The Things I Should Have Told You

by Carmel Harrington

‘Yes. Exactly that.’

  ‘Where are they?’ he asks. ‘Are they at work? Did they forget to come home and get them?’

  ‘I’m sure they haven’t forgotten them at all, my love. Because a mother never, ever forgets her child. Even if life makes it impossible for them to be together.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Then he grabs my hand again, ‘You won’t leave me here, will you?’

  ‘No, my darling. I’d never leave you – here or anywhere.’

  He seems satisfied with this and we move to the next child.

  Once the children are all dressed, we lead them to the dining room, where a long table with benches awaits them. I recognise one of the young girls from dinner last night, handing out bowls of steaming porridge to them all. Another girl, about twenty, hands them glasses of milk.

  Gloria ushers us back to the kitchen, where bottles of formula are awaiting us for the babies. We head back to the baby room and hand the older of the babies their own bottles, who guzzle them back. I show Evie how to hold a bottle and she once again takes to it with ease. Jamie lies on the floor mats with some of the older babies and plays with them, making faces.

  We hold and feed the babies for an hour and then place them back in their cots for their naps and I know that right now, right here, is exactly where we should be.

  ‘Well done,’ Gloria says to us all with approval. ‘You just got stuck in. I like that.’

  ‘My jaws ache from smiling. Those babies are adorable,’ I say to her.

  ‘Well, we’ll have a coffee now. Then we’ll go to the playroom with the toddlers. You’ll enjoy that,’ Gloria tells us.

  ‘Where are the children’s parents?’ I ask Gloria. ‘Are they all dead?’

  ‘You hear the phrase “home alone” a lot over here. It comes from a time when many parents had no choice but to leave their children behind, when they left for Western Europe to find work. Some of the kids were lucky and taken care of by relatives or even neighbours, but some ended up on the streets,’ Gloria tells me.

  I’m horrified at the thought. But I don’t live in this world and I know I can’t judge. All I do know is that I’m heartbroken for those children.

  ‘The babies, now, a lot of them are from unmarried mothers who were once those “home alone” children,’ Gloria adds. ‘Others are from parents who just can’t cope, so they leave. We take as many children as we can fit in.’

  ‘Can they stay here indefinitely?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes. We’ll love them, feed them, teach them until they are old enough to go out into the world themselves. And then the houses that Olly is working on today come into play. They are to help some of the single mothers who have nowhere to live. If we can, we want to reunite some of the children with their parents,’ Gloria says.

  After our coffees we go into a large bright-yellow playroom. We take out toys, walkers, play mats and high chairs and sit and play with the children. Jamie and Evie, once again, astound me by their eagerness to just jump right in and help.

  The bell rings for lunchtime and we bring the children to the dining room again, where pots of pasta and fruit await them.

  And then, just like that, our day has ended. Our working day, that is. Gloria says, ‘Can you find your way back okay?’

  ‘Yes, of course. And thank you for today. You’ve been great,’ I say to her.

  ‘Can we come back here tomorrow?’ Evie asks.

  ‘Just try stopping us.’

  ‘Let’s go home, see if Dad is finished yet,’ I say.

  ‘You called Nomad home!’ Evie says.

  Jeepers, I did. When did that happen? ‘You know something I’ve just this second worked out? Home is where we are. As long as we’re together, the four of us, that’s our home.’

  ‘Can we live in a cave like Batman?’ Jamie asks.

  ‘Probably Pops’ next trick for us,’ Evie jokes.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  OLLY

  The heat is the worst part of this. It creeps up to thirty degrees most days by noon. We start early each morning, levelling the road to the site for the thirty houses that we will be building. There are ten of us: eight men and two women, and we all work hard, for the first two days, digging a trench for the water and utility pipes.

  We’re captained by an Australian called David, who answers to the name ‘Skippy’. He’s a builder by trade and while he doesn’t say much, he seems to get an awful lot done. We are all eager to impress him.

  When Skippy tells us that we’re done for the day, I can’t believe that I’ve put in a full shift. It flew by.

  ‘You know, I’ve spent years watching the clock in work, wishing away my life,’ I say to Mae when I get back to Nomad. ‘The shift here just disappeared in an instant. I didn’t want to finish up.’

  ‘I was the same. When Gloria said it was time to go, I could have stayed there for hours more. Olly, those little children. You’ve got to get up there to spend time with them. See it for yourself,’ Mae says to me.

  ‘How are our kids getting on?’ I ask her.

  ‘I’ve never been more proud of them. Jamie already knows every single baby’s name. I still have to read their name badges above the bed! And Evie is a natural. She’s so gentle with the children, they love her,’ Mae tells me. ‘I’m moving into the classroom tomorrow, with the older kids, but Evie is going to stay in the baby and toddler room.’

  ‘What about Jamie?’ I ask. ‘He wants to come with me tomorrow. What do you reckon?’

  ‘How about you bring him for a few hours, then if he gets tired send him back to me,’ Mae says. ‘I’ve been thinking about this, to be honest, a way to make it easier on Jamie. I don’t want it to be too long a day for him. He’s only seven. We could do different shifts – me mornings, you afternoons. Then he can dip in and out of the volunteer work, just do as much as he’s able. Evie is grand, she can cope with a full shift, no bother,’ Mae suggests.

  ‘That’s a great compromise. I’ll talk to Andy about that in a bit,’ I say. I put my feet up and lie back on the sofa. ‘Jesus, I’m knackered though,’ I say. ‘That heat is gruelling. I don’t think I’ve done that much manual work … well ever!’

  ‘It’s a different kind of tiredness for me. More emotional. Every time I hold one of those little babies in my arms, I want to cry. I don’t know how Gloria does it. For eight years now, Olly. She’s like a mother to them,’ Mae says.

  ‘Andy was telling me that they have a lot of long-term volunteers. They try to discourage short-termers like us. It’s not fair on the kids having too many people dipping in and out of their lives,’ I say.

  ‘I can see that. Those little toddlers only met us yesterday and today when we walked in they ran over kissing and hugging us like we were family. They are so affectionate. I’m already worrying about saying goodbye to them,’ Mae sighs and I reckon I’ve got the easier job, digging trenches.

  A mark on Mae’s arm catches my eye. ‘Hey, what’s that?’ I peer closer and see teeth marks.

  ‘A gift from a little girl called Magda. She’s feisty. And scared and so she lashed out. Doesn’t hurt in the least.’

  ‘What’s her story, do you know?’ I ask.

  ‘She’s had a miserable life, her mother was killed in a car accident and her father left years ago to get work in Italy. No one can find him. Her aunt couldn’t look after her any more, so she ended up on the streets fending for herself. She’s still used to fighting to defend herself, and while she’s been here a month now, she still doesn’t trust anyone. Who can blame her?’ Mae says.

  ‘Jesus, the poor kid.’

  ‘She’s just one of many. But there’s something about her. I don’t have much time to help her, but I’d like to try.’

  ‘Anything I can do?’

  ‘Right now, no. But maybe go have a hot shower. You’re a bit ripe there, Mr Guinness! I’ll make lunch for us all,’ Mae tells me.

  We fall into a pattern quick enough over the next few days. Mae and Evie head of
f to the orphanage for the early shift, with Jamie. I’ll follow over mid-morning and spend some time in the playroom, with the kids, before taking Jamie home with me.

  Mae seems to be getting on great in the classroom. The older kids already have a basic grasp of English, so she is working to improve on that. Then, after lunch, I head off for the afternoon shift at the construction site, leaving Mae and the kids behind.

  In only a few days, this life here has become our new normal. Having spent weeks being only in each other’s company, it feels a bit strange to be away from them all. But, more than that, it feels bloody good. I’d forgotten what it was like to head off to do a day’s work away from home. I adore those children, but it’s good to have some time away, on my own. We almost trip over ourselves every day as we share all the things that we’ve done on our shifts. It’s like it was before, only better, with more understanding and respect.

  And while Mae and I needed this time together, now I find myself looking forward to seeing her more, after a few hours apart. When we get home, it’s time to dust off that CV and start looking again for work. What, I’m not sure, but there must be something out there for me.

  Today, we’re mixing things up a bit. Mae and Evie joined Jamie and I for a couple of hours. The houses are simple four-walled timber constructions, so there’s a lot of hammering of nails. But the results are quick and it’s satisfying seeing one of our houses go up to roof level by the end of week one.

  And I don’t mind admitting that the beers we had to celebrate were the sweetest I’ve ever had.

  While the work is strenuous, my body is already beginning to get used to this new normal. Muscles feel less strained. More than that, I feel useful.

  The days are short and the evenings filled with laughter as we get to know our fellow volunteers. The kids spend most nights in the games room and all of us fall into our beds exhausted by nine p.m.

  ‘So what have you planned for us today?’ I ask Andy. It’s our day off and he’s taken us sightseeing.

  ‘Fancy going to check out Dracula’s home?’ he asks the kids, who seem excited by the prospect.

  We spend the day visiting local spots that have laid a claim to the Prince of Darkness, Count Dracula. There’s even a hotel named after him, which we stop to have a cold drink in.

  ‘I think a lot of locals find the whole fascination with Dracula quite strange,’ Andy says. ‘I think for a lot of people around here, there’s a much more frightening monster from these parts: Dictator Nicolae Ceausescu. He pretty much obliterated everything of beauty in this land, during his twenty-five-year reign.’

  ‘It’s hard to imagine what it was like for everyone back then,’ Mae says.

  ‘What was the catalyst to make you move here, Andy?’ I ask.

  ‘I never married, never had kids. And the older I got, the more dissatisfied with life I became. I had nothing to complain about – on the surface all was good. Great friends and family, job I liked. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing,’ he said.

  While I have Mae and the kids, unlike Andy’s bachelor status, I can identify with every word he’s saying.

  ‘A friend talked me into joining him out here on a short-term volunteer programme in 2006. And while I loved that month here, there was a huge amount about it that I hated. We weren’t allowed to be too affectionate with the kids and that drove me nuts,’ Andy says.

  ‘Why ever not?’ Mae asks. ‘That doesn’t make any sense. Surely the children need every bit of human touch we can give them?’

  ‘The thought was that as volunteers who were on a short-term placement, it would be unfair to let the children form emotional bonds with them,’ he says.

  ‘That seems cruel, though. If a child needs a hug, they need a hug. End of,’ Mae says. She’s getting upset.

  ‘Yep, that’s how I felt. I went home and couldn’t settle back into work. I couldn’t get the faces of the children from my head. I started researching all the charities that were out here. At that time, not so many. And one night, I was at my brother’s house for dinner. I was on my soap box, giving out about the system. And he said to me, “Why don’t you go back? Change the things you don’t like?” And I thought to myself, why not? I’d no commitments. So I decided to retire early from the civil service and I came over here and started up Ripples,’ he says.

  ‘You say that, like it’s nothing,’ Mae says. ‘It’s incredible, Andy. You’re incredible.’

  ‘I do what I can,’ Andy says, shrugging. ‘I got lucky, because Gloria, Skippy, Donal and Martha were all amongst my early volunteers. And they all wanted to stay here long term. While we have lots of short-term volunteers, having that core team consistently – it makes all the difference. The children get to form healthy bonds with their carers.’

  ‘And the children blossom under this system. I’ve seen it myself and I’m only here a week,’ Mae tells him. ‘Gloria, by the way, is a force of nature.’

  ‘She sure is. Not sure what we’d do if she left. She loves it here, so with a bit of luck she’ll stick around. I own the farmhouse, but it’s in the charity’s name. And we get by. We’re not in the best shape financially. But thanks to volunteers and donations, we’re keeping our heads above water.’

  ‘You’re a good man,’ I say. I’m filled with nothing but respect for this guy. I know now why Pops had so much time for him.

  He shrugs the praise off again. ‘I can’t change the world here, but the ripple effect of everything we do combined might do. The way I see it, everything we do, no matter how small or seemingly ineffectual, creates a ripple.’

  ‘That’s why the charity is called Ripples!’ I say. ‘D’oh!’

  ‘Give that man a medal,’ Andy laughs. ‘It’s not just about the ripple effect this orphanage has on the children in it. Yes, of course we are making a difference in their lives. They have shelter, food, love and an education. We can keep them safe. But the ripples are more far-reaching than that.’

  He looks out the window of the bar, at the children who are playing in the garden. ‘These few weeks – who is to say that it won’t change your children? Evie and Jamie may leave here with a renewed sense of purpose because of the time helping here. And maybe they will do something incredible with their lives – all because they were changed by Ripples. So that’s what makes this place special. Yes, we can help the children here, but we can help ourselves too.’

  He stops and looks a little embarrassed. ‘Sorry, I tend to get carried away. Can’t seem to get myself off that soap box.’

  ‘Don’t ever get off it. Because that was beautiful,’ Mae says and she looks at Evie and Jamie, who are outside in the garden. ‘Do you know Maya Angelou?’

  ‘Yes, I do indeed. She was a great lady,’ Andy replies.

  ‘She said “I think a hero is any person really intent on making this a better place for all people.” Well, I think you are a hero, Andy,’ Mae pats his hand and walks out to the children.

  Andy says, ‘You’re a lucky man. You’ve a great family.’

  ‘I am,’ I agree. ‘And thank you for letting us spend time here at Ripples. It’s a special place.’

  ‘How grateful are you?’ he asks with a smile.

  ‘Why do I get the feeling I’m being led somewhere here?’ I laugh. ‘Go on, what do you need?’

  ‘I’m in dire need of an accountant. The books are in a heap.’

  ‘I think I could have my arm twisted to sort them out for you,’ I say.

  ‘I’d take the hand off you if you did offer!’ Andy says. ‘I know I was about as subtle as a ton of bricks there, but desperate times and all that … We had someone who did all that side of things for us, a local lady. But she’s moved on now and I’ve gotten sidetracked and ignored the accounts.’

  ‘Give them to me when we get back,’ I say. ‘Will be good to use that side of my brain again for a bit.’

  And true to his word, the books are a mess. I start making my way through them, line by line,
sorting through the receipts. Mae supplies me with endless cups of tea and biscuits and then heads over to Nomad with the kids, blowing a kiss at me. By midnight, I’ve gotten them into at least a manageable state, ready for filing later this year.

  ‘So that’s pretty much the system you need to continue working with,’ I say to Andy. ‘I’m not sure you’re getting all the correct tax exemptions, so I’ll work on that when I get home to Ireland for you. Only if you like, of course.’

  ‘I do like. Jesus, Olly, I didn’t expect you to do all this tonight!’ he exclaims. ‘I see the apple didn’t fall far with you. You’ve got your pops’ work ethic. He was just like you when he had a bit between his teeth.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have been able to sleep until I got it done,’ I say and feel inordinately pleased with the comparison to Pops. ‘And don’t think I’m weird, but I enjoyed it. Good to get back to it again. But I better get some sleep or I’ll be nailing my hand to one of those walls tomorrow!’

  The next morning I’m awoken by my alarm and someone banging on the door of Nomad.

  ‘Hey Andy,’ I say when I see him standing at the door, two cups of coffee in hand.

  ‘Sorry. I woke you up,’ he apologises. ‘But I brought coffee. And a proposition.’

  ‘You saved me from sleeping in!’ I laugh, taking a slurp of the coffee. ‘Thanks for the coffee, but sorry, mate, you’re not my type.’

  ‘Ha! Not that kind of proposition. I wanted a chat with you, if you’ve got a few minutes,’ he says.

  ‘Sure.’ We take a seat at the table in Nomad.

  ‘The board of management have a vacancy at the moment. For a fundraiser/administration manager. I’ll cut to the chase. I think you’d be perfect for the role. Are you interested?’ Andy says.

  ‘Whoa! You don’t hang around! Say that again?’ I ask. I’m dumbfounded.

  ‘We need someone primarily to increase the contributions of individuals and groups. Someone who can go out and build relationships with corporate Ireland. Explore new fundraising opportunities from various sources. And as you saw last night, we are in dire need of an accountant. With you, I think we could get both. Kill two birds and all that,’ Andy says.