answer, scolding himself, blaming himself for whatever went wrong, though he was not quite sure what it was yet.
By now he would have convinced himself that the credit-card authorisation text he received was just an error. He would have called them, I guessed. Now he probably would be talking to some guy in a call centre for Amex in a third world county. Being incredibly polite and professional but firm, he would tell them that they had keyed in a wrong digit, he would tell them that it could easily happen to anyone. He would assure them that when they are sending literally hundreds of thousands of credit-card text confirmations for security reasons mistakes would happen.
I pulled the car in below the window of the apartment. I lined up the back wheel perfectly against the pavement edge, on my first attempt. I could feel the glare of his accusing eyes from above, from the window. I did not look up.
I took the keys out of the ignition and reached across to the passenger seat that was empty: on it was only my pink-and-cream handbag. I reached into my bag and took out my phone. It read: 1 missed call.
It would have been from him. I placed the phone safely away into the side pocket of my bag. Then I zipped it shut. It was too late now for chat.
I began to walk slowly away from the car, towards the apartment. My footsteps crunched on the gravel. I climbed the stairs slowly and gently opened the door to the apartment. I walked into the hall and through to the living room. I dropped my handbag on the cream carpet next to the blood-red sofa, below the high cherry-coloured walls.
There on the table was the brown-paper package and an A4 document. Beside them were three tiny yellow babygros with elephants on them. They would have come from China. He would have chosen yellow, not knowing if it was a boy or girl, and because yellow in China is considered an important colour. It symbolizes good luck, it is considered a prestigious and beautiful colour, it is held in high esteem.
I walked to the table, and very gently with the tips of the fingers of my left hand I caressed the rough brown-paper packaging that was covered in clear Sellotape. Its contents were marked ‘Fragile, handle with care’.
I picked it up in both hands.
Then I heard the chair of my desk, the one in our bedroom, creak. I turned around. Luke was standing in the doorway, staring at me.
“Jesus, where the hell have you been? I’ve been worried sick about you, out of my mind worried. I don’t know how many times I’ve tried to call you – I even called Sue – what has happened, what is going on? Afric, are you okay? What’s the matter? Is the baby okay?”
Slowly, I placed the brown-paper package back on the table. I walked towards him and into his arms. He held me tight, very tight. He gave me one of those bone-crusher hugs.
We held each other so tightly that I feared my blood might stop. I lay my head on his chest. I was in his arms, in the safest place in the world.
I pulled back a little from him and looked in his eyes.
“I am so sorry, Luke, so sorry. Our baby is gone, she is gone forever. She was very sick, she would never have had any life, she would never have lived. They told me she was incompatible with life, that she would never live outside the womb.”
I could see the growing horror on his face.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you. I had to do it, to do it alone. I didn’t want to hurt you. That is why I went to Liverpool, just me and her so that we didn’t hurt you. Please, please, forgive me. I was trying to protect you from yourself, from those dark moments. I didn’t want those sad times to take you from me too. I could not bear to have lost you both. Please understand.”
I held his face firmly in my hands and looked into his deep chocolate eyes.
He pulled away from me. “Oh no, Afric, not our little baby. No, please don’t say our future is gone. That is all I have ever wanted, our own flesh and blood – say it isn’t true, Afric?”
Then he howled and howled like a wounded wild animal. His wails had a familiar ring to them – they were just like the ones that invaded my mind and body four days earlier. I knew his pain, his sadness and disbelief. His howls, after what seemed a lifetime, turned to gentler sobbing and I reached out and held his face cupped in my hand
s for a very long time, as with my thumbs I tried to dry the tears that rolled down his cheeks.
“Shh, Luke. Shh, Luke. She was very sick, too sick for this world,” I whispered. I traced my index finger along his lower lip, over the freckles, and kissed him tenderly.
“Afric, I am so sorry. I am so sorry you had to do this alone, sorry I was not there for you. Afric, you are my world. I love you to bits.”
Then, he wiped the tears from my cheeks and kissed me tenderly on the forehead.
We held each for a very long time, until our limbs hurt from hugging each other. My tears soaked the black hairs on his chest; they hung there like dew on a winter’s morning.
I took him by the hand and led him to the living room.
“Luke, it is time to meet your daughter, to meet her for the first time. She is beautiful, so beautiful – it’s just that she was not for this world. You know, the nurse said she looked like me, that she had my cheekbones but she definitely had your long legs. She got the best bit of us both. She was really fucked up but so beautiful at the same time. Will I tell you all about her one day on earth? We both did the best we could. She wore a blue outfit with an elephant on it – oh Luke, our daughter was so sick!”
Then I took him by the hand and led him to the kitchen. I picked up the large kitchen scissors, and went back to where the brown-paper package lay.
Carefully, I cut through the Sellotape and layers of brown-paper packaging and through the consignment number.
There, beneath the high ceiling and crimson walls we held each other once again, only this time with a solid wooden urn between us. We hugged one another so hard that the corners of her box dug into our flesh.
The dark handcrafted wooden box had a gold plate that read:
Baby Ruby Lynch
Died 11th June 2013
Rest in Peace
W00013506
Our daughter had come home to us. We were now parents of an angel, called Ruby. Ruby was now in her own box, not in a glass one like at the hospital. She would stay in her own box now, there on the mantelpiece like some ornament that you might bring back from your holidays and admire.
From there she would watch over us, forever.
The End
Acknowledgements
To Paula Campbell for taking a gamble on a controversial novel and for your terrific support, and great guidance. To all the staff at Poolbeg for all their hard work. To Gaye Shortland – for your endless patience, dedication and unending hours of editing.
To the staff in Holles Street Hospital for your great care. To the foetal medicine team in NHS Liverpool Women’s Hospital for their outstanding medical attention, kindness and support. To my great friend Ethna Murphy who guided me tenderly through the heartache of early child loss – I can never thank you enough.
To our kind work colleagues and tremendous friends – thank you all for your amazing support during a very sad time.
Maeve, I am so sorry you never got to see the book – or a book! My lifelong dream of being snuggled up beside you on a bookshelf has finally come true. To Gordon Snell who doled out – in double quantities – his and Maeve’s encouragement, love and support during the past year. To my Uncle Kevin – you better be looking after my daughter up there!
For all our family, Gary’s parents Kay and Grahame, our brothers and their partners: Daniel, Derek, Brian and Brendan, Janice, Naomi, Honor and Dani.
To my amazing parents Dan and Joy who have been a tower of strength, hope and love – always, but especially this year – who believed when they got the letters from the Australian outback in the nineties that I could write – despite it taking time and inspiration to get going.
To my husband Gary Smith (not Luke) who I adore to be with – you are the best thing that has ever happened in my life. Nessa and Paul, thanks for introducing us!
This book is a legacy for our beautiful angel, Zeldine Binchy Smith, much wanted but too imperfect for this world. This book is for you.
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