Mistake

by Sheila O'Flanagan

  I wonder which of my clients left it behind. There’s no end to the amount of things that people forget to take with them. (Once, when Dad was driving, a man left his dentures in the car!) Usually I can reunite forgotten items with their owners because either I find them quickly enough to be able to figure out who was most likely to have left them, or the owners get in touch. But a photo is trickier, and heaven only knows how long it’s been here. Just because it was between the pages of Hello! doesn’t mean it wasn’t already in the pouch behind the seat and simply got caught up in the magazine.

  I turn it over, but there’s nothing to say who it’s of or who might have left it. I doubt it belongs to any of the many businessmen I’ve driven to or from their meetings. While they might have photos of their wives and children in their wallets, I can’t imagine any of them bothering with an old photo of themselves! Nor is it likely that the young girls whose parents hired me to take them to a twenty-first birthday party and collect them again afterwards dropped it. But what about the couple I drove to Waterford? They were old enough for the boy in the picture to be their son. Or maybe it belongs to Melisse Grady? She was faffing around with a lot of paperwork in the back of the car and nearly left some of it behind. Perhaps the photo was from one of her clients – an author working on a biography or something similar who sent her some pictures to look at? Thea Ryan is another option. She’s the scattiest by far of my clients and could easily have been looking at old photos in the back seat. I know she has a son, but I’m not sure if he’s the right age for the boy in this photo.

  I’ll show it to Thea next time I see her, and in the meantime, I’ll send a copy of it to Melisse, and to the couple I drove to Waterford. After that . . . well, I’ll have to wait and see.

  Once I’ve taken a snap of it and sent it in a text message, I put the photo itself in the small transparent folder I use for keeping receipts and other bits of paperwork and replace it in the glove compartment.

  And then I forget about it.

  Leona Lynch lives in a suburban housing estate, presumably with her parents. I imagined her in some ultra-modern apartment, surrounded by the latest in make-up and gadgets and whatever else she’s sent to promote on her vlogs. Although, to be fair, we’re talking about a girl who lives in Drogheda, which, though a nice town, isn’t really cutting edge when it comes to cosmopolitan apartment living.

  When I pull up outside the house with its neat front lawn and two cars in the driveway, I send her a text to say I’m here. A couple of seconds later the front door opens and a young girl wearing trainers, ripped jeans and an olive-green shirt with the sleeves rolled up hurries out. Her hair is an amazing cloud of red-gold curls around her oval face. As she approaches the car, I can see that her eyes match her shirt and that her skin is fair with a smattering of freckles. Leona Lynch is like a specially constructed Celtic maiden. She is, in fact, very pretty.

  ‘Hello,’ she says. ‘Are you Roxy? Well, I hope you are, otherwise I’m getting into a complete stranger’s car! Which my mother always tells me not to do. But then you’re a lady driver, so hey, no worries.’

  ‘I’m Roxy McMenamin,’ I say. ‘And yes, I’m your driver today.’

  ‘Cool,’ says Leona.

  ‘We’re going to Killawley House,’ I confirm. ‘After your shoot, I’ll be bringing you home again.’

  ‘That’s it.’ Leona settles into the seat.

  Killawley House is about an hour’s drive west. I’d never heard of it before, but it’s an old country house that, according to its website, has been sympathetically restored. The pictures show a stone building with pink and red climbing roses growing up the walls and an extensive orchard at the back. Most of the interior photos were taken in the winter and are of blazing fires and cosy rooms. I’m not sure how it will look in the summer.

  Gorgeous, is the answer. As we turn in through the gates of the house an hour later, we’re shaded from the sun by an avenue of cherry trees – sadly no longer in blossom, but splashing colour with their vivid green leaves. The house itself stands in the centre of gardens filled with flowers, and is stately and magnificent.

  What would my life have been like if my ancestors had been wealthy landowners instead of peasant farmers? I wonder. Actually, I’ve no idea if my ancestors were peasant farmers or not, but given that they certainly didn’t own houses like this, it’s a reasonable assumption. Thinking about Dad’s surname, they were probably carpenters. Maybe they worked for the original owners of stately homes. Maybe they even worked on this one!

  I give up my dream of an aristocratic life as I park the car. A short, balding man, who I learn is Leona’s agent, scurries over and hugs her. There’s a lot of talk between them about ‘the product’ and where she’ll be photographed and what she’ll be doing, and I gather from what they’re saying that it’s not a fashion shoot at all, as I’d imagined, but something for an ad.

  They’ve asked me to hang around in case they need a driver for some unspecified reason, so I take a stroll through the beautifully maintained gardens. I can’t help thinking that Leona Lynch is only twenty years old and already way more successful than I’ll ever be. Even my own daughter admires her! It was Mica who told me that Leona is a brand ambassador for a range of hair products (not surprisingly, given her glorious Titian mane) and a children’s charity. At twenty, all I was doing was working in a car showroom. Even if it was a Jaguar showroom.

  I stop at a pretty summer house and take out my phone. Leona has already posted some photos to Instagram. In them she’s standing on the steps of the house looking effortlessly gorgeous, even in her jeans and shirt. It’s not just her looks, though. It’s the enthusiasm and sheer joy of living she radiates that makes her so appealing.

  I decide to take a few photographs myself. Perhaps I should set up an Instagram account of my own and post pictures of the places I drive to. There’d be a disproportionate number of airport pictures, of course. But I could take ones of different parts of Dublin, places the tourists don’t normally see. It would be good for the business – well, if I managed to get a few followers. I don’t really know how you do that. But I’ll talk to Mica about it.

  She’s eleven. But she can be my marketing manager. Because she’s obviously far more clued in than me on that sort of stuff.

  The booking for Leona’s shoot was for half a day, but they’re running over time and I’m getting anxious because I have to collect Thea and Desmond Ryan at seven. It’s only half an hour from Drogheda to the airport, but I’d like to be there in plenty of time because I don’t want the Ryans to have to wait around for me. It’s not professional, and the most important thing for me is to be professional when I’m driving.

  But eventually Leona walks over.

  ‘See you soon, Danny,’ she says to her agent as she waits for me to open the car door for her. ‘Thanks for everything.’

  She’s very businesslike with him and she reminds me of both Gina Hayes and Thea Ryan. These women all believe that they’re due their success. That it’s a direct result of their own hard work because they know what they want and they’re not afraid to go for it. They’re strong and sassy and not afraid to speak their mind. I need to be more like them. I need to be . . . well . . . feminist-y.

  ‘Good day?’ I ask.

  ‘It was fun,’ Leona says. ‘I don’t know if it’s what I’d like to do all the time – too many people giving instructions and telling me how I should look and what I should say. But the money was great and my mum wouldn’t let me turn it down.’

  I laugh. It doesn’t matter how strong and determined and feminist-y you are. When your mother tells you something, you listen.

  ‘Anyhow, I like the covers, so it’s not entirely selling out,’ Leona says. ‘But in future I think I’ll stick with reviews.’

  ‘Covers?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh, I thought you knew. It’s a campaign for a set of phone covers and cases. Here.’ She digs into her bag and takes out a few, which she hands over to me. I p
ut them on the passenger seat beside me. They’re pretty much standard issue, but the colours are vibrant and all the cases are embossed with little crystals along the edges.

  ‘Nice,’ I say.

  ‘They have my initials on them.’ Leona can’t keep a hint of pride out of her voice. ‘That’s what I do instead of a signature.’

  ‘Your mum must be delighted.’

  Leona laughs. ‘She thinks it’s mad. That’s why she wants me to make as much money as I can as quickly as I can so that I can buy my own house before it all goes horribly wrong and I regret dropping out of college without my degree. She’s probably right.’

  I probably would’ve hated college. I’m not academic enough. But it was never a consideration for me, not once Dave moved to London.

  When we arrive outside Leona’s house, I gather the phone covers from the passenger seat and hold them out to her.

  ‘Oh, keep them,’ she says. ‘I already have tons.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘My daughter will be thrilled.’ I smile. ‘Actually, I know this is really naff and totally unprofessional of me, but she asked if I could get a selfie with you. I’m awful in photos and it’s deeply embarrassing, but . . .’

  ‘It’s no bother at all.’ Leona takes my phone, shakes her hair a bit so that she looks rumpled and messy, and then leans in towards me. I’m hopeless at taking selfies and usually end up including my finger in the shot, but Leona is a pro and the picture she shows me afterwards looks amazing.

  ‘What’s your daughter’s name?’ she asks.

  When I tell her, she taps away at the screen and then shows me the picture again, which now says: To Mica – me and your lovely mum! Hugs and kisses. Leona Lynch.

  ‘That’s so good of you,’ I tell her. ‘Mica will be thrilled. And I’ll have to learn how to do stuff like this.’ I tell her about my own Instagram plans.

  ‘Brilliant idea,’ she says. ‘I’ll follow you.’

  ‘Oh God, not yet. I have to work out how to take decent photos first.’

  Leona asks to look at the ones I took today, then fiddles around with my phone for what seems like about ten seconds before handing it back to me. ‘I used some filters on them,’ she says. ‘Look . . .’ And she gives me a quick lesson on editing photos. I’m not entirely stupid, I know everyone does it. I’ve just never bothered before. But the difference is astounding.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ I say.

  ‘No bother.’ She grins. ‘Don’t forget, I’ll be following you. So make them good.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ I say. ‘It was a pleasure to drive you today.’

  ‘I liked being driven by you,’ she says. ‘You’re nice. Mica is lucky to have you as a mum.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And I love that you’re a lady driver.’ She makes a fist. ‘Girl power.’

  ‘Girl power.’ I bump my fist off hers.

  Maybe I am a bit of a feminist after all, I think, as I drive away.

  Chapter 10

  I make it to the airport in time for Thea and Desmond, who swamp me with stories of their exploits in London. I hope I’m as fit and interested in life as them when I reach their age, and I say this to Thea when they get out of the car again. She laughs and says she’s sure I will be, and then tells me to keep her colourful umbrella in case it’s raining the next time I pick her up. I’m delighted to think that there’ll be a next time. She’s definitely my favourite client.

  Then I remember the photo of the young boy and ask them if it’s likely either of them left it behind. I take it out of the folder and hand it to her.

  Thea shakes her head as she studies it. Desmond, looking over her shoulder, shakes his head too.

  ‘It’s probably a memento,’ I tell them. ‘So I’d like to reunite it with the owner if I can. I’m surprised whoever lost it hasn’t missed it.’

  ‘Boys and their football,’ says Thea, turning it over to see if there’s anything written on the back, which there isn’t. ‘It’s hard to make out his face properly, though it looks a little bit like Butler when he was a child. But our son was more interested in sonnets than soccer, which was tricky back then.’ She smiles. ‘Gosh, to think we thought that was style! The tracksuit. Those glasses. The hair.’

  I laugh. ‘My dad had a pair of specs like those too.’

  ‘I’m sure if it’s important to someone they’ll get in touch with you.’ Thea hands the photo back to me. ‘Especially if it’s a keepsake.’

  We’re all silent for a moment as we think about the boy, who he might be and what might have happened to him.

  ‘And if nobody contacts you, don’t worry,’ says Desmond. ‘You’re not responsible for reuniting everyone with their forgotten items.’

  I usually do, though.

  ‘I’ll call you next time I need a car,’ says Thea.

  I thank her and Desmond for their continued business. Then I put the folder back into the glove compartment and wait until they’ve made it inside their house before I drive away.

  It’s rush hour now, so it takes me ages to cross the river to the north side of the city. Once again I phone Mum and suggest a takeaway, and once again she tells me that Tom and Mica have eaten but she’d kill for a king prawn curry from the Chinese. I tell her I’ll pick one up and hope that she didn’t give the kids anything too awful from the freezer. I swear to God I’ll do some proper home cooking soon. I know I’ve inherited Mum’s lack of prowess in the kitchen, but I can do fairly decent one-pot dinners. I just haven’t had the time.

  Two messages flash up on the dashboard screen. The first is from Melisse Grady to say that the photo isn’t hers but that she’s forwarded it to Gina.

  The second message is from Dave. He says he’s going to work on a new job, a fit-out of a hotel in Wexford. It’ll take two or three weeks and he’s probably going to stay there, because otherwise it’s a massive commute and what’s the point when there’s nobody at home. He adds he won’t be able to pick up Tom and Mica at the weekend.

  I’m not sure what to think about this. Dave has done jobs before where he’s had to travel some distance and perhaps stay over for a short time. Never more than a few days, though. Does this mean that he’s the one making decisions about our future, not me? Has he changed his mind about me coming home?

  I use the voice recognition to text my answer to him, saying that I’m driving. He knows not to call me in the car, because even though I use an earpiece, I don’t like taking personal calls if I have passengers. It’s distracting. And I don’t need distractions. But in my message I say that it sounds like a good opportunity and not to worry about the children. I add that perhaps we’ll talk later.

  When I arrive home, I’m astonished to see Mum sitting at the table surrounded by balls of purple, white and black wool.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’ I ask as she swiftly closes the open iPad that’s also on the table and moves the wool out of the way so I can load the curry onto plates.

  ‘She’s making octopussies,’ cries Tom, who comes clattering down the stairs.

  ‘For early babies,’ adds Mica, who’s right behind him. ‘Did you get a selfie with Leona Lynch?’

  I show her the selfie on my phone, which sends her into paroxysms of excitement. She insists that I forward it to her immediately. When I also take out the phone covers, she nearly faints with joy.

  ‘You have to use one too,’ she insists after she’s attached the electric-blue cover to hers. I choose the shocking pink, which, to be fair, looks quite good on the phone.

  ‘Did you bring home stuff for us to eat?’ Tom isn’t interested in phone covers.

  I hand over spring rolls to my children and remind myself that I’ll be moving our family to healthy eating from next week. Then I ask Mum about the wool.

  ‘June called around today,’ she tells me. ‘She’s involved with a project at the maternity hospital and she asked me if I’d do it too. I was quite good a
t crochet when I was younger. Remember the jacket I made you?’

  Actually, I do. It was pale blue and the pattern was of sculpted seashells. I felt quite glamorous in it. I think I was about five.

  ‘Anyway, this is for preemie babies,’ says Mum. ‘The nurses put a small crocheted octopus in the crib with them. Apparently the tentacles remind them of the umbilical cord. You have to be exact in the way you do them. Look.’ She hands me an information leaflet and I read it with interest. It seems that the little knitted creatures soothe the babies. Who’d have thought?

  ‘What a brilliant idea,’ I say.

  ‘I thought it would be nice to do something useful,’ says Mum. ‘I want to get . . . well, back in life’s saddle, I suppose.’

  ‘What saddle?’ asks Mica. ‘Octopussies don’t need saddles.’

  ‘Not a real saddle.’ I don’t bother to correct her about the plural of octopus, because I’m not entirely sure what it should be. ‘It’s an expression,’ I add. ‘It means getting on with things.’

  ‘Have you stopped being bereaved, Granny?’ she asks. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘I’m getting better,’ says Mum.

  ‘Oh good,’ Mica says as she stuffs the last of the spring roll into her mouth. ‘That means we can go home.’

  But can we? If it hadn’t been for Dave’s text, Mica would have made the decision for me. She’s swung the pendulum back towards forgive and forget and I want to stop it there, because I know deep down that it’s what I need to do for the sake of my family. But I’m suddenly afraid I’ve left it too late.

  I go into the living room and call my husband. He doesn’t answer. I wonder if he’s the one punishing me now. Have our lives become a series of mini battles? I left him. He’s leaving me. Does he want me to beg him not to?